Title: Know My Name
Fandom: Axis Powers: Hetalia
Pairing: BelCan sort of, quite possibly in that order…
Summary: He made no attempt at all to show the world who he was, and for some reason… it irked her. She wanted to change that.
(A/N): I think I'm going to write Belarus with as many Nations as I can. For no particular reason except Belarus needs some more love, methinks…
EDIT: YES I think it's finally working. WOO HOO. Stupid error, I hope ffnet can fix it soon. Sorry for the inbox spamming of those who have me on alert. I basically tried a bunch of sneaky category hopping. As it is I can't get the character filters in. .
Know My Name
An Axis Powers: Hetalia Fanfiction
By Triangular Prism
Whom exactly she was holding a knife to had not been important enough to register in her mind, for all Belarus had seen was someone else besides her talking to her beloved older brother. After that it had all been instinct, to summon a blade to her hand and press cool steel against tender throat. All she wanted was to know what he was saying, if he were bothering her brother with his useless chatter, since surely her brother always knew she acted in his best interest.
Of course, it never turned out that way, and certainly not this time, as Russia sprang back in fear, and the body in her arms went stiff in shock.
"W-What are you doing?" her brother was crying, as at the same time came a frightened babble of squeaks from her captive. Other nations around them were shouting, making that usual troublesome commotion, but she ignored it all— her focus was on her captive, and the edge of the blade tightened.
"Who are you?" she had hissed, with venom in her voice, "You dare speak with my brother? Are you annoying him? If you are antagonizing him in anyway—!"
"M-Maple! N-no, I was only… only…" The first words she heard from him, a jumbled mess of excuses for his life.
"Belarus!" Her brother, his voice frantic, arms flailing. "We were just talking! Please, let him go!"
"Why should I?" She spun her captive around, though the knife remained, and for the first time she focused on his face.
Smooth, pale skin, glasses rimming pale violet eyes. And a dash of red— a red line had been sliced thinly across his neck, from where here knife had pressed too close. She wondered who this nation was. Why her brother would talk back to him. With fresh anger she yanked him closer, face to face, enough to feel his trembling breath, and see his panic in those eyes, of a similar shade to her brother's…
"Belarus!" A voice rang out, of indignant rage, and she looked away long enough to see that nation with impossibly thick brows… England… bearing down on them, murder written on his face as he confronted her.
"You bloody let go of America this instant!" he roared, stabbing a finger at her, and it was America she held in front of her? Her grip tightened. But those eyes didn't seem like they belonged to that capitalist pig of a nation. Not that she cared who she held, either way…
"I'm not America!"
The soft cry made her blink, and England stop in his tracks, confusion spreading over his face. Somehow, she found her way to his eyes again. What she saw there…
"Not? But… who…" England furrowed his brows, trying to think. And again… that expression in those eyes…
"I'm not America…" the nation in front of her repeated, quieter, resigned. "I'm Canada."
Canada. England's face was blank as his finger wavered. It was back again, with new determination, but his words somehow…
"Uh… I mean… let Canada go!" he quickly repeated again, but this time he lacked the fire they had before, when he had believed it to be America in her grasp. New protests sprang from the nations around them, arguing for the nation's release.
But she watched his eyes. They had dropped away, sliding downwards to the floor. And, strangely, some of his fear had actually gone away.
Only when Russia physically put a hand to her shoulder did she let him go, allowing her knife to disappear in the folds of her dress. Canada slipped away, to the reassurance of England as he glared at her in warning, but from then and through the time it took the crowd that had gathered to disperse, she kept her eyes on the quiet nation.
Not once did he raise his eyes from the ground.
She was still watching as the conference ended, watching as England drifted away, as his sympathizers slowly disappeared, and he sat alone, rubbing quietly at his throat. Almost… forgotten.
He looked up, once, to meet deep blue. A flash of surprise, as he quickly ducked his head.
For some reason she found herself watching him when the nations gathered again, and again, and again.
Canada always seemed to shrink in the midst of a crowd, drawing in on himself even as others laughed and chattered around him. They listened, when it was his turn to speak, but attention would soon fade, and with it, so did he. Nations would bump into him, offering hasty apologizes that most often than not would trail as they tried to remember who stood in front of them. He only waved it off with a smile, a wave of his hand. He was… cordial. He smiled at whoever looked his away, but that smile would fall flat, as those gazes, she noticed, only went through him. And his eyes, those delicate violet eyes, stayed as distant and dull as the day she held a knife to his throat.
At each instance of this she observed, her hands dug tighter and tighter in her skirts. She wanted to act. To confront him again, to see if any other expression would enter his eyes. She wanted to see him snap, to scream, to cause a commotion, strike back at the world who was taking him for granted.
Canada did none of this.
It… infuriated her.
She watched as her brother, the very man she had seen talk to him with any amount of friendship, sit squarely in his lap, and jump in confusion when he struggled with quiet cries. He accepted Russia's apology with a tired smile and dismissive nod. Nothing more.
And her nails left red marks in her skin.
When he answered his door, hearing the bell heralding a visitor, Canada had the barest amount of time to register the nation standing on his doorstep when she was flying forward and overpowering him, slamming the door and rattling the frame.
She said nothing. Neither did he, for there was a knife at this throat again, in the exact same position as it had been before. A white bear growled menacingly off to the side, bearing its fangs, but unable to act while its master was so closely threatened.
"Why?" She asked him simply. Or rather, demanded. Harshly. He blinked rapidly; processing the question, while his pulse fluttered in his throat and his eyes went from wide, to drooped in confusion.
"…Eh?" he whispered, weakly.
"Why do you let others treat you like they do?" she demanded again, clutching the hilt of her knife so tightly, her knuckles went white. Some realization dawned, but not enough.
