matthew & alfreds first hangover was much like arthur constantly giving them lectures and quite a bit mad (not on a serious note tho) while francis made them breakfast, made sure they both had water with them and some medicine and then made sure arthur wouldn’t burst in every 20min
Portugal wanders his way over to England’s desk, watching him hold open a book with one hand as he scribbles furiously into a notebook with the other. Stacked around him are little towers of other tomes and papers, some of which look like they could be from the 20th century or later — most of which don’t.
Portugal lifts one with a finger to look at the spine. “Are these all Voltaire?”
“Yes.” England answers shortly, then shushes him when Portugal opens his mouth to ask his next question. Portugal obediently closes his mouth and waits, amused, as England pinches the bridge of his nose and grimaces at the ceiling like it has offended him. After a moment, England scrawls something on his paper again, then clicks his tongue and tosses his pen onto the table. Portugal takes that to mean he can talk, and asks, “Why Voltaire?” Then, teasingly: “I thought you didn’t read French.”
England looks up to give him a baleful stare from where he has begun rifling through his piles. “Its research. I’m trying to win an argument against Francis. We’ve also got one going on about integration, but he’s clearly wrong about that so I’m focusing on Voltaire right now.” He pulls out Traité sur la tolérance and flips to a page he’s bookmarked with a pink sticky note.
Portugal grins. “I see you two are still very much in love.”
“Yes, I am going to crush him.”
“That’s not what I said,” Portugal laughs. He shifts a couple books onto one arm and replaces it with his neatly wrapped offering. “Well, take a break to eat first. Can’t wage war on an empty stomach.”
England looks up, then at what Portugal’s placed on his desk. He frowns. “What is that.”
“A bento!” Portugal taps the top of the fabric wrapped box with a finger. “I bought the fabric and the box last time I went to Tokyo. Isn’t it adorable?”
The fabric is decorated with red and white camellias and a white snake. It is pretty, England admits to himself. If incredibly embarrassing. The thought of anyone finding out that Portugal had made him a packed lunch makes England want to bludgeon himself to death with his hardcover copy of the Principia.
Portugal is smirking at him. The bastard knows.
England sighs and closes his notebook. “What is it?” he asks.
“Squid ink pasta! I got the recipe from Romano, thought I’d try it out. Have some.” His eyes betray the hope he deliberately left out of his tone.
“I’ll eat after I finish this.”
Portugal immediately frowns at him. “You need to eat.”
“I said I would, after—“
“Did you have breakfast?”
A slightly guilty silence. “I had tea.”
Portugallooks at him, and England hates him. Hates that he can go from mocking to pleading to admonishing in half a breath. Hates that he made squid ink pasta, like that’s a normal thing to have for lunch at work. Hates that he’s actually hungry.
Hates that the camellias on the box are really damn pretty.
I feel like Arthur’s centuries old manor has become something of local legend around the area. He certainly doesn’t frequent it as much as he used to but he allows some of the fae or other ghosts to reside there while he’s away.
The local kids all dare each other on Halloween to spend the night there, which, Arthur is more than aware takes place.
He scares the shit out of anyone that try to brave the haunted mansion by the sea cliffs. It’s all good fun really. He appears quite ghastly before them on top of the creatures he’s hired as help and really takes this chance to get theatric. He’s likely died once or twice, on years where the trespassers have really gotten on his nerves and need a proper fright.
He’ll be in the shops the next day and the teens are pointing at him that they just saw his head rolling down a staircase just last night and he’ll just laugh it off, saying something along the lines of them best not sticking their noses where they don’t belong and how they should carry salt on their person for the next week or two.
It’s all in stupid fun at this point, however, he’s only confirming the fact he lives in a haunted house and thus, attracting more and more people as a result.
The difference here is that England is the one yelling dO I LOOK LIKE- while France says it calmly. Sasuke says it calmly while Naruto is the one yelling YOU’RE HOLDING MY-
Welcome to our Medieval Fantasy Hetalia Gift Exchange!
For this event, you will be assigned a giftee and you will create a customized gift for that person. Someone else will also be creating a gift for you, but you won’t know who is making your gift until the reveal!
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Writers should have 1000 words or more.
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January 01st: Ghost drop date
If a gifter has not responded by this date, we will assume they have dropped out. We will then find a free back up to fill up the gap.
January 06th: Gifting day!
Gift Requirements:
Fanfiction must be a new work minimum of 1500 words, fulfill the prompt given and be complete.
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And of course, besides those minimum requirements, your work must take in consideration and avoid any triggers mentioned by the giftee.
i like to think arthur and francis fell back in love at the turn of the century and it was a total love fest. the vibrant underground gay culture in the victorian era helped arthur deal with his feelings (he’s wearing a green carnation btw) and francis, who waited for centuries, welcomed him with open arms. and it was as if they never separated. they went on a lot of lowkey dates and carried their portraits in their uniform pockets when the world went to hell a decade later.
