hetalia oneshot || hours without names;
title: Hours Without Names
pairing(s): US X UK, Germany X Italy, Greece X Japan, Spain X Romano, France X Loneliness
rating: PG-13
summary: In London at 2 AM England feels the absence of America; at 10 AM in Tokyo, Japan anxiously wonders about his relationship with Greece- an hour of loneliness across the world waits for conclusion.
♦HOURS WITHOUT NAMES♦
Is it life or sin that breathes across the highway lights; light as cold as a bitter heart cuts across the silhouettes that walk by- the empty shells for bodies, the mess of impressions and memories. England shuffles into the cold. Headphones can’t help him now. London, 2:06 AM. A street beat that seems limp.
He looks to the street, his mind explodes; he looks to the sky, something in his heart wrenches. Music like a dead body across his brain, across heated thoughts. If it would help not to think of him he wouldn’t, but all it leaves is empty- empty is always heavier than full, you could say because empty is the absence. He shrugs into his blues. London, 2:10 AM; his phone lights up and he fiddles with it. He wonders what hour it is in Washington and the memories of a broken night haunt him all the way home.
Washington, 9:10 PM, and though night is beginning to fall and laughs dance by on the rainy wind, it just makes America sad. The feeling is a stranger in his mind, and he doesn’t like the constant rain around his thoughts these days. He wonders if it has something to do with the fresh light in England’s eyes, and the hatred and lies he had found there in the same sparkle. A death sentence on hold, sentenced to silence for 200 years- Washington, 9:18 PM. America catches himself in the middle of thoughts like that and rolls his eyes, makes a sharp noise behind his teeth- he wonders why he should even care, he’s no fool and he’s no schoolboy- he's awesome, he shouldn’t even worry- he should go out to take his mind off this crap. Maybe Japan would be free? What time is it in Tokyo, anyway?---
The rain that falls on the east coast of the United States storms and breaths a silver mist low on the streets of Tokyo: Tokyo, 10:18 AM, and the early morning birds are choking love songs. Japan doesn’t know much about love, he acknowledges that much- but then his mind flashes bright red, and he tries to take his mind off it. His heart constricts painfully, he needs to take his mind off this. He steps into a hidden morning. Although the air is settling onto the ground, he can only feel the pain of waiting: the anxiousness and shame in a sudden memory of his hand brushing against his skin- and what does it mean? It’s 10:21 AM in Tokyo as Japan thinks of Greece and really thinks he’s losing his mind...
A breeze full of false lights hits Athens head on: 4:21 AM. Greece’s ancient eyes perceive the timid dawn with understanding, with confidence in its moody dark. He knows full well the curses of the night, what evils it can carry. He wonders on that love is often held hostage behind smokescreens, behind words and manners. He finishes another cup of coffee and thinks of nothing. And then he thinks, he’s had so much coffee, you know what he should have now? He should have some wine. In Athens at 4:26 AM, he wonders whether or not France is awake. France, under his smiles, has the same statue eyes as he does, after all- even if it’s late, he’ll be awake, thinking the same songs of death as Greece is.
