Hetalia Israel OC

In a decent apartment on the third floor of a complex somewhere near Tel Aviv, light smooth music swam in the air. Two violins sang, one a little more lively than the other, giving life to an otherwise drab scene. Two young men, both far older than they looked and neither truly a man, played together in the living room of said apartment. Israel and his sort of neighbor Tunisia were playing the violin together on a holy day. Tunisia loved the violin. Israel loved having the talent to play and if playing with his neighbor made him a good neighbor then so much the better.

Years ago, Israel and Tunisia had had a sort of falling out and Israel was eager to try and recover what semblance of friendship the two had.
As they ended the final note (with Israel flaunting his mastery of vibrato) a voice came barking from another room.

"Since when does playing the violin qualify as atonement?" An older man's voice called. Tunisia, a rather dark skinned young man with deep eyes, chuckled at Israel's expense.

"I'm atoning to Tunisia for neglecting his friendship by playing the violin with him!" Israel responded, with the smart-alleky-ness of a thirteen year old girl.

"Isn't there anyone ELSE who you need to atone to?" The voice barked back.
Israel did not respond but grumbled as he put his violin back in its case.

"Tuni you're Muslim, right?" He said.

"Of course." Tunisia responded.

"So…you like lentil soup right?" He asked. Tunisia raised an eyebrow.

"Yes it is a pretty traditional Muslim/Arab dish. Why do you ask?" Tunisia responded as he watched Israel walk into his kitchen.

"I've looked it all up and got the ingredients. I'm gonna try to make some for someone. I…wouldn't mind if you helped. You know, to make sure I do it right." Israel said with his back to Tunisia as he fished out a large pot. Tunisia chuckled behind him.

"You're going to give someone Lentil Soup to atone to them?" He said, amused.

"I know it sucks but I wasn't really sure what else to do…I mean for Yom Kippur. I've got some big plans but I can't do them yet." Israel went on as he got out vegetables and a plastic bag filled with lentils.

"Most of the spices you will want to add just before you serve the soup, so last. Make sure to chop the vegetables very fine. Meanwhile I'll be providing the background music." Tunisia said, grinning before going back to the living room and his violin. Israel smiled weakly as the music filtered through the apartment once more.

A couple of hours later and Israel left his apartment and friend with a large, covered bowl of fresh soup. He realized how stupid he seemed for what he was doing but he wanted to-maybe even needed to in a way- do it. With the bowl on the floor in front of the passenger seat in his car, he drove to the east. After a while he had to go through checkpoints. When he reached the beginning of the "Palestinian Authority" he had to show his special government issued identification. Israel, Nation, permitted through almost all borders. Eventually (certainly the soup was no longer warm by then) he reached the house. 326 Golan Rd.

Israel gripped the steering wheel despite having shut off the car. He suddenly felt…nervous? Of course he felt nervous. He was about to do something really stupid (and arguably insulting) to someone who already hated him. He sighed as he picked up the bowl and got out.

Israel walked up the small concrete path in the grass to the front door. He knocked three, non-threatening times. He noticed that the door had a peephole and tried to hide his face by looking down. When the door did open it was only slightly, held by a chain. The man leered at him.

"What do you want?" He hissed. Israel drummed his fingers on the bowl.

"It's Yom Kippur. Bowl of atonement." Israel said. He bit his lip at his gaffe.

"What?" Palestine said.

"I brought you a…gift, as a way of…sort-of atonement." Israel said slowly, sweating. He pulled back the cover a bit. "Its lentil soup…was hoping you'd like it." Israel brought his gaze up from Palestine's chest to his face.

The door shut and Israel could hear the chain jangling. The door opened again revealing Palestine's body.

"You brought me a bowl of soup?" Palestine said in neither disbelief nor anything really. Israel found himself looking down again.

"Y-Yeah." He said.

"And I heard you correctly, this is for atonement?" Palestine said, giving Israel a look. Israel glanced at his face again briefly.

"Some, yeah." He responded, shifting his weight. He had the sudden urge to just drop the bowl and run, fuck the car, just get out of there. Palestine muttered to himself.

"I suppose I should take advantage of your generosity but first answer me this. How in the hell does soup get you atonement? Is this some new, backwards Zionist belief?" He growled.

