#ask hipsofsteel

In early 2017, I met the person who created the character of Sam. We were fast friends and thick as thieves at the time. As they developed Sam, I later developed Roberto, and we intertwined their stories. It was a writing and art exercise between friends. However, over the end of 2018 and early 2019, the friendship became less close due to conflicts between Sam's creator, myself, and the creator of Evelyn (who I would begin dating after the events in this post).

Although Sam's creator blocked Evelyn's creator, I remained in contact with both of them. Sam's creator was also drifting from Hetalia as a main fandom and more into TAZ: Amnesty, and finding new friends. I was less and less important in their life.

This culminated in Sam's creator ceasing to respond to my messages in late February of 2019, and finally blocking me mid-March. I'd been ghosted by someone who'd been my best friend for two years, and it felt like shit. I made a post announcing that while I would not delete previous works about these characters, I would no longer use this creator's characters from now on. They were not mine, and I was not comfortable with the risks involved if I did continue to use them. I ended up taking several months away from writing any character of mine that had been associated with a character from Sam's creator.

When this contact ceased, so did my use of the following characters: -Sam (Texas) -Rosa (Nyo!Texas) -Victorio (New Mexico) -Lilakai (Arizona) -Kit (Colorado) -Gwen (Kansas (Gwen was only used in writing with Sam's creator after they blocked Evelyn's creator)) -Charlotte (Maine) -June (Wyoming) -Haiwee (Nevada)

There may be others, but these are who I remember off the top of my head.

I have occasionally used the art Sam's creator gifted me still when introducing new people to my characters (ALWAYS PROPERLY CREDITED), but I no longer use any character that was created by them. They are not my characters, I no longer have permission to use them, and it can bring up fairly painful memories. I'm still filling in story gaps now and then for my more established characters.

For example, if you like Roberto, his new beau is Carson (Colorado). Beverly's new girl is Mina (Short for Wilhelmina, and also Minnesota). There still is a Texas on this blog, her name's Lupe, and Chris is absolutely still enchanted with the big woman with guns who will kick his ass. There's even Emmeline (Utah), who sits and judges everyone around her, even her bestie Clark. There's also Sarah (Nevada) and Luci (Arizona), two partially developed OCs, and Evelyn runs rampant across several stories as Kansas, and shows the influence of my new writing partner, and girlfriend of almost three years.

I still use the OCs of other friends, although the creators of Seth and Marco are no longer big into Hetalia themselves. I am still in contact with these creators, and Marco's creator has given me permission to use his characters, which is why my drafted novel's romantic male lead is actually his Alabama OC, and several of the supporting characters also trace their origins back to him, rather than me. But I will not use any characters who were created by Sam's creator. I have always believed that they extended the same respect to me.

1865

The war was over. Roberto couldn’t quite believe it. He’d been bringing gold east to Alfred to buy more supplies, and now?

He was caught in the middle of celebrations.

The Union states of the northeast and midwest were celebrating with free flowing booze and games of cards and whatever else caught their fancy. The Confederacy was defeated, and the world seemed, to them, almost hopeful. But to Roberto, the war had, even during previous visits to the East, seemed a very distant thing. And now, he stood here, still uncertain where he fit in with these strangers.

How much simpler things were at home, where he was the powerful player, and he had people to rely on. He filled himself a pint of ale, and then sat in a corner, sipping and watching the other states lose their common sense. Even Fatima, who wasn’t supposed to drink, was sipping on a brandy as she talked to the others. The war was over.

And yet, maybe it had just begun.

Roberto was interrupted from his musings by a figure sitting next to him, tall and with his own pint. Once, Roberto had almost cowered from this figure. But now?

“Hello, Jan Kees. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You brought gold, and haven’t even visited the card tables yet. I’m wondering why.”

Roberto glanced over, watching Elijah run the card games. It reminded him of the knack Sarah had for the same games once he and Carson had taught her.

“House always wins. Farming’s a gamble enough.” He glanced at Jan. “Why do you care?”

“Just thought you might want to loosen up. It’s a celebration, after all. We won.”

“Yeah.” Roberto said, less certain. “We won.”

Lupe was still on the run, so were so many of the others. But Lupe was always on his mind. Lupe was family. And he’d fought her too often now to feel that this was a true victory.

“Hey, snap out of it.” Jan said, snapping his fingers in front of his face. Roberto almost slapped the hand away. “If you’re still thinking enough to be contemplative, then you aren’t drunk enough.”

Roberto gave Jan an appraising look. “And what do you suggest then?”

“Let’s go get more drinks. Strike up the band. Something! The war’s over!”

Roberto let Jan drag him off. He drank more with the other northeasterners, and Massachusetts even seemed civil. He managed to set aside his frustrations for the night until he found anything beyond the moment hard to focus on at all.

He lost a game or two of cards, and then smoked a cigar. Jan got even drunker than he did, and everyone managed to laugh at someone’s drunk shenanigans.

And as people launched fireworks and noisemakers and shot cannons in celebration, Roberto glanced at Jan.