Paris, 3:26 AM: France is dissatisfied. It would be nice to sleep, except that he’s too lazy to. It would be nice to eat, except that it’s late and he’s too tired. It’d be nice to not feel so irritatingly alone on such a bone-cold night, but early this afternoon he’d been turned away from love’s door. He frowns and runs a hand through his hair, trying not to think of how old he is. Merde, who needs women anyway? Maybe a man would do tonight, somebody with strong arms and timid eyes- somebody solid, like...- Germany! He never did get to know him as well as he’d liked. At 3:32 France picks up with phone with a smile mild as wine but complicit as roses, and begins to dial Berlin- oh, but wait. He turns to the clock. As far as he knows it’s the same time, and Germany is most likely asleep. He mutters a half-hearted curse and turns back to the room- with one movement dripping black with sin lights a cigarette, thinks on the morning. Sinks into a beautiful gloom and makes plans for the morning and Germany- old fool’s designs-
In Berlin at 3:33 AM, the air is as still as war and peace. Germany can’t remember anymore whether it’s spring or autumn, and the thought makes a sick cold feeling sink down his back. No moon tonight, no perfect light to smile on the house. He tries to read a book and then finds that he’s only pretending, and tosses it aside like he’s been burned. Worry crosses him. He thinks of the warmth of illegal streets- the streets of Rome and who may be speeding across them like light cutting through morning metal, who may be singing or laughing. He bites his nails absently. At 3:41 AM he feels sick with himself and he looks out onto the night; even through this lonesomeness, he can taste sweetness on his tongue. But he would hate to let his imagination get the best of him, and he doesn’t want to believe in emptiness. I am thinking of someone who is not thinking of me, he decides resolutely, and pushing back the contradictory feeling in his heart, pulls a blanket over Berlin at 3:45 AM. Tries to get some sleep...
But in Rome at 3:45 AM, the streets are burning with sex and blood, and effervescence shines even inside the pickpocket alleys. Italy whirls out of an all-night cafe and says a bright goodbye to the cute waitress, promises to come again. His mind cartwheels as he thinks of all the stuff he has left to do. He downs the last of his espresso-to-go, throws it in a garbage can: those people dancing across the street look like they’re having fun, maybe he’ll join them. But he also notices that these days there’s hesitation in everything he does. There is no moon over the winding streets. He puts his hands in his pockets and absently thinks that if there was a moon it’d be October gold, because that’s the way he feels at the moment and that’s a pretty color. And he finds Germany on his tongue, finds his eyes inside his memory. He wonders why he’s been so scared of Germany- why he hesitates to go over his house or sleep next to him or any of that stuff he likes to do so much. It might have something to do with that lately when he’s near him he feels so intensely happy and sad at once, and that can’t mean anything good. It can only be a bad sign. He is absent-mindedly sad; he pulls back his sleeve a little so he can look at his Movado watch, gleaming animal metal. It’s 3:54 AM in Rome, and he knows it’s the same time in Berlin but...but maybe Spain’s doing something interesting, and he marches off to Madrid with a smile of forgetting.
In Madrid at 3:54, Spain is sweet in the torrid dark, trying to make sense of Romano, standing defiantly before him. They are now at a standstill, after having stirred from peaceful sleep to face the rift between them. Every caress deflects and every smile bruises them both like such a lonely storm. The night has been cursed. Spain’s heart tenses; he looks at Romano’s flashing eyes, full of indignation. Spain has never felt so confused or searingly alone as he does when he’s with Romano- but the naked moon is like a shadow pool in his mind, and light makes its way. He realizes he’s lonely for Romano and finds he loves the feeling: the futility and the endless trying. In Madrid at 4:17 AM, Spain’s heart is filled- lights and smokes Romanito in the ancient dark.
-There is happiness colored white against dark hatred. But sometimes it’s not enough- you realize that the heart can never reach truth and can never circle full. Shadows of doubt cross, and you wonder if dreams can ever come to fruition in this hollow Babel. The traffic streams like machinery, a breeze whirls up the avenue.
"What will you do now?" nobody asks England at 3:31 AM, as he comes up an anonymous London street. A dark pause full of claws.
"I don’t know anymore," he admits, choking.
What hour is it, my heart?
But morning light colored honey comes into the room like smoke, and maybe it’s not all that- maybe it’s not all lies and shots in the dark. Because, wounded by the loneliness of the night, England made a decision that brought him across a cold glittering sea. Full of something like hope he runs windily across the street, toward a Washington apartment building (brown bricks baking in the sun).
His heart is full of rain. The conversation is tense and awkward when he rings the buzzer. "Yeah, hello?" America’s voice is cheerful and bright.
"Eh- uhm-..."