"…No…we Jews don't usually give people food for forgiveness but…it's…I'm trying damn it." Israel's jaw locked shut on that end note. The brief glare of rage from Palestine's face was enough to cripple him. Palestine snatched the bowl from his hands and for a moment looked as if he would throw it at him. He seemed to restrain himself.

"Trying my ass. I'm glad you brought such a large bowl, which I'm not giving back by the way, because not even eight miles from here are several families whose homes have been destroyed by your IDF. I think I'll put your pathetic attempt at atonement to good use, something you simply wouldn't understand, by feeding those hungry. If you really want to say you're "trying" then how about you go and rebuild their houses? Return what you have meaninglessly stolen, then you'd be atoning." As Palestine said this he turned and walked back into his house. Israel heard the chain slide back into place and a bolt or two slam in place as well. Israel sighed. As he walked back to his car he supposed that this could have gone worse. At least Palestine spoke to him and actually accepted his gift. As Israel drove away from Palestine's house he couldn't help but feel annoyed. 'He better taste that goddamn soup.' Israel thought. He made it for the other nation to the best of his ability, it annoyed him that Palestine might not even swallow one drop.
Back outside Tel Aviv, Tunisia was dozing on Israel's couch when Israel returned.

"Hey," Israel said, walking towards him. "thanks for keeping the old man company while I was…out." He said. Tunisia yawned and nodded with a smile.

"You've got a good ancestor my friend. He just wants you to be good." He said. Israel walked into the guest room where the man still was.

He was much older looking than Israel, with a thin gray beard and seasoned skin. He appeared to be in his forties or fifties. He wore a yamaka and traditional curls. A small booklet was in his hands which he looked up from.

"I hope things went well?" He said, marking the page and closing the booklet.

"I'm not sure that they could've gone better. He accepted the soup." Israel said, shrugging a little.

"Did you say anything to him?" The man replied.

"Of course. He told me to go rebuild houses that the IDF have destroyed." Israel said, trying not to sound annoyed.

"Hm. He holds you to task. I trust you will take up this task?" The man said. Israel stared.

"…Rebuild houses?! How? You know Netanyahu probably won't be jumping to my aid. I don't even know how to build a house!" Israel said.

"Now that is sad. Many of your people are in construction and in our history, we Jews have had to make just about every place on Earth our home at some point or another. You're not even going to try to do something?" He said. Israel looked at the ground for a moment.

"Look, mom, I know you're hard core when it comes to charity but sometimes the government just isn't. Hell, even a lot of the people don't like Palestine! America already gives me shit tons of money every year-"

"You watch your mouth!"

"And before I really started interacting with him Tunisia didn't even wear shoes! How am I supposed to rebuild several Palestinian neighborhoods?"

"I never said you had to do it all. But for God's sake boy, do something. Those are your neighbors." The man regarded him sternly before walking out to the kitchen. Ashkenazim, not a Nation but an embodiment of a religion (Hebrew, the Jews) was one of the oldest beings alive. In some ways he and his son, Israel, were arguably the same person. Despite having faced numerous hardships and hatred in his life, Ashkenazim still held strong to positive Hebrew beliefs, such as atonement and charity. During the more important Hebrew holidays he lives in Israel with his son, but for a good chunk of the year he also lives in New York, with one of his son's only friends, America. If asked, he would call himself Israel's mother, and if pressed further would reveal Germany to be the young nation's father. On his left arm is the number: 6,000,000. He was very disturbed the day he noticed scars on Israel's left arm resembling Lebanon and Palestine, which is one of the reasons why he advocates so strongly for Israel to be a "good neighbor" towards them, particularly Palestine.

His son, Israel, does resemble him to some extent. The young nation has short dark hair, cut in such a way that it sticks up somewhat bushy. He has two scars on his face which he attempts to cover with bandages and make up. He has a large, port wine birth mark on his stomach that he calls "Negev"and his eyes are central heterochromic; chlorine green outer ring and grey brown inner ring. He stands at roughly five foot nine inches. His skin is deeply tanned but burned in some places on his legs.

This unusual and often troubled young nation struggles with his neighbors, his bosses and the truth.