Sweaters, a PruHun fanshort by Mocha-san

((Author's Note: A little PruHun oneshot I had made out of pure urge to write some shipfic and lamenting over the utter tragedy behind Prussia and Hungary's relationship (if it is true that Prussia actually had a crush on Hungary, especially after years of being best friends, wouldn't her marriage to Austria hurt?). So, yeah? Enjoy.))

"Pick up! Pick up!" Hungary almost shouted at her cell phone, waiting for Ukraine to answer. She held it to her ear, listening to the dial tone. 
Privet! You've contacted Ukraine. I...I can't really answer right now, but...
Hungary ended the call and stomped her foot angrily. She hadn't had a lot of luck today; she had to cancel a get-together with Liechtenstein because of a stupid government meeting, got some news of economy cuts, missed her bus back to her home and now it was raining (she didn't bring a raincoat or an umbrella either). And not just any raining—raining hard.
She sighed deeply and stuffed her phone back into her pocket. Great—now she had no ride home. 
She stood there for a while, letting the raindrops soak her skin as they threw themselves down from the grey clouds above. It was dark and gloomy today. Oh, if only she could at least chat with Liechtenstein, or Taiwan, or even Austria...
"HEY~!"
Hungary's back straightened at the call. She knew that voice.
"Hey, Hungary! It's the awesome me!"
Hungary gave him a look. "What do you want, Prussia?"
"West is doing a bunch of boring business things so I decided to come and see my awesome little childhood friend!" said Prussia, grinning. Then, he noticed the disdain on her face. "Uh...what's going on with you?"
"I'm having a bad day," she said, putting her hands in her pockets. "As you can probably tell."
He could tell, but it just wasn't his style to just address the situation like that. "Uh...also, why are you randomly standing here in the rain? Without a coat or an umbrella or a poncho or whatever?"
"I was attending a meeting," Hungary grumbled. "It was perfect this morning so I didn't bother to grab a coat. I missed my bus and now I have to stand here until the next one comes along."
Prussia was silent for a minute. "Well...that's kind of unawesome..."
"You think?"
Prussia was quiet again, twirling the umbrella in his hands.
Hungary sighed. "You don't have to stay here with me, if that's what you're thinking."
Prussia looked like he was ready to counter that sentence, but he didn't say a word in the end.
Cue awkward silence.
Prussia was so deep in his train of thought he almost didn't detect the small sound of Hungary's teeth chattering. "You cold?"
"..." She didn't answer, but she did rub her arms a little. He took it as a yes.
He looked at his sweater—zip-open, snow white, with his flag's emblem on the right breast. He looked up at Hungary, who was standing there, glaring at the street as she shivered.
He shrugged off his sweater and held it out to her. "Here."
Hungary stared at the sweater, then at him. "Uh..."
"You put it on," said Prussia, a slight bit of humor in his voice.
Hungary raised an eyebrow, but took the sweater, putting it on quickly. She sighed in relief—from Prussia being in it, the sweater was nice and warm inside.
"Check it out," said Prussia, lightening up, "It even comes with this awesome hood!" He took the white hood and put it over her head, watching her give him slightly annoyed looks. "There! Now the rain can't bug you!"
Hungary savored the warm feeling of the sweater before giving him a smile. "You're very funny," she said pointedly. She laughed. "But thank you anyway."
"No prob," Prussia said, back to grinning.
As if on cue, Hungary spotted the bus home coming up the street. "Ah! Here's my bus." She began to take off the sweater. "Thank you, Pru—"
"No! Keep it!" Hungary looked up at Prussia, surprised by his sudden insistence. "I mean, I could always get a new one, you know. Plus, it'll keep you warm until you get home and get your own jacket. Just keep it."
Hungary's eyes were wide. "Um...why are you being so nice all of a sudden?"
"Because I really like..." Shut up, Prussia. "I mean, I didn't want you to get soaked getting to your house. That's really not awesome." Good, he covered.
Hungary gave him a strange look, but didn't have time to dwell on it; the bus was there. She nodded quietly, and smiled. "Thank you," she said softly, and boarded the bus, leaving him under the umbrella as the bus drove away.
He sighed lightly, and turned around, intending to go back home. Stay dry, Hungary.

SPiCa, a poem by Mocha-san

((This is a poem based off the song "SPiCa" by Hatsune Miku. This was made at school when I was thinking of the mood of the song. It's kinda long.))

A twinkle in the sky
Winter night
Like a silent theater,
I wait in the snow.

For you.

