Never Enough Blessings (Axis Powers Hetalia, England/China)
You know, maybe I need a break from the fucked-up fic.
*looks at stuff in queue*
...or not. At least this one isn't 4000 words long? Maybe I am kind of learning how to be concise again, sort of?
There is funny lurking around in my head somewhere. I mean it.
Title: Never Enough Blessings
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: England/China
Rating: PG-13/R, for horror (and drug use).
Words: ~1200
Timestamp: August 27, 1842 -- the end of the First Opium War.
Summary: Progress, China. It's all a matter of progress.
August 27, 1842
“It is poison,” China spits, “and I want nothing to do with it.”
“Really,” England says, and glances at the men wrenching China’s arms behind his back-they’ve bound his feet to the legs of the chair, and England’s lips curl back from his teeth when he witnesses it. A cat, China thinks, and he is colored like one, his hair tousled and thatched like fur and the mottled tan of his uniform and his nose red from the smoke. “My traders are reporting a tidy profit from you.”
“An illegal profit-”
“Well, the sum would be tidier if you didn’t restrict my activities to Canton. For you as well,” he adds. “Level all the tariffs and taxes on me you like, just open your ports.” England reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a long match, raps China on the nose with it, strikes it on his chest. China spits at him, or tries to, but one of the men hauls his head back by his hair-China can smell his fingers, can feel the oil and grease and clammy heat from them working into his braid, and the affront drains the blood from his lips.
England strolls to a side table and the pressure on China’s head eases enough that he can turn it and take inventory. The oil lamp with a funnel chimney, the lacquered tray and the pillbox perched on it, the ivory pipe and blue bowl-he would not dare in China’s presence, he would not dare-
He does. He dips the match into the lamp, lights it. “The design’s ingenious,” he remarks; the flame glitters in his eyes, catches the green. “Such precision-enough heat to vaporize, but not enough to burn. I’ve long admired your artistry in such things, you know.”
Fingers throttle his teeth, pull his lips back, and China snarls around them: “What does artistry matter to you?”
England doesn’t respond, not directly. “And these pipe-bowls, well, that’s artistry of a different kind. What do you call the design on this?” he asks, traces his thumb over curling characters for good fortune and rarity twined together. China glares, tries to bite the sour fingers in his mouth, but England grips his chin before he can. “It’s lovely, whatever it signifies. I do appreciate what you have to offer, China, I only wish you’d offer more of it.”
You have taken enough liberties with me, China thinks. The ropes around his feet swell.
“Keep him still,” England instructs his men, and beckons; they shove the chair forward until China is close to the table, too close, his forehead almost knocks against the lamp but his hair is pulled back before the collision. His eyes reflect back at him in the glass, in the oil: dark, wide, angry. Those horrible fingers creep into his mouth again, and no matter how China twists his head to the side he cannot avoid them, their stench, their dirt. He thrashes his legs, or attempts to, but they’re lashed tight, the chair groans but the lamp’s hiss subsumes that sound. “Come now,” England says-light, mocking, the impudence-“Don’t make this hard on yourself.”
He reaches forward, pinches China’s nose shut with one hand, and shoves the stem of the pipe through China’s teeth with the other.
The smoke batters at his mouth-no, he will not let it in, no-he seizes and strains against the chair and England’s men twist his arms until his shoulders scream-red everywhere, bursting behind his eyes, throbbing in his throat, raw and desperate, he opens his mouth for something, anything at all, air-
-and chokes on the smoke.
It burns going down; he tries to expel it but ends up coughing. The pipe chatters between his teeth, but England steadies it. “There,” he says, and gives China’s nose another tweak. “There. The first time is always the most difficult.”
China sobs, or heaves. Either way, it draws in more of the drug. He watches the lamp, fixes his eyes on the flame until the red radiates outward from it and he’s forced to breathe again. The intervals-the gaps between each breath, he thinks they’re growing shorter. His breath rattles in his chest, echoes in his ears, fades. Slips. The ropes around his feet slacken, or-or perhaps his legs do, dangle uselessly from the overstuffed pillow he feels his body becoming. His ribs unfurl, expand, open like wings; the smoke tickles his throat, steams secrets into his mind. The language-is it one he speaks? He thinks he understands it: breathe. Grow. Feel. And he does. His fists ease, his fingers drape over his elbows, and his own hands feel foreign on his skin-soft, light, like feathers-
How long has this been going on? He swirls his tongue through his mouth, and the stem of the pipe isn’t there any longer. He should-he should remark on that-
The-the lassitude creeps over his limbs, or the pressure on his arms eases, or both-
England’s hand slips beneath his collar and China’s head lolls back and there is breath, hot breath in the hollow of his throat, words whispered at his neck:
“The ports, China.”