Summary:Francis is the leader of a rather dysfunctional adventure party. Amid dungeon exploring, mission clearing and overall questing, he is desperately trying to keep the peace now that his former teenage sweetheart has joined his ragtag group of runaway strays.
Notes:This was an exchange fic that I did with @lutao-o that started over a year ago and is finally done! Just some found family RPG party shenanigans with a dash of pining.
Summary:Francis is the leader of a rather dysfunctional adventure party. Amid dungeon exploring, mission clearing and overall questing, he is desperately trying to keep the peace now that his former teenage sweetheart has joined his ragtag group of runaway strays.
Notes:This was an exchange fic that I did with @lutao-o that started over a year ago and is finally done! Just some found family RPG party shenanigans with a dash of pining
(A snapshot, amidst the Battle of Britain. Arthur and Matthew-centric. Notes: Content warning-wise—injury mention. No explicit violence. “Jack” is AUS, and “Zee” is NZ. 800 words).
London, 1940
“Well then, what does it say, Matthew?”
Arthur’s right arm is ensconced in a sling—but as always, his father is no less imposing, in the sharp and neat lines of his olive-coloured dress uniform, the gold of his buttons gleaming and polished. Even wounded, he exudes power effortlessly.
“It’s postmarked from New York.” Matthew slices open the envelope.
“Go on. Read it out.” Behind Arthur, the morning sun streams in, through the large, expansive windows of his office, scattering diamond-shaped patches of light onto the antique carpet and the hardwood floor. On the glass itself—tape, placed in a methodical, diagonal crisscrossing pattern, accompanied by dark curtains. The standard precautions for nightfall nowadays.
Thus far, the air raid sirens had mercifully been silent today.
Matthew unfolds the letter. Alfred’s handwriting is bold and hurried, his tone casual and light-hearted. Yo old fart—A whole colourful paragraph on how Billie Holiday and Gregory Peck— a new but apparently promising actor—had been in town. The latest jazz concerts he’d attended. The nice cut of sirloin he’d had last night, at the Waldorf-Astoria.
“He says…” Matthew skims his brother’s letter. He jumps to the second last paragraph, “…that he’ll be in San Francisco. At the naval facility and shipyard there. Keeping an eye on the Pacific. And that Congress will probably widen the cash-and-carry scheme to include war materiel. He wishes you good luck, and says that there’s a box of genuine Cuban cigars for you in the mail.”
“Well, I certainly never would turn down a good cigar but—Good luck? Cash and carry?” Father snorts, his tone derisive. “Does that wretched lad think my gold reserves are unlimited, to pay him for all that?” He turns away from Matthew, the slope of his shoulders tense. “So, he’s not coming, is he?”
He’s angry now, Matthew knows. Not the sort of turbulent rage that was a prelude to the sorts of shouting matches Father had with Alfred, but something simmering, like a kettle slowly boiling over on a stove. Anger was what Father preferred to show, over disappointment—whenever it came to Alfred.
Matthew resented them both for it, at times. How often had he been the bedraggled mediator and go-between for Father and Alfred? For his brother, the ocean that lay between them and Father was actually a barrier the way it wasn’t for Matthew. His brother had always done whatever the hell he wanted, his will as forceful and indomitable as trying to bottle a hurricane.
Father had fumed for three decades after he’d burned Alfred’s name off the family tree. But then, as the years went by—he’d mellowed on his brother. Turned back to regarding his eldest son with the sort of grudging respect and recognition he bestowed on an equal—and no one else. Not Matthew, nor Jack and Zee, not even Father’s own siblings, let alone anyone else across the rest of his vast empire, no matter how much they’d bled for King and Country.
But Matthew squashes those feelings down for now. It wasn’t the time.
“No. He isn’t.” Matthew replies carefully. “He says his hands are tied by the Neutrality Acts.”
“Is that what he said?” Father laughs, sharp and loud. His green eyes glint as he turns to face Matthew. “Steel bars and the Almighty himself couldn’t tie that wretch’s hands, not unless he allowed them to.”
The New World, with all its power and might, Churchill had anointed, waxing lyrical and dramatic. Alfred, Matthew knew, would squeeze something more through the legal loopholes, sooner or later. It wouldn’t be nothing, it would help—but it would be far short of what Father really wanted. His brother was that way. All those tangled up threads about family that Alfred preferred to avoid upfront, to bury under cheerful irreverence or, on other occasions, spiteful snippiness towards their father.
You have me, Dad, is what he wants to say. But he doesn’t. “I’ll write back to him.”
“You do that. Maybe he’ll listen, if it’s coming from you.” Arthur’s nod is curt. The line of his mouth is thin. His nostrils flare. “Goodness. When I said ‘in God’s good time’, I meant hurry the bloody hell up, notsit there twiddling your thumbs.”
This, Father says with casual, dismissive annoyance. As though he’s dealing with something no more inconvenient than a tailcoat not being mended on time or being short on his favourite Earl Grey. As though it were something displeasing but ultimately of little import to him and his plans, old and confident as he was in his power—but it’s obvious.