One solitary star
reflecting my heart
feelings
thoughts
wishes
as a sparkling dot
But…

Angels watch this star
Drifting so lightly
I reach out
and time stops

"I like you."
The orchestra of winter
opens
A majestic sound
Ever so far away
It rings in my ears
and floats softly
The snow moves my scarf
like wings of green
A happy tune
♪♪♪♪♪
of a frozen castle
♪♪♪♪♪
I want you here with me
The strings are struck
as white clouds the world
A ceremonial descent
for the Gemini

Let me hold you
Your pale hand
Feel the sensation
of this falling star
The flutes shriek so high!
Almost like Aquarius
yet sounds of Taurus
feeling power from Cancer
None, though
touch the glittering
Of the
SPiCa

It must feel lonely
Here in a blanket
of black and indigo
So empty
I touch the ice
So cold
Yet bright
A perfect night
So I speak

"Forevermore."

It echoes on,
the orchestral music
of a starlit night.
The ghosts of the past
buried here,
disappear.

Let me say this now.
Even with you so far,
I can hear your voice
like the violins
So powerful, like Capricorn
It roars
in this crystal cage
of white…

Snow whips around,
and caresses my face
With you,
you,
as my exclusive spotlight
The french horns blare
like Leo's roar
and strikes me
like Sagittarius's arrow
In this theater
a flash of green
in a world of blue
I raise my eyes
and smile
under the shimmer
of the solitary


SPiCa

Signed, the Patchwork Scholar, a short story by Mocha-san

((Author's Note: I wrote this piece one night when I couldn't sleep and had on "Fly Me Away" by Annie Little. It's sort of philosophical on one side while biographical on the other. Aw, well. Enjoy.))

To whom it may concern...

 

I always thought it was a little cliche to write down everything going on in your head, but if anything, writing down these thoughts of mine are probably good, anyway. Ah, what a funny world this is. Haha. Yeah right.

Anyway, if you expected some sappy, overly tragic tale of lost love, crumpled notes and stomped dreams, then put this back where you found it. I hate the prospect of rubbing my personal tradgedies in everyone's faces because I want someone to pity me. That's pathetic.

No, this letter is those who always wondered why those books were written by the barely-15 Patchwork Scholar, and what exactly that name meant. 

Is this a backstory? Probably. I'd call it a memoir, not a backstory. I mean, really. Calling your past a freaking backstory? Um, no thank you.

So, let's get down to business shall we?

No, I'm not telling you about my early life. My life as a toddler and such is none of your business. Besides, if I wanted you to know, I would've said it to you in person! It's called logic.

Let's start after I published my second novella. Back then, my deadlines, pressure, writer's block and dedication had ended up in losing all my friends, whether they were good friends or not. I was very lonely and frustrated, and I felt trapped in that stupid office all day. It was driving me crazy. 

Yearning for some excitement, I asked my agent, Callie, to send me to London. I needed to unwind and I wasn't planning on writing another book anytime soon, and it might even be good for me. "Please, Callie?" I begged. "You know how depressed I've been. Don't you think it would help? And I love travel! Please?"

After some more grovelling, Callie finally agreed to let me go and live in London for a while. She and my agency pulled some strings as a means to let me travel alone, though I was only 13. Eventually, I was given reason and I went off to my new destination, hoping for some peace.

I had a small house to myself for my stay. My agent kept track of me by giving me a phone, and she called every morning and evening to check up on me. I was a little annoyed at first, but I knew she meant well so I didn't mind eventually.

 The first week, I basically did whatever I felt like. I toured shops, ate at resturaunts and went home to read, sleep or fool around on my laptop. For the first time in a while, I truly felt content. It was a nice feeling.

My life really changed in the second week, though.

I made a friend.

It was raining that day. Then again, I had always been told that it rained a lot in England, so I kind of expected it. I didn't mind too much, since I had a nice umbrella with me. I was going home after a tiring day of walking, and was minding my own business. 

However, I passed an alleyway as I walked, and suddenly, I encountered a big, angry dog. It growled menacingly at me, as if it were angry that I was being there. I liked dogs, but I got a bad feeling from this one and ran. I was in such a frenzy to get away that I tripped on a rock near a dirt path and tumbled into a muddy patch of grass at the bottom of a hill. The dog had seen my trip, but since I was no longer in its way, it left.

So, I was left in the downpour, soaking and sad and scared. At first, I just sat there, crying. When I finished crying, I got up and walked down the path, curious to see where it lead.

I walked for a long time. I didn't know where I was going, after all. I didn't know another way home and I was scared to face the dog again, so I just kept pressing on.

