Reposting This Because I Forgot His Hair Clip Lmao

Do u think there are little things Alfred remembers and brings up sometimes that Mathew thought he forgot or weren’t important

Oh god yes. Alfred's the epitome of blursed older brother. Does he remember Matt's 'birthday'? Depends on the year. Does he remember he insisted on picking Matt up from the airport for a visit and then was on the other side of the country the day of? Every decade. Does he occasionally forget Matt exists for months on end? Regularly. Does he always remember Ottawa is the seat of government? About 50/50 shot on that. Does he remember Canada has a PM and not a president? Also 50/50. Does he refer to the legislative body of Canada as congress? Probably every time it gets brought up.

There are also things he doesn't remember out of love. Matt knows and has carefully thought about how to disarm and incapacitate Alfred if need be. He's done it. Mostly to stop Alfred from doing something stupid, but once or twice to save his own life. The only counter for strength is knowledge. Alfred doesn't remember or know the reverse. Because such a thing has never even crossed his mind. He's invaded and set Canada on fire, but he's never struck Matt first in their lives. He's a little delusional about how Matt is sometimes. His vision of his baby brother is the most vulnerable version of Matt.

But what does he remember? Does he recall Matt's favourite apple pie recipe, that's from when Alfred was stashed with the Quakers in the early 18th century? Yes. Does he know Matt's boot size? Damn right he does, and he sent them off every three months for every season like clockwork when Matt was at war before him. Does he remember what Matt's order is for some of their classic haunts? Yeah. And when they haven't eaten somewhere, and he's in charge of picking up take out, Alfred always picks something Matt ends up enjoying.

Alfred will never remember big things. He doesn't remember fuck all about Canada, really. He's got his head full of his own country, his own accomplishments and plans and dreams. But he remembers a lot about Matt. The favourite recipes, Matt's shit lungs after WW1, the places Matt goes to hide away from the world when he's moody, where he keeps the spare keys, the migraines he gets when the Chinook pressure gets particularly shitty.

He brings up random little things all the time from when they were younger. The Canadien breed horse Matt rode down to war in 1861 and gave him when he could ride again. The ridiculous amount of hand-me-downs Matt wore of Alfred's when Arthur occasionally kidnapped him because Arthur kept forgetting to buy him things that weren't French. The kind of crabapple trees he'd lift Matt to reach. He keeps special apple trees in New England that have given him the same apples Matt's loved since the 17th century. He thinks about getting rid of them every few years because they're not profitable. But they're Matt's trees they planted when Matt was barely more than a baby when Alfred first met him in 1629.

Britannia Prima

My first submission for the Historial Hetalia Week 2021! I’ve never participated in an event like this and am super pumped to share my ideas with you all. Thanks so much to the @historical-hetalia-week​ team for organizing this event! (I’ve tagged this to the best of my ability, please forgive me if I’ve done something improperly and let me know how I can fix it!)

Title: Britannia Prima

Summary: The Roman Empire arrives in the soggy northern reaches of his emperor’s domain and meets the young boy he’s been hunting for decades. 

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Brief but distressing physical roughness with a child (who in this case is also an immortal eldritch being/far older than any adult human)

Some vulgar language.

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Londinium, Britannia, Roman Empire

4th Century, C.E.

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It was raining when he arrived in Londinium. Of course it was. It was always raining in these gods—God—forsaken parts. The very edge of the earth, or so they said. Julius stalked up towards the villa as though he himself were a storm cloud descending to punish the landscape, ignoring how the mud splattered onto his calves and the hem of his tunic. He’d travelled all the way from Hispania as soon as he’d received word from the praetorian prefect, and the long journey through the tidal waves of spring had done nothing for his mood.

We found him. That was all the message had said. Him. That detail was news. No surprise, really, there had always been more males than females, when all the lands of the world were accounted for. Julius had already met one of her brats, after all: a son, already making his turns into manhood. But then, he’d seen her pregnant. Now, decades later, there was only left to see what kind of bastard she had produced.

He did not have to knock at the front door, for which he was grateful. As soon as he was over the threshold he threw off his hood, showering cold rain down onto the tiles.

“Where?” He asked, and the servant sent to receive him kept a demure look on the ground.

“In the cubiculum,” he reported, carefully extricating Julius from his cloak and offering him a linen towel for his hair. Julius ignored it, brushing off his hair with a hand and slinging the water to the ground. Without a further word, the Roman marched out of the fauces and through the atrium, where on both levels, there were not a few servants, soldiers, and other assembled house members waiting like buzzards to dissect whatever scraps they’d be able to hear from their perches. Julius ignored them, and hardly waited for the guardsmen to raise their spears before he entered the cubiculum.

“Master Romulus,” greeted the prefect, sounding at once relieved and terrified to see the empire, “I’m glad to see you’ve made it through the storm unscathed.” Julius ignored him.

Jesus Christ and all his disciples, it was a boy. Not a child, hardly more than a woodland wisp like the ones the barbarians spoke of, it was an infant. Decades of searching, Julius fumed to himself, decades. For this. The child was facing away from him, staring out the window into the rain, flanked on either side by guards and a tired-looking Breton nanny. The torchlight caught on his tangled mop of hair, which was far lighter in color than his mother’s, and made it seem as though the strands themselves had caught flame. So light of hair. There is no way he is mine.

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just some instagram doodles about things that make me chortle heartily… i have a lot to say about all of these but i think my favourite thing that came to mind was:

“watch out francis! don’t invade russia! your supply wagons are too slow to support your poorly disciplined troops and winter is nigh. oh no he can’t hear us he’s got airpods in! dieu du ciel!”

we’ll meet again someday. people who’ve been as close as we’ve been always meet again.

😔 so, i’m having brainrot for the concept of 1990s nedcan distancing due to nedpan rekindling: fifty years is a long and meaningful human marriage. but nations exist beyond human lifetimes, bearing centuries upon centuries of feelings and histories. and maybe, that’s where the gulf in experiences between a younger and older nation emerges: the sentiment that ‘i still hold gratitude and affection for you—but he and i were together for 300 years before that. i thought it ended—but i’m feeling that pull once more.’ the painting is a print of van gogh’s ‘almond blossoms’, which was influenced by hokusai’s ‘bullfinch and weeping cherry’ and hiroshige’s ‘plum park in kameido.’

could we see a tender rusame smorch bls,,,, 👉👈

I’ve never drawn something tender in my life what does that mean

"ways to protect yourself from homosexuals in orbit"

round