"...What are you doing here?" America responds, cutting through England’s thoughts with rude sonic waves. America seems to realize that it came out very rudely, but he also seems to not care. And England knows that they’ve hurt each other.
"You pisser, just let me up," he finally elects to say.
There’s even reluctance in the buzz, but the sound of it puts the blood back in England’s throat, puts his feet back on the earth. He walks up the dusty stairs full of morning madness. The breeze is cold and gentle.
He knocks on the door and waits for a minute that seems to crawl by like a year. The locks slip secret sounds, sounds that may be the key to England’s plan. America opens the door. His eyes meet England’s, brush across the green like spring electricity; but he finds himself afraid and turns away, mouth turned down in dissatisfaction.
England blushes and thinks intensely that he should just go back right now, and leave things to mend themselves, as time heals all- but he watches America as he moves back into the living room, as his body moves seamlessly as a gun, as a love song. England straightens his shirt; he swallows his pride and he moves closer. America doesn’t notice, so England grabs his arm. He can feel his pulse slip like a fish as America turns back to him curiously.
England pauses- then he chokes out, like it’s a confession- "America---"
Whatever words were going to be said die out in the morning, because there’s nothing truer to say. They come close together and smoke seems to cloud them both- no words can push out as America’s hands devour like fire, as mouth meets almond mouth, as England thinks that it may have been worth it just to feel the heat of the passing moments...their eyes meet like puzzle pieces and move past the ruins of pain that are left behind with the illegible night. The sun shines hot and bright on a new sweetness. The hours pass by without names; and maybe if you do it right, it’s not all in vain.
NOTES;;
I'm not so sure of the style of this, but I wanted to have a certain effect. Anyway ripped off some lines from Manu Chao, because this was sort of based on the song La Primavera- the lyrics mostly consist of "que hora son en Inglaterra/ que hora son en Gibraltar"- "what time is it in England/ what time is it in Gibraltar" etc. Annnd that's all.
Thanks for reading! :D
pairing(s): US X UK, Germany X Italy, Greece X Japan, Spain X Romano, France X Loneliness
rating: PG-13
summary: In London at 2 AM England feels the absence of America; at 10 AM in Tokyo, Japan anxiously wonders about his relationship with Greece- an hour of loneliness across the world waits for conclusion.
♦HOURS WITHOUT NAMES♦
Is it life or sin that breathes across the highway lights; light as cold as a bitter heart cuts across the silhouettes that walk by- the empty shells for bodies, the mess of impressions and memories. England shuffles into the cold. Headphones can’t help him now. London, 2:06 AM. A street beat that seems limp.
He looks to the street, his mind explodes; he looks to the sky, something in his heart wrenches. Music like a dead body across his brain, across heated thoughts. If it would help not to think of him he wouldn’t, but all it leaves is empty- empty is always heavier than full, you could say because empty is the absence. He shrugs into his blues. London, 2:10 AM; his phone lights up and he fiddles with it. He wonders what hour it is in Washington and the memories of a broken night haunt him all the way home.
Washington, 9:10 PM, and though night is beginning to fall and laughs dance by on the rainy wind, it just makes America sad. The feeling is a stranger in his mind, and he doesn’t like the constant rain around his thoughts these days. He wonders if it has something to do with the fresh light in England’s eyes, and the hatred and lies he had found there in the same sparkle. A death sentence on hold, sentenced to silence for 200 years- Washington, 9:18 PM. America catches himself in the middle of thoughts like that and rolls his eyes, makes a sharp noise behind his teeth- he wonders why he should even care, he’s no fool and he’s no schoolboy- he's awesome, he shouldn’t even worry- he should go out to take his mind off this crap. Maybe Japan would be free? What time is it in Tokyo, anyway?---
The rain that falls on the east coast of the United States storms and breaths a silver mist low on the streets of Tokyo: Tokyo, 10:18 AM, and the early morning birds are choking love songs. Japan doesn’t know much about love, he acknowledges that much- but then his mind flashes bright red, and he tries to take his mind off it. His heart constricts painfully, he needs to take his mind off this. He steps into a hidden morning. Although the air is settling onto the ground, he can only feel the pain of waiting: the anxiousness and shame in a sudden memory of his hand brushing against his skin- and what does it mean? It’s 10:21 AM in Tokyo as Japan thinks of Greece and really thinks he’s losing his mind...