Eventually, I arrived at a huge house. It was so beautiful and regal! It looked just like a mansion! 

Curious, I walked up to the front door and stood still a second. Was it even lived in? I had no idea. Maybe it was haunted! That would've been cool. But not a place to stay forever. 

So I knocked.

The door opened to reveal a pretty young woman with big green eyes and silky dark brown hair. When she saw me standing on her porch, dripping and miserable, she immediately yanked me inside. She drew a bath and gave me some warm clothes, and after I had washed up and changed she hurried me into the kitchen for some pumpkin muffins. 

She asked for my name, so I told her. Elise. She suddenly jumped, noticing that I was the young American author everybody talked about. She said she liked my books, to which I felt flattered. 

She introduced herself as Bridget Walters. She was 24 years old and had inherited this huge house as a gift from her late mother. I gave my condolences and asked if she had any other family. Bridget told me that she only had a sister, who lived in Wales. 

After I ate, I asked Bridget if she could help me get home. I told her my address, and she told me that my house was a block over. I asked if she could escort me, so she put on a raincoat and walked me down the street to my home. She invited me for tea and biscuits (cookies to the typical American), which I gladly accepted before saying goodbye.

That was how I became such good friends with Bridget. We'd talk all the time and we enjoyed each other's company. She told me all about the house and herself, like how she once spilled tea all over her pet cat once. That was really funny. 

I told her all about my life and myself, and what I strung-together self image I had. She listened intently and set down her cup when I finished my explanation.

"You know," she said, "You're very interesting. You talk like you're arrogant but act all shy, while in reality you're just lonely. What a curious thing."

"Curious indeed," I muttered.

"I could compare you to a patchwork quilt," she said thoughtfully. "Made up of many different things at once, but still kept together by those threads. You're a patchwork girl, Elise."

That's when it struck me.

After having tea with Bridget, I hurried home, got out some paper and began a new manuscript. I called it Words Like Patchwork, and didn't stop writing until I fell asleep at my desk. 

The book was based off Bridget and that wonderful house, set in the 1800s or something like that. I spent two months writing it, sitting at my desk for hours every day, writing.

Eventually, I handed it to Callie and it was published. Bridget was overjoyed, and she couldn't express how proud she was. It made me feel good, to have done that. 

After that day, I took a look at my mismatched, cobbled-together personality and gave myself a new name.

Patchwork Scholar.

It's been a year now, and I've returned to America. I feel truly accomplished in that I made someone else happy, and that was good enough for me. I adopted a snarky streak as a way to spice up myself, and even sewed myself a patchwork coat as a statement to my pen name. It felt great, knowing I had this new life.

So, to conclude, I write this letter to show how happy I am that I worked so hard. I'm about to leave for France, and who knows what I'll meet there. I'll leave this letter in my office, so I'll have something interesting to think about on my stay. Did anyone read the letter? Maybe. I might never know.

You know what? I think I could be OK with that.

 

Signed,

The Patchwork Scholar

Tomorrow, Before the Rain, a flash fiction by Mocha-san

((Author's Note: A short flash fiction story inspired by "Ame ga Furu Mae Ni" by Millstones. Short, sweet, and thoughtful.))



Kaydence watched the sun swim overhead as she walked through the busy streets of the city. There were numerous dark clouds surrounding the yellow ball of light, but Kaydence tried to ignore them. It was hard, though—the weatherman on TV had said a light rainstorm would come today.
Umbrella in hand, Kaydence waltzed through the crowds of people walking through. Everything was normal and happy, other than the occassional darkness from the clouds passing by.
Kaydence pondered over the weather, but eventually another thought came to mind.
They say that life has storms pass through, too.
She knew what that meant. It meant that life had its hardships that you had to endure. Unfortunately, though, storms in life weren't exactly like weather storms—you knew when a weather storm was coming. The weatherman would tell you so you know you had to expect it. Life wasn't that easy.
Kaydence had been through life's storms before. Like, when she had lost that big soccer game last fall. Or when she lost touch with her friend Averill, whom she'd known since kindergarden. Or when she tried to climb that tree in the woods and broke her arm.
But she survived those storms. The "sun" would always come out eventually, wouldn't it? That's what optimism was for, right?
Kaydence could say that during those storms, she had an umbrella to keep her from getting too wet.
She was so lost in her thoughts she almost didn't notice the sky getting darker. She almost didn't notice when it started to drizzle.
Kaydence eventually snapped out of her meditation and looked at the drops falling from the sky.
She raised her umbrella, smiled and kept walking, knowing that no matter how many storms she went through, life would be sunny again.