FIC. HETALIA: music meme drabbles; canada/america
Borrowed this from Jihye. :) ♥
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write 10 6 drabbles related to each song that plays.
-
All I Need - Radiohead
listen here
[ you are all I need; you are all I need. ]
Matthew dreams about it for months before he says anything.
He tries it on himself once, just to know what it would be like; chooses the inside of his left wrist where his own pulse skitters, warm just beneath his fingers, at the idea. The pen catches first, tugs at his skin in a way that makes Matthew shiver. What he writes is Neruda, head bent to better see his arm, biting his tongue in concentration, letters wavering-My soul is an empty carousel at sunset. Verses like this, he thinks, are better suited to be scrawled on someone else.
The inferno starts in Matthew’s bones, melts down to his core and permeates his mind until he can focus on nothing.
Nothing but Alfred and words: words Matthew knows, the words he’s scribbled on receipts, Post-Its, newspaper margins, the words that lodge in his chest to wake him at night. He imagines the spread of letters over Alfred’s back, lamplight spilling golden in the sheets and Alfred pliant under him, laid out blank for Matthew’s phrases.
He thinks he might go mad.
Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana
listen here
[ I forgot just why I taste; oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile. ]
It’s not a peace offering, not really, when America arrives at Canada’s door with a paper bag full of liquor bottles and a box of Krispy Kreme donuts, slightly dented. He looks alone, though, and miserable, and that’s enough to get Canada to let him inside.
He misses the close press of their thighs as they sit down on the couch. Far, at opposite ends-the distance is a chasm, inexplicable, wrong. They don’t talk about it. Instead, America says, “Let’s get drunk. Okay?”
What he really says is, “I want this again, but I’m too scared to ask for it sober.” Canada sees it in the desperate blue of his brother’s eyes, in the hunch of his shoulders that means he’s given up trying to ignore what’s between them. Because there is something, undeniably; it won’t lessen with time, it won’t be dulled by alcohol.
It’s magnetism.
So Canada crawls across the couch, takes the Jack Daniels from America’s hand, takes America’s mouth with the taste of sugar frosting on his tongue. “Don’t fight this,” he whispers. “Please.”
Flawed Design - Stabilo
listen here
[ and I would also never ask a question that I cannot ask myself. ]
“Where do you think this will go?” Alfred asks.
Matthew doesn’t lie anymore about things he wants. He’s spent too long quiet, pretending, hiding. Now he looks straight ahead at the taillights of the car in front of theirs. He says, steadily, “I don’t know, but I want it to go somewhere. I want it to work.”
Alfred reaches up, past the armrest, past the cup holders and the gearshift, to touch Matthew’s jaw. “Hey. I do, too.”
Videotape - Radiohead
listen here
[ this is my way of saying goodbye. ]
He wonders if he should throw the box away.
Then Matthew answers his own question, so vehement it’s a little frightening. Never. The intensity with which he misses Alfred sears deeper than his heart, to his marrow, to his innards that roil with the truth; to his lungs that founder without air at the concept of a tattered box.
He thinks, Who am I without you? Am I ever going to be the same?
The box reads: ‘MATTIE + ME, photos/movies.’ Alfred’s messy handwriting is achingly familiar, though the Sharpie has faded, absorbed into the cardboard like a peeling decal, as if the memories are trying to forget themselves.
Matthew runs hesitant fingers over the M in ‘Mattie,’ the curves of it, almost lowercase but not quite. He can hear, perfectly real, how Alfred used to say his name. Half petulant, half serious. Always endearing.
It’s the thought of Alfred’s voice that finally lets him cry for what he’s lost.
Both Hands - Ani DiFranco
listen here
[ your bones have been my bedframe, and your flesh has been my pillow. ]
The apartment is entirely theirs, bought on a whim and standing nearly empty because they couldn’t care less about furniture-they have each other.
The neighbors think they’re only brothers, which is ironic. They twine together at night atop the bare mattress, and Matthew presses into Alfred until the springs whine, strokes his palms down Alfred’s sides to feel nearer.
They can never be near enough, even in this tiny one-bedroom with its chipped wainscoting and their two mugs alone in the cupboard.
Lovegame - Lady Gaga
listen here
[ let's have some fun; this beat is sick. ]
Canada smells America’s cologne mingling with his own, the faintest hint of alcohol, sweat; he can’t hear his heartbeat over the bass line, and it should be unnerving but it’s not. America is close, close, arching his hips flush with Canada’s, making heat spark and settle in his stomach.
“Don’t tease,” he admonishes, voice pitched low, though admonishing America has never worked before.
He just smiles, hot strobe lights reflecting off the frames of his glasses, which are in danger of falling from his nose. Canada fixes them languidly, lets the pad of his thumb drag along the slope of America’s cheekbone.