A breeze full of false lights hits Athens head on: 4:21 AM. Greece’s ancient eyes perceive the timid dawn with understanding, with confidence in its moody dark. He knows full well the curses of the night, what evils it can carry. He wonders on that love is often held hostage behind smokescreens, behind words and manners. He finishes another cup of coffee and thinks of nothing. And then he thinks, he’s had so much coffee, you know what he should have now? He should have some wine. In Athens at 4:26 AM, he wonders whether or not France is awake. France, under his smiles, has the same statue eyes as he does, after all- even if it’s late, he’ll be awake, thinking the same songs of death as Greece is.
Paris, 3:26 AM: France is dissatisfied. It would be nice to sleep, except that he’s too lazy to. It would be nice to eat, except that it’s late and he’s too tired. It’d be nice to not feel so irritatingly alone on such a bone-cold night, but early this afternoon he’d been turned away from love’s door. He frowns and runs a hand through his hair, trying not to think of how old he is. Merde, who needs women anyway? Maybe a man would do tonight, somebody with strong arms and timid eyes- somebody solid, like...- Germany! He never did get to know him as well as he’d liked. At 3:32 France picks up with phone with a smile mild as wine but complicit as roses, and begins to dial Berlin- oh, but wait. He turns to the clock. As far as he knows it’s the same time, and Germany is most likely asleep. He mutters a half-hearted curse and turns back to the room- with one movement dripping black with sin lights a cigarette, thinks on the morning. Sinks into a beautiful gloom and makes plans for the morning and Germany- old fool’s designs-
In Berlin at 3:33 AM, the air is as still as war and peace. Germany can’t remember anymore whether it’s spring or autumn, and the thought makes a sick cold feeling sink down his back. No moon tonight, no perfect light to smile on the house. He tries to read a book and then finds that he’s only pretending, and tosses it aside like he’s been burned. Worry crosses him. He thinks of the warmth of illegal streets- the streets of Rome and who may be speeding across them like light cutting through morning metal, who may be singing or laughing. He bites his nails absently. At 3:41 AM he feels sick with himself and he looks out onto the night; even through this lonesomeness, he can taste sweetness on his tongue. But he would hate to let his imagination get the best of him, and he doesn’t want to believe in emptiness. I am thinking of someone who is not thinking of me, he decides resolutely, and pushing back the contradictory feeling in his heart, pulls a blanket over Berlin at 3:45 AM. Tries to get some sleep...
But in Rome at 3:45 AM, the streets are burning with sex and blood, and effervescence shines even inside the pickpocket alleys. Italy whirls out of an all-night cafe and says a bright goodbye to the cute waitress, promises to come again. His mind cartwheels as he thinks of all the stuff he has left to do. He downs the last of his espresso-to-go, throws it in a garbage can: those people dancing across the street look like they’re having fun, maybe he’ll join them. But he also notices that these days there’s hesitation in everything he does. There is no moon over the winding streets. He puts his hands in his pockets and absently thinks that if there was a moon it’d be October gold, because that’s the way he feels at the moment and that’s a pretty color. And he finds Germany on his tongue, finds his eyes inside his memory. He wonders why he’s been so scared of Germany- why he hesitates to go over his house or sleep next to him or any of that stuff he likes to do so much. It might have something to do with that lately when he’s near him he feels so intensely happy and sad at once, and that can’t mean anything good. It can only be a bad sign. He is absent-mindedly sad; he pulls back his sleeve a little so he can look at his Movado watch, gleaming animal metal. It’s 3:54 AM in Rome, and he knows it’s the same time in Berlin but...but maybe Spain’s doing something interesting, and he marches off to Madrid with a smile of forgetting.
