#woahhh pirate england with no brim

[captkirkland]

so i dont write stuff on tumblr very often cause im embarrassed about my writing but i got a drabble in mind based off of something else i wrote (tw for drowning but he’s fine. its fine) ~

Water pelts the deck of the ship below Arthur's boots, angry as it beats and batters the sails. He can hardly even hear himself over the whistling wind and the sharp, stinging rain, and he knows how loudly he must be yelling to his other crew members. Where even are they..? He's not got a clue, but the storm the ship's sailing through makes the main mast creak and groan with wooden fatigue. 

Every ear-piercing cry threatens its eventual snap. God, where the hell is everyone?! Have they all lost their minds, there's no way anyone's asleep below deck like this! Arthur doesn't think about it any longer than that, he's got to loosen the ropes and lower the sails, which by God is a lot easier said than done. The Captain sloshes through water that's up to his knees, it and the wind both doing their damnedest to push him down. He's soaked to the bone, and colder than ice, but he can't stop. Or rather, he wont. They're nowhere near land, and if this mast--or any other for that matter--breaks everyone on board is promised to the sea and her hunger. It feels like ages before Arthur reaches the mast, grabbing the ropes around both of his hands and his wrists, just so he can pull with all of his might. Bad form, he knows, as the ropes feel like they burn into his skin from their excruciating protests, but that wont keep the man from pulling the sails closed. 

Inching and inching and inching, the ocean soaked sails are so heavy even they object their movement against the angry wind-- this is a job meant for many men, not one. The only thing Arthur's got on his side is the fact that he's a not a simple man. He’s a damned country, and with burning green eyes he yanks the ropes as taut as they can be, twisting them about a hold to keep them there. Steady. There's another though, the foresail needs to be closed too lest the ship just start spinning off course in the storm. Obviously his body screams for him to stop, but the deep mix of emotions in England’s chest push him through it. Those hardly ever make it out of him in the best of ways, and this isn’t exactly an exception either, but that’s beyond the point. He’s got to make it out of this, not just for himself, but for everyone else in the world he needs to see after. The crew can receive a stern talking to later, but this situation is now way beyond that which could be quelled by reason, or even by shouting. All he can do is rely on himself now. Arthur pushes through the water, which smacks and beats at his thighs as the wind pushes at him from what feels like all angles just to keep him from reaching the foremast. But something wraps itself around his leg in the sea that angrily invites itself aboard like its trying to flood the place. Is it a rope? Arthur can’t particularly tell, but he moves to drag his foot out of it with a loud grunt of effort as he trips starboard towards the bowsprit despite the effort. It takes everything he has not to be swept away, grabbing his arms around the mast he’s reached, fingers slipping against the slick wood. If he weren’t smarter, he’d think the ocean wanted him to fail. But he is smarter.. and it still seems that way.

There’s curses as Arthur chokes against the salty water, the howling of the situation much too loud to even hear himself. Maybe that, or he’s gone deaf and the only sound that wants to meet his ears is the voice of God yelling in anger for the misdeeds of himself and others. Who really knows, and who really even bloody cares at this point?! Gritting his teeth, Arthur digs his nails into the ropes around the base of the foremast as he drags himself to his feet, and wraps the coarse sail ropes around his arms again. He heaves out in effort, pulling against the way the waves want to drag him, he’s got to pull back, not to the side. The waters all rushing to the right, but he digs his heels into the small cracks in the flooring beneath him, tugging back… and back.. and back... until finally he’s gone far enough. Upon reaching the next hold, Arthur wraps the rope around it so tight he can feel the muscles in his entire body burn from the effort of it all. Once he’s done, he looks around the ship for what he has to do next, but catches himself blindsided instead. A giant crate caught adrift in the water on the deck comes careening from his left side while he’s looking right, and it smacks directly into him, the momentum of it pushing Arthur over with enough force to drive him in the fearsome strength of the Eddy that’s been forming across the ship this entire time. It pulls him into its current, Arthur for once feeling so much less like a country and so much more like a man who can hardly save himself as it throws him overboard. First there’s nothing but the air and its chill.. and then there’s nothing but water and its even bitterer cold. He can’t breathe. He can’t swim. What the hell kind of pirate can’t swim!? Arthur’s never been able to, and his arms feel so tired and witless against the storming sea. Everything’s dark, salty, and nigh frozen... and he still can’t breathe. Is he choking? Is he dying? Is this what dying genuinely feels like? It’s horrifying. How many times do humans go through this? Once. He’s gone through “death” before in the past, but at least then he always knew he’d open his eyes again. He knew he’d feel his heart beating again. This is so much worse, all he can see is the filtered moonlight through the deepest darkness he’s ever witnessed.. and all of its closing in around him as his hand reaches upwards. And he still can’t breathe. Arthur wakes with a start suddenly, having fallen asleep at his desk again, surrounded in papers and pens that’ve fallen to the ground by now. His breath is so uneven, and he falls over out of his chair, like he should be trying to kick and swipe his hands. It isn’t till he’s on the ground and holding himself that he genuinely realizes he’s simply on the floor in his apartment, the clock ticking softly in the background like nothing happened. God, his throat burns, his wrists sting, and it’s still so hard to breathe. Arthur’s chest heaves as he tries to recall everything that just happened, panic rising in his chest in a manner he can’t help but despise. Its then that the thought races across the front of his mind that thinks he might be having a panic attack or something. This is so stupid! It was just a dream, what on Earth is this happening to him for? His heart feels as if its running laps in his chest, like a frightened rabbit trying to escape a hungry wolf that doesn’t even exist anymore, and hasn’t for hundreds of years at this point. Clammy, sweaty hands find the embroidered seat of a wooden chair as he pushes himself up to his feet against his body’s better judgement, like he’s forcing himself to be fine in the face of his own failings. Well, not just like, he is doing that really.  But then the phone rings, and the loud sound nearly sends England to the ceiling of his own office. “Fucking Christ,” he curses to himself, mumbling the words as he rubs the front of his face before dragging both hands down. Soon, he reaches over the desk for his phone and swipes it up into his hand. With a bit of fumbling from fingers that wont stop shaking, he answers the call. “Hello?” “Oh, Alfred, what is it?” “Hah, of course you’d want something like that.. yes, I can bring it by rather soon.” “Mhm.” “Really, is that so?” “Baffling.” “And how are you beyond that?” “That’s very nice, yes, I’m fine as well. Had a bit of a nap, I’m about to put on the afternoon tea, you really should come by my house soon so I can share a bit.” “Ahh.. of course, deal with that first then.” “Mhm, see you soon, goodbye.” He hangs up the phone, clicking the red button after a try or two, just letting it fall back down to the table with a sigh. At least getting something for Alfred done always takes his mind off of things, he can’t help but think of the American instead. God bless him, he doesn’t even know what he does.

#hetalia #iggy rambles #iggy writes #my writing #hws england #woahhh pirate england with no brim #brim with no pirate england #no pirate england with no brim