That, that pierces the fog clouding around him-no, no, no to this languor and no to England’s filthy nails on his silks and no to the slow swelling of the space around him, the walls breathe and expand and retreat-into the distance, the haze-time thickens and his tongue can’t form the right shapes, the clumsy English shapes, his lips hang slack, flushed-heat, such heat, England’s mouth melting on his skin-
-no-
“Open for me,” England says, and-have his men left? He can’t recall England dismissing them, but he-they aren’t here, they-he would know if they were, he would feel it-“Won’t you?”
He floats up from the chair, or something bears him in that direction, England’s arms, he hangs limp in them and stares up at shapes that don’t quite resolve into a ceiling, the patterns-he created them, he crafted them, they fit so well, he remembers that, and now the shapes seem to clash and that-it should concern him, it should concern him that England is resting him on the floor, sliding a cushion under his hips, when did England unbind his legs? How long-he was just in the chair, and then he floated down from it, nothing is connecting the way it should-
England presses his hand to China’s mouth, and his fingers are cold. Did China speak? He can’t remember, he remembers so much and he can’t remember this.
…stop…
“Progress, China,” England whispers. “It’s all a matter of progress.”
---
The Opium Wars; this fic is set at around the conclusion of the first one, when Britain forced China to open four more of its ports to foreign trade, and China ceded Hong Kong to Britain in the Treaty of Nanjing. (The treaty, interestingly enough, didn’t even mention opium.) The Second Opium War is the one where England and France burned down the Summer Palace.
The proverb on the opium bowl is an old one, and an apt one: There are never enough blessings, but there are too many troubles.
This is horror. Beyond that, I can't really say anything.
*looks at stuff in queue*
...or not. At least this one isn't 4000 words long? Maybe I am kind of learning how to be concise again, sort of?
There is funny lurking around in my head somewhere. I mean it.
Title: Never Enough Blessings
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: England/China
Rating: PG-13/R, for horror (and drug use).
Words: ~1200
Timestamp: August 27, 1842 -- the end of the First Opium War.
Summary: Progress, China. It's all a matter of progress.
August 27, 1842
“It is poison,” China spits, “and I want nothing to do with it.”
“Really,” England says, and glances at the men wrenching China’s arms behind his back-they’ve bound his feet to the legs of the chair, and England’s lips curl back from his teeth when he witnesses it. A cat, China thinks, and he is colored like one, his hair tousled and thatched like fur and the mottled tan of his uniform and his nose red from the smoke. “My traders are reporting a tidy profit from you.”
“An illegal profit-”
“Well, the sum would be tidier if you didn’t restrict my activities to Canton. For you as well,” he adds. “Level all the tariffs and taxes on me you like, just open your ports.” England reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a long match, raps China on the nose with it, strikes it on his chest. China spits at him, or tries to, but one of the men hauls his head back by his hair-China can smell his fingers, can feel the oil and grease and clammy heat from them working into his braid, and the affront drains the blood from his lips.
England strolls to a side table and the pressure on China’s head eases enough that he can turn it and take inventory. The oil lamp with a funnel chimney, the lacquered tray and the pillbox perched on it, the ivory pipe and blue bowl-he would not dare in China’s presence, he would not dare-
He does. He dips the match into the lamp, lights it. “The design’s ingenious,” he remarks; the flame glitters in his eyes, catches the green. “Such precision-enough heat to vaporize, but not enough to burn. I’ve long admired your artistry in such things, you know.”
Fingers throttle his teeth, pull his lips back, and China snarls around them: “What does artistry matter to you?”