In Madrid at 3:54, Spain is sweet in the torrid dark, trying to make sense of Romano, standing defiantly before him. They are now at a standstill, after having stirred from peaceful sleep to face the rift between them. Every caress deflects and every smile bruises them both like such a lonely storm. The night has been cursed. Spain’s heart tenses; he looks at Romano’s flashing eyes, full of indignation. Spain has never felt so confused or searingly alone as he does when he’s with Romano- but the naked moon is like a shadow pool in his mind, and light makes its way. He realizes he’s lonely for Romano and finds he loves the feeling: the futility and the endless trying. In Madrid at 4:17 AM, Spain’s heart is filled- lights and smokes Romanito in the ancient dark.
-There is happiness colored white against dark hatred. But sometimes it’s not enough- you realize that the heart can never reach truth and can never circle full. Shadows of doubt cross, and you wonder if dreams can ever come to fruition in this hollow Babel. The traffic streams like machinery, a breeze whirls up the avenue.
"What will you do now?" nobody asks England at 3:31 AM, as he comes up an anonymous London street. A dark pause full of claws.
"I don’t know anymore," he admits, choking.
What hour is it, my heart?
But morning light colored honey comes into the room like smoke, and maybe it’s not all that- maybe it’s not all lies and shots in the dark. Because, wounded by the loneliness of the night, England made a decision that brought him across a cold glittering sea. Full of something like hope he runs windily across the street, toward a Washington apartment building (brown bricks baking in the sun).
His heart is full of rain. The conversation is tense and awkward when he rings the buzzer. "Yeah, hello?" America’s voice is cheerful and bright.
"Eh- uhm-..."
"...What are you doing here?" America responds, cutting through England’s thoughts with rude sonic waves. America seems to realize that it came out very rudely, but he also seems to not care. And England knows that they’ve hurt each other.
"You pisser, just let me up," he finally elects to say.
There’s even reluctance in the buzz, but the sound of it puts the blood back in England’s throat, puts his feet back on the earth. He walks up the dusty stairs full of morning madness. The breeze is cold and gentle.
He knocks on the door and waits for a minute that seems to crawl by like a year. The locks slip secret sounds, sounds that may be the key to England’s plan. America opens the door. His eyes meet England’s, brush across the green like spring electricity; but he finds himself afraid and turns away, mouth turned down in dissatisfaction.
England blushes and thinks intensely that he should just go back right now, and leave things to mend themselves, as time heals all- but he watches America as he moves back into the living room, as his body moves seamlessly as a gun, as a love song. England straightens his shirt; he swallows his pride and he moves closer. America doesn’t notice, so England grabs his arm. He can feel his pulse slip like a fish as America turns back to him curiously.
England pauses- then he chokes out, like it’s a confession- "America---"
Whatever words were going to be said die out in the morning, because there’s nothing truer to say. They come close together and smoke seems to cloud them both- no words can push out as America’s hands devour like fire, as mouth meets almond mouth, as England thinks that it may have been worth it just to feel the heat of the passing moments...their eyes meet like puzzle pieces and move past the ruins of pain that are left behind with the illegible night. The sun shines hot and bright on a new sweetness. The hours pass by without names; and maybe if you do it right, it’s not all in vain.
NOTES;;
I'm not so sure of the style of this, but I wanted to have a certain effect. Anyway ripped off some lines from Manu Chao, because this was sort of based on the song La Primavera- the lyrics mostly consist of "que hora son en Inglaterra/ que hora son en Gibraltar"- "what time is it in England/ what time is it in Gibraltar" etc. Annnd that's all.
Thanks for reading! :D