"Day after day, they look at you as if you were never there at all," came her hiss, shoving her face in his, enough for him to feel the breath from between her clenched teeth. "Do you not fight back? Do you ever speak for yourself? Are you not tired of it?"
She was taking slow step forwards with each new sentence. Canada followed, stepping blindly back and unwilling to feel the sting of her knife.
"It… I mean… It just happens, eh?" he protested, weakly. "It isn't their fault! Th-they apologize, and it isn't like… isn't like there's anything I can do…!"
Her eyes narrowed, and he helped as her free hand dug sharply into his arm.
"There is plenty you could do. You could strike back, show them your anger. Raise your voice, and let them know exactly who you are. It does not disturb you that nobody ever remembers your name?"
"No!" Canada protested, "They know… They do know who I am—ah!" Reaching the threshold of his house beyond, the nation's foot caught at the line of tiles to carpet— and he fell. She made no move to catch him, and when he landed with a heavy thud, the nation found himself straddled in a mass of navy silk, and curtained with a dozen tresses of pale blond hair.
"If I were you," Belarus whispered, pale fingers tracing the white line on his neck where her knife had cut, "I would make sure that my very footsteps would be recognized. I would make others acknowledge my name over and over again, for all the times they had forgotten. I would make myself emerge in the very thoughts and dreams. And yet you— you do nothing." She ended in a frigid glare, while he looked up at her, his breath returning, even with her weight set squarely on his stomach.
"No offense, Belarus, but… I'm not you," he said quietly.
She craned her head, deadly quiet.
"You would not last a day in my land," she finally murmured. "I—We—had to fight for recognition, in a time long ago. Every struggle was a necessity, for one wrong move meant we would be swept away in time, and overwhelmed. Forgotten." She leaned close. So close, their noses brushed ever so slightly at the tip, and pale blonde mixed with sun-bleached gold. Canada's breath caught. "And now I see you, allowing yourself overwhelmed so easily…" She jerked back, and Canada gasped, letting out the air unintentionally held. Her eyes flicked back down.
A silence stretched before either spoke again. The knife lay forgotten to the side. She was still straddling him, and while he could have forced her off by now, Canada didn't make a move, not even a twitch. Instead, he watched her, with bespectacled violet eyes.
"Y'know, I kind of… admire you sometimes." He said softly. She craned her head, expressionless.
"And why is that?" she deadpanned. He hesitated, licking dry lips.
"It's… it's what you do, isn't it?" he murmured, "You never let him forget. You always fight to be recognized by him, even though he never…"
Instantly a hand tightened frighteningly around his throat in an iron grip.
"Our situations are nothing alike!" she half shrieked, shattering the calm. "He loves me. My brother notices me, he does! He knows my name! I am never forgotten, never shunted aside like you! You, your very life is a— an insult!"
"W-Whoa, hey, calm down, I just—"
"No!" Her voice dropped, again, to a frightening low as their eyes locked together.
"Surely you must feel it sometimes?" she hissed, "The anger? The frustration? Time after time, looked down on as second best. Aren't you? No, you said so yourself— there is nothing you can do. Why am I even wasting me time here? When even I am able to step over you? As if you were nothing?"
"Wait. Hold on. That isn't fair." Something in Canada's face had changed. His fists were clenching, she noticed, but she did not stop. Not until she had proved her point.
"You saw it, didn't you? England only cared when he thought it was America I was threatening?" The words came in a rush. "You knew he didn't really care when it turned out to be you—You knew he was not acting for you. I saw it in your eyes. The resignation. The defeat. It's always America that receives the better treatment, am I correct? They wouldn't care if youwere injured. You wouldn't care if you were injured, because it would amount to nothing."
"It's America. America, America, America! You live in his shadow, and it's made you weak. In your very own eyes, you are nothing! You roll over for whoever looks your way! You've resigned to living in the background, beaten, a shadow dependent on another's existence!"
"You should forget your existence now. Why don't you just give up for good? Nobody cares. They only care for America. America! America!"
"I AM NOT AMERICA!" All at once, he exploded from beneath her, and quite suddenly she found her wrist seized, encircled completely with an angry hand. The bones crackled under his grip, as violet eyes blazed with the rage she wanted to see. His breath came in short pants, his face red with effort. She marveled at it. Marveled at that delicious rage. Except it was fading, more quickly than she liked, replaced by embarrassment, and confusion. Slowly, wincing at the pain darting up her arm, she leaned forward again, so close to his face, to ask.
"Who are you, then?"
The red faded from his cheeks. He released her, letting his arm fall back against the floor.
"I'm… Canada." The nation whispered.
They looked at each other. Deep blue, and pale violet.
"Canada…" she tried the word, letting the syllable roll off her tongue. "I think… I would like to see this anger more often, Canada."
Finally, Belarus slid away, but not before tracing a finger down the side of his face, across the pale line on his throat, through the soft strands of golden hair.
She left him there, on the floor, not once looking back.
At the next conference, he happened to run into her. He made to stutter out a hello, nervously meeting her eyes, and was surprised by her clipped greeting with the use of his name. Several nations nearby were caught off guard as well, most of all Russia, who looked at both of them curiously.
They stared at each other through the whole meeting. Not once did Canada flinch away. And not once did Belarus see through him.
She felt that she should visit again.
He hoped she would.
(A/N): So goes the first story. Wtf this is six pages. Next up will feature Romano/Belarus (Romarus? RomaBela? XD) and from there, I'll see what I can come up with. If you have any less that common pairings you'd like to see with Belarus (granted most pairings with her are rare besides Russia) feel free to say so.
Thank you for reading~