England doesn’t respond, not directly. “And these pipe-bowls, well, that’s artistry of a different kind. What do you call the design on this?” he asks, traces his thumb over curling characters for good fortune and rarity twined together. China glares, tries to bite the sour fingers in his mouth, but England grips his chin before he can. “It’s lovely, whatever it signifies. I do appreciate what you have to offer, China, I only wish you’d offer more of it.”
You have taken enough liberties with me, China thinks. The ropes around his feet swell.
“Keep him still,” England instructs his men, and beckons; they shove the chair forward until China is close to the table, too close, his forehead almost knocks against the lamp but his hair is pulled back before the collision. His eyes reflect back at him in the glass, in the oil: dark, wide, angry. Those horrible fingers creep into his mouth again, and no matter how China twists his head to the side he cannot avoid them, their stench, their dirt. He thrashes his legs, or attempts to, but they’re lashed tight, the chair groans but the lamp’s hiss subsumes that sound. “Come now,” England says-light, mocking, the impudence-“Don’t make this hard on yourself.”
He reaches forward, pinches China’s nose shut with one hand, and shoves the stem of the pipe through China’s teeth with the other.
The smoke batters at his mouth-no, he will not let it in, no-he seizes and strains against the chair and England’s men twist his arms until his shoulders scream-red everywhere, bursting behind his eyes, throbbing in his throat, raw and desperate, he opens his mouth for something, anything at all, air-
-and chokes on the smoke.
It burns going down; he tries to expel it but ends up coughing. The pipe chatters between his teeth, but England steadies it. “There,” he says, and gives China’s nose another tweak. “There. The first time is always the most difficult.”
China sobs, or heaves. Either way, it draws in more of the drug. He watches the lamp, fixes his eyes on the flame until the red radiates outward from it and he’s forced to breathe again. The intervals-the gaps between each breath, he thinks they’re growing shorter. His breath rattles in his chest, echoes in his ears, fades. Slips. The ropes around his feet slacken, or-or perhaps his legs do, dangle uselessly from the overstuffed pillow he feels his body becoming. His ribs unfurl, expand, open like wings; the smoke tickles his throat, steams secrets into his mind. The language-is it one he speaks? He thinks he understands it: breathe. Grow. Feel. And he does. His fists ease, his fingers drape over his elbows, and his own hands feel foreign on his skin-soft, light, like feathers-
How long has this been going on? He swirls his tongue through his mouth, and the stem of the pipe isn’t there any longer. He should-he should remark on that-
The-the lassitude creeps over his limbs, or the pressure on his arms eases, or both-
England’s hand slips beneath his collar and China’s head lolls back and there is breath, hot breath in the hollow of his throat, words whispered at his neck:
“The ports, China.”
That, that pierces the fog clouding around him-no, no, no to this languor and no to England’s filthy nails on his silks and no to the slow swelling of the space around him, the walls breathe and expand and retreat-into the distance, the haze-time thickens and his tongue can’t form the right shapes, the clumsy English shapes, his lips hang slack, flushed-heat, such heat, England’s mouth melting on his skin-
-no-
“Open for me,” England says, and-have his men left? He can’t recall England dismissing them, but he-they aren’t here, they-he would know if they were, he would feel it-“Won’t you?”
He floats up from the chair, or something bears him in that direction, England’s arms, he hangs limp in them and stares up at shapes that don’t quite resolve into a ceiling, the patterns-he created them, he crafted them, they fit so well, he remembers that, and now the shapes seem to clash and that-it should concern him, it should concern him that England is resting him on the floor, sliding a cushion under his hips, when did England unbind his legs? How long-he was just in the chair, and then he floated down from it, nothing is connecting the way it should-
England presses his hand to China’s mouth, and his fingers are cold. Did China speak? He can’t remember, he remembers so much and he can’t remember this.
…stop…
“Progress, China,” England whispers. “It’s all a matter of progress.”
---
The Opium Wars; this fic is set at around the conclusion of the first one, when Britain forced China to open four more of its ports to foreign trade, and China ceded Hong Kong to Britain in the Treaty of Nanjing. (The treaty, interestingly enough, didn’t even mention opium.) The Second Opium War is the one where England and France burned down the Summer Palace.
The proverb on the opium bowl is an old one, and an apt one: There are never enough blessings, but there are too many troubles.
This is horror. Beyond that, I can't really say anything.