How much Arthur really looked— in the face of the unfolding disaster before them, with bated breath and carefully-concealed hope—to his estranged son and Matthew’s older brother. How much he longed to have Alfred by his side.
(A snapshot, amidst the Battle of Britain. Arthur and Matthew-centric. Notes: Content warning-wise—injury mention. No explicit violence. “Jack” is AUS, and “Zee” is NZ. 800 words).
London, 1940
“Well then, what does it say, Matthew?”
Arthur’s right arm is ensconced in a sling—but as always, his father is no less imposing, in the sharp and neat lines of his olive-coloured dress uniform, the gold of his buttons gleaming and polished. Even wounded, he exudes power effortlessly.
“It’s postmarked from New York.” Matthew slices open the envelope.
“Go on. Read it out.” Behind Arthur, the morning sun streams in, through the large, expansive windows of his office, scattering diamond-shaped patches of light onto the antique carpet and the hardwood floor. On the glass itself—tape, placed in a methodical, diagonal crisscrossing pattern, accompanied by dark curtains. The standard precautions for nightfall nowadays.
Thus far, the air raid sirens had mercifully been silent today.
Matthew unfolds the letter. Alfred’s handwriting is bold and hurried, his tone casual and light-hearted. Yo old fart—A whole colourful paragraph on how Billie Holiday and Gregory Peck— a new but apparently promising actor—had been in town. The latest jazz concerts he’d attended. The nice cut of sirloin he’d had last night, at the Waldorf-Astoria.
“He says…” Matthew skims his brother’s letter. He jumps to the second last paragraph, “…that he’ll be in San Francisco. At the naval facility and shipyard there. Keeping an eye on the Pacific. And that Congress will probably widen the cash-and-carry scheme to include war materiel. He wishes you good luck, and says that there’s a box of genuine Cuban cigars for you in the mail.”
“Well, I certainly never would turn down a good cigar but—Good luck? Cash and carry?” Father snorts, his tone derisive. “Does that wretched lad think my gold reserves are unlimited, to pay him for all that?” He turns away from Matthew, the slope of his shoulders tense. “So, he’s not coming, is he?”
He’s angry now, Matthew knows. Not the sort of turbulent rage that was a prelude to the sorts of shouting matches Father had with Alfred, but something simmering, like a kettle slowly boiling over on a stove. Anger was what Father preferred to show, over disappointment—whenever it came to Alfred.
Matthew resented them both for it, at times. How often had he been the bedraggled mediator and go-between for Father and Alfred? For his brother, the ocean that lay between them and Father was actually a barrier the way it wasn’t for Matthew. His brother had always done whatever the hell he wanted, his will as forceful and indomitable as trying to bottle a hurricane.
Father had fumed for three decades after he’d burned Alfred’s name off the family tree. But then, as the years went by—he’d mellowed on his brother. Turned back to regarding his eldest son with the sort of grudging respect and recognition he bestowed on an equal—and no one else. Not Matthew, nor Jack and Zee, not even Father’s own siblings, let alone anyone else across the rest of his vast empire, no matter how much they’d bled for King and Country.
But Matthew squashes those feelings down for now. It wasn’t the time.
“No. He isn’t.” Matthew replies carefully. “He says his hands are tied by the Neutrality Acts.”
“Is that what he said?” Father laughs, sharp and loud. His green eyes glint as he turns to face Matthew. “Steel bars and the Almighty himself couldn’t tie that wretch’s hands, not unless he allowed them to.”
The New World, with all its power and might, Churchill had anointed, waxing lyrical and dramatic. Alfred, Matthew knew, would squeeze something more through the legal loopholes, sooner or later. It wouldn’t be nothing, it would help—but it would be far short of what Father really wanted. His brother was that way. All those tangled up threads about family that Alfred preferred to avoid upfront, to bury under cheerful irreverence or, on other occasions, spiteful snippiness towards their father.
You have me, Dad, is what he wants to say. But he doesn’t. “I’ll write back to him.”
“You do that. Maybe he’ll listen, if it’s coming from you.” Arthur’s nod is curt. The line of his mouth is thin. His nostrils flare. “Goodness. When I said ‘in God’s good time’, I meant hurry the bloody hell up, notsit there twiddling your thumbs.”
This, Father says with casual, dismissive annoyance. As though he’s dealing with something no more inconvenient than a tailcoat not being mended on time or being short on his favourite Earl Grey. As though it were something displeasing but ultimately of little import to him and his plans, old and confident as he was in his power—but it’s obvious.
How much Arthur really looked— in the face of the unfolding disaster before them, with bated breath and carefully-concealed hope—to his estranged son and Matthew’s older brother. How much he longed to have Alfred by his side.
“Father had an empire, Stretched down from the heavens To the depths of hell… Now those days are gone, Now you have the heavens, All that lies beyond, And all the hope I claim Since leaving me undone. You have my hands — forgive me. You are your father’s son.”
1945; i’m always here for an old king / crown prince dynamic between arthur and alfred.