“The next battle’s the railroads.”

Jan grunted. “Well, California. Let’s save that for another night. For now, just savor the damn moment.”

Roberto snorted, and then looked up at the sky. And even if his feelings were far more complicated than some of the others, he did begin to feel some of the burden lift off his shoulders.

Kitty's out on the back porch piecing together another quilt in the last bits of full daylight. In her rocking chair with her feet up on a stool, a look of total concentration on her face. Rusty looks at her through the screen door, sipping a can of beer and watching her as she works.

Her curls get caught in the breeze, not often enough to distract her, but sometimes she has to reach up and brush one aside, black hair against beautiful brown skin, the lighter color of her palms. Rusty could get lost in tracing the lines on her hands for days if she let him.

Her hands, which work so quick as she sews, a steady rhythm in her pace. This is a woman who's mastered her skills, who has little time to mess about. She's working, but because she loves the work, not because it's necessary.

He remembers falling into that same sort of haze as he fixed up that old rocking chair for her. It'd gotten into bad shape, and then one of the rockers had snapped. Kitty had sighed and tossed it out into the scrap. Rusty had snuck out that night and dragged it into the toolshed before the garbageman came.

He'd spent weeks putting it back together, shaping a new pair of rockers, and then sanding, finishing, and sealing. But the work didn't feel like work, not when he considered who it was for.

As she lifted up a yellow triangle to add to her quilt, he remembered that yellow Easter dress she'd had for a few years, with the little white polka dots, and the hat with the lace. She'd looked as pretty as a daffodil in it. Rusty had been sad to see it go.

She took a sip of her sweet tea, and Rusty remembered her teaching him how to make it so long ago, in the early days of their relationship. The way she's been so focused on instructing him that she hadn't noticed that his eyes were following the movements of her body instead, and the way she moved her hands. Her hands. They always drew him in, they were like magic, and she hardly every noticed how she always moved them so gracefully.

A green piece of fabric next. She told him she loved the color of his eyes, green and bright like new leaves, young grass. Rusty always found himself preferring hers. That beautiful warm brown. There couldn't be green growing things without the warmth of the earth.

She kicked off her shoes absentmindedly, sandals dropping down, and Rusty remembers a cross country drive, long before seat belt laws, where she'd at some point in the southwest hung her feet out the window and set her head in Rusty's lap. It hadn't been for more than a few minutes, but Rusty recalled the moment with a clarity that surprised him all these years later. The way she'd looked up at him, smiling.

Cars were always a good thing too. How she'd lean her head out the window sometimes and laugh. How one time they got tangled up in the back of his truck. Trips, camping and fishing. Hunting too. Escaping to places where people hadn't cared about how they looked when so many places in the world had.

He didn't know how long he'd known that she was the only one for him. She'd taught him English, to read and write. She'd never treated him like he was stupid even when he struggled. She'd just set those hands on his and guided him through the process of learning something new.

And he didn't know when she realized it, when she reciprocated. All he knew was that time didn't really matter, he just wanted as much of it as he could have to spend with her.

"Rusty?"

He startled, and Kitty was looking at him.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"A while." He admitted, taking another sip of his beer.

"And why didn't you think to come out and sit with me?" She's teasing him as she puts her sewing away into her basket, and then stands up, motioning for him to come out. Rusty follows her to the porch swing, and she unfolds a quilt he's familiar with as he sits down next to her.

The border is a series of camellia blossoms and flower dogwood, their state flowers, with a vining pattern around them. And in the center stands a redheaded man holding the hands of a black woman in a yellow dress.

Rusty helps her spread out the quilt over the both of them, and then puts an arm over her shoulder. Kitty leans her head into him.

"There." She hums. "Much better to watch a sunset like this, don't you think?"

Rusty has hardly even noticed the sunset, but he glances out at it as he pulls her closer.

"Can't agree with ya more, Kitty-cat."

And as Rusty admires the sunset, Kitty watches how the orange hues of the light nearly set his hair ablaze with color. How it brings out the freckles that aren't hidden under his beard. How it makes him glow.

It was a get-together for the originally Spanish states. Which really just meant the Southwest, Florida, and all their plus ones.

Still, Marco appreciated in his own way being included as a part of the group. Arizona was bickering with Nevada over something. New Mexico was over visiting with Colorado and California. Roberto looked tipsy already, and Marco managed a lopsided grin, wondering how much prodding it would take to push him over the edge into being their drunk entertainment. Carson probably wouldn't mind. And it wasn't like Alejandra was paying attention to her brother, she and his sister Marisol had already snuck off somewhere quiet.

But before he could put his plans in motion, Lupe dropped down next to him under the shade tree he'd chosen, a bottle of beer in each hand.

"Thirsty?"

"Maybe." Marco popped open the bottle and took a sniff. "Where'd you get this?"

"It reads Deschutes on the label. Where do ya think I got it?"

Ah. Marco looked towards the grill, where Lupe had stationed her boyfriend. Chris was flipping burgers and humming to himself.

"I still don't get you and him." Marco said. "You could do better."