America leans up to murmur in his ear, “No one here knows what we are,” and Canada loves how it can mean so many different things.
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write 10 6 drabbles related to each song that plays.
-
All I Need - Radiohead
listen here
[ you are all I need; you are all I need. ]
Matthew dreams about it for months before he says anything.
He tries it on himself once, just to know what it would be like; chooses the inside of his left wrist where his own pulse skitters, warm just beneath his fingers, at the idea. The pen catches first, tugs at his skin in a way that makes Matthew shiver. What he writes is Neruda, head bent to better see his arm, biting his tongue in concentration, letters wavering-My soul is an empty carousel at sunset. Verses like this, he thinks, are better suited to be scrawled on someone else.
The inferno starts in Matthew’s bones, melts down to his core and permeates his mind until he can focus on nothing.
Nothing but Alfred and words: words Matthew knows, the words he’s scribbled on receipts, Post-Its, newspaper margins, the words that lodge in his chest to wake him at night. He imagines the spread of letters over Alfred’s back, lamplight spilling golden in the sheets and Alfred pliant under him, laid out blank for Matthew’s phrases.
He thinks he might go mad.
Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana
listen here
[ I forgot just why I taste; oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile. ]
It’s not a peace offering, not really, when America arrives at Canada’s door with a paper bag full of liquor bottles and a box of Krispy Kreme donuts, slightly dented. He looks alone, though, and miserable, and that’s enough to get Canada to let him inside.
He misses the close press of their thighs as they sit down on the couch. Far, at opposite ends-the distance is a chasm, inexplicable, wrong. They don’t talk about it. Instead, America says, “Let’s get drunk. Okay?”
What he really says is, “I want this again, but I’m too scared to ask for it sober.” Canada sees it in the desperate blue of his brother’s eyes, in the hunch of his shoulders that means he’s given up trying to ignore what’s between them. Because there is something, undeniably; it won’t lessen with time, it won’t be dulled by alcohol.
It’s magnetism.
So Canada crawls across the couch, takes the Jack Daniels from America’s hand, takes America’s mouth with the taste of sugar frosting on his tongue. “Don’t fight this,” he whispers. “Please.”
Flawed Design - Stabilo
listen here
[ and I would also never ask a question that I cannot ask myself. ]
“Where do you think this will go?” Alfred asks.
Matthew doesn’t lie anymore about things he wants. He’s spent too long quiet, pretending, hiding. Now he looks straight ahead at the taillights of the car in front of theirs. He says, steadily, “I don’t know, but I want it to go somewhere. I want it to work.”
Alfred reaches up, past the armrest, past the cup holders and the gearshift, to touch Matthew’s jaw. “Hey. I do, too.”
Videotape - Radiohead
listen here
[ this is my way of saying goodbye. ]
He wonders if he should throw the box away.
Then Matthew answers his own question, so vehement it’s a little frightening. Never. The intensity with which he misses Alfred sears deeper than his heart, to his marrow, to his innards that roil with the truth; to his lungs that founder without air at the concept of a tattered box.
He thinks, Who am I without you? Am I ever going to be the same?
The box reads: ‘MATTIE + ME, photos/movies.’ Alfred’s messy handwriting is achingly familiar, though the Sharpie has faded, absorbed into the cardboard like a peeling decal, as if the memories are trying to forget themselves.
Matthew runs hesitant fingers over the M in ‘Mattie,’ the curves of it, almost lowercase but not quite. He can hear, perfectly real, how Alfred used to say his name. Half petulant, half serious. Always endearing.
It’s the thought of Alfred’s voice that finally lets him cry for what he’s lost.
Both Hands - Ani DiFranco
listen here
[ your bones have been my bedframe, and your flesh has been my pillow. ]
The apartment is entirely theirs, bought on a whim and standing nearly empty because they couldn’t care less about furniture-they have each other.
The neighbors think they’re only brothers, which is ironic. They twine together at night atop the bare mattress, and Matthew presses into Alfred until the springs whine, strokes his palms down Alfred’s sides to feel nearer.
They can never be near enough, even in this tiny one-bedroom with its chipped wainscoting and their two mugs alone in the cupboard.
Lovegame - Lady Gaga
listen here
[ let's have some fun; this beat is sick. ]
Canada smells America’s cologne mingling with his own, the faintest hint of alcohol, sweat; he can’t hear his heartbeat over the bass line, and it should be unnerving but it’s not. America is close, close, arching his hips flush with Canada’s, making heat spark and settle in his stomach.
“Don’t tease,” he admonishes, voice pitched low, though admonishing America has never worked before.
He just smiles, hot strobe lights reflecting off the frames of his glasses, which are in danger of falling from his nose. Canada fixes them languidly, lets the pad of his thumb drag along the slope of America’s cheekbone.
America leans up to murmur in his ear, “No one here knows what we are,” and Canada loves how it can mean so many different things.