"I can. And I've decided that I don't want too." Lupe popped open her own beer and tilted half of it back in one go. Marco rolled his eyes, and then turned back to look towards Roberto, waiting for his opportunity to cause chaos.

"I noticed you didn't bring a plus one." Lupe says as she lowers the bottle down. "Trouble in paradise?"

Marco frowns, and Lupe pauses, and then her tone changes.

"God, Marco, what did you and him fight about now?"

Marco took a swig from the bottle before answering. "He wants me to go to Europe. To meet Lars."

"And?"

"And why the fuck should I need approval from any European prat?! It's not like I need Antonio's approval to fuck him!" Lupe stares at Marco, and he turns away as she takes a deep breath. "And don't preach at me. I get it enough."

"Marco." Lupe says, tired. "He isn't getting Lars' damn approval. Lars is important to him, for some damn inexplicable reason. He wants Lars to see you're important to him."

"Funny way of showing it." Marco takes another swig, and Lupe sighs.

"You know how Chris showed me that I was one of the most important people in his life?"

"I assume it involves a bedroom and a lot of straight people nonsense."

"Rude, and incorrect." Lupe looks over towards Chris. "He showed me the places and the people most important to him. And I don't mean Beverly and Adam, I already knew them plenty. I mean the graves of the people who raised him. I mean the reservations. He wanted me to see what had made him who he was."

"And what, you think Jan's trying to do something like that?"

"Lars shaped him more than you think. There's a reason he looks like a slightly wonky photocopy of the bastard." Lupe sighed, looking out over the gathering. "New York cares about you. Both of you get real cagey about it, but the rest of us aren't idiots. He wants to take you to Europe to show you that you ain't a fling to him."

Marco's quiet.

"You have to give him a little trust, Marco. Yeah, he's slept around in the past and played the part of the player. But he hasn't done that shit since you and him went steady. He's trying to show you whatcha mean to him. Let him, even if it's weird to you. It'll make him happy."

And with that, she tilts back the rest of her beer, and then, using the bottle, gestures to Roberto.

"Now... how many beers do we think we need to sneak past Carson to embarrass Berto?"

Marco paused, and then let a conspiratorial grin come over his face. "How much whiskey you got in your hipflask?"

"Enough." She says, grinning.

Jan Kees had to admit, it'd been a long time since he'd driven this far out of the northeast. He was used to getting on trains, and only driving for the rare times that he headed Upstate nowadays, or for short distance emergencies. Anywhere else, he usually bought plane tickets and rented a car.

To be fair, he was in a rented car right now, but still.

He'd been in San Francisco, California for a meeting with Roberto when Martha had sent him the message. She'd wanted him to come see the heritage apple orchard, now growing into its prime. Since she'd gotten the grafts from him, and they were the two largest apple producers in the country, it made sense, and he'd accepted. But he had to get to Wenatchee, and that meant either flying into Seattle or Portland on short notice, and then obtaining another rental car.

In the long run, he found it just easier and cheaper to drive north.

The radio stations were few and far between as he got into southern Oregon. Jan flicked through them and their bad signals idly, and debated pulling over and just putting on one of his playlists.

And then, suddenly, one came in much crisper than the others.

It was, of course, country music. Jan nearly snapped the radio off completely. He'd never been much of a fan of the genre (other than Dolly Parton perhaps, and who could blame him for that? 9 to 5 was excellent.) And frankly, he didn’t understand much of the appeal.

But then he heard the lyrics.

I’ve cussed on a Sunday I’ve cheated and I’ve lied I’ve fallen down from grace A few too many times But I find holy redemption When I put this car in drive Roll the windows down and turn up the dial

Jan paused, a little surprised, but then he decided that maybe, this was tolerable until he reached the next exit.

And that first verse stuck with him.

It’d been a long time since he’d stepped into a church for a service. He knew that neither halves of Oregon or Washington were particularly religious, at least in a Christian way, themselves. Beverly was happily a pagan, Chris had some fusion of Christianity, indigenous beliefs, and local animism. Martha and Adam tended to avoid religion like the plague.

But he had a few impressions left of his youth. The meditative silence. The songs raised in worship. As he glanced around at the mountains around him on this stretch of the interstate, he reflected on the vastness of the land around him, something he sometimes forgot about. In the west, the distances were huge, the mountains and trees enveloping. If you got off the main roads and just drove, the emptiness was almost mind boggling to him.

He remembered going somewhere with Martha and Adam several years ago. Adam had been driving, and country music had been playing. But Martha had been singing along to the songs she liked as they drove on the backroads Adam and her preferred, in an almost spiritual act.

It was hard to remember sometimes those days in his youth, but he was struck then with the fact that he remembered running off sometimes, away from England and his church, to sit out in the woods. To be closer to nature and God in his own way.

He turned off the radio as the song ended. As the sounds of the road hummed around him, he took a moment to glance at the landscape around him. He set aside his annoyance at the length of the drive, and his tiredness as best he could. He pulled over at a spot on the shoulder, relaxed, and took in the world around him.