Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login

Similar Deviations
Reader's POV

Walking quickly along the side of the road, you crossed your arms over your chest and furiously puffed out a warm breath of air. The chilly wind sent your hair in all directions and nipped at your nose causing you to sneeze a couple of times. Your fingers were reddened by the frisky air and so were your cheeks.

Stupid weather... Stupid school... STUPID LIFE!

Squeezing your eyes shut, you kicked a rock that wound up in your path and watched it tumble away across the street. When you realized how foolish you were being, you enabled your arms to fall on each side of your body.

School had ended about half an hour ago and since your parents were currently at work and taking the bus definitely wasn't an option, you were stuck with walking home all by yourself. Again. And to top things off, your day at school wasn't the best either. A mixture of odd glances and the feeling of being avoided. Sometimes these thoughts made you want to cry...

A wet feeling on your hand suddenly caught your attention and so you looked down to see what it was.

Oh... It's just a tear...

You rubbed your sleepy eyes with the back of your hand and kind of felt happy for once about not wearing any makeup or you would have looked like a raccoon by now. Your breath began to feel shaky and so you started walking again. It was getting dark quickly and you hated being in the streets at night. When you finally got home, you dug in your coat pocket with your right hand, searching for your key. When you felt the familiar cold feeling of the key against your fingers you hurried yourself up with the opening of the door, eager to be in the comfort of your own home again.

As you pushed the heavy wooden door, a warm gust of air welcomed you inside causing you to sigh in relief. Autumn definitely wasn't your favorite season. You made sure to carefully close the door behind you after kicking your leather boots off. You made your way towards the kitchen with the desire of making yourself some hot cocoa before starting your homework.

You looked around for a second and began taking the necessary ingredients out in order to prepare your beverage. Just as you were about to take your favorite mug out, your eyes landed on a nearby frame which held a very precious picture in it. It was a photo of you and your parents while on your vacation in Honolulu, Hawaii. Your father was holding your mother by the waist and you were standing right in front of them, doing a cute thumbs up sign with your hands. It was taken somewhere in the afternoon so the ocean behind you looked absolutely breathtaking. One thing about that photo always broke your heart, though. You were all smiling.

When was the last time you actually smiled?

You took the photo in your hands and stared at it for a couple of minutes before setting it back to its original spot.

Will I ever be that happy again?

You closed your eyes, feeling the tears roll down your cheeks. You placed your hands on the counter and arched your back inward, the sobs causing your poor body to shake uncontrollably. God knows how long you stayed in this position before you began to feel a vibration under your palms which were placed against the counter. You knew immediately what that shaking was.

Someone was knocking at your door.

Yao's POV

After seeing you storm out of the room in rage earlier at school, he knew he was going to have to work hard to get you to accept him as a tutor. He didn't see you for the remaining of the day which disappointed him a bit but right before the last bell rang, Mrs. Ackerman was able to give him your address in order for him to come to your house and help you out.

"Be gentle with her, Yao..." She said.

"I know. I will." He replied.

And now here he was, standing in front of your door with a couple of school textbooks in his hands. He didn't ring the bell, knowing you wouldn't be able to hear it so instead he knocked, hoping you would feel the vibrations throughout the house.

He had been waiting for a couple of minutes now and wasn't too sure about if you had felt his knocking or not.

"Maybe she isn't home... Or maybe if I knock again she'll-" Just as he was about to knock a couple of more times, the door flew open revealing you with a rather red, puffy and angry looking face. Yao stared at you for a couple of seconds before shaking his head and scratching the back of his neck.

"H-Hi, uh I just came over to tell you that the t-tutoring starts tonight and you might be asking yourself right now h-how I found your address well it was Mrs. Ackerman who gave it to me since, well you know, I must know where you live in order for me to drop by u-uh anyways yeah I hope I'm not too late because-" The poor Asian boy spoke rapidly and stuttered a couple of times but quickly stopped himself as he noticed you glaring at him with a lots of intensity. That's when he remembered.

"O-Oh right... You can't hear me..." He facepalmed himself and watched you roll your eyes in annoyance. Yao quickly pulled a white sheet of paper out of his textbook and began to scribble down a few words for you to read.


You read the words with absolutely no emotion in your eyes and frowned in disgust. He watched you look up at him before slamming the door right in his face. Unfortunately, he was standing too close to it and his nose ended up being squished by the wooden monster. He dropped his textbooks and brought his hands up to his nose before screeching in pain.

"OW MY DAMNED NOSE!!! WHAT THE ABSOLUTE HECK?!" Yao never swore but now he was getting tired of this attitude you kept on giving him each and every time you saw his face. All he wanted to do was help! And he was going to help, whether you liked it or not.

He started banging his fist on the door while his other hand held his bloody nose.

"Please _____________! Let me in! I just want to help you! I won't hurt or laugh at you, I promise!" After a few minutes of no response, Yao finally gave up and began to walk down the outdoor staircase leading onto the sidewalk.

Was I too rough on her? Anyways, I definitely know how she feels about me now... Maybe I should try again tomorrow. But this time I'll choose my words more carefully.
:XD: Stop being so mean with Yao! All he wants to do is help... Gawd.

'Sup guys? I apologize for the long absence... I had lots of studying to do during these past couple of weeks and I couldn't find the time to write /: I barely had time to sleep... ugh. But anyways, I checked my agenda and this week should be a little more easy for me since I only have one exam and I can finish homework pretty quickly (: I know you guys have been telling me about how short my chapters are so I tried to make this one a wee bit longer... was this chapter a good length for you guys? ;p


Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz ©
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

"How long has she been like this?"

"About a week."

"Is she going to wake up soon?"

"There's no way for us to find out when. She'll wake up when she's ready."


Feeling your eyes get lighter, you decided to try and open them up. It was difficult at first, but you managed to open them wide enough to see where in the world you were. You noticed that your head was resting on a pillow and tubes were shoved up your nostrils. Wiggling your nose, you let out a small sigh. The lights from the ceiling were still too bright for you to see the room in which you were currently in.

You felt something brush your arm and so you quickly shot your head to the side. It was your best friend, Mei. She smiled brightly at you, tears streaming down her face. You stared at her, shocked and cracked a small smile as well. She enveloped you in her arms and hugged you tight, practically squeezing the air out of your lungs. You buried your face in her dark brown hair and closed your eyes. Why were you crying again?

As she pulled herself away, you were able to distinguish the room in which you were in. It was white. Everything was white. A couple of plastic chairs rested against the wall in the corner of the room, a small rectangular window let the small amount of sun in and a strange man stood at the end of your bed, which was rather uncomfortable by the way.

You looked back at Mei and noticed her lips moving quickly. You stared at them, wondering why they were moving so fast. As the seconds passed without you responding, her smile slowly disappeared and was replaced with a straight line. She looked at the man (whom you recognized, he was a doctor) and her lips started moving again. You looked at him with a confused face and cocked your head to the side. He squinted and walked to the other side of your bed. His lips started moving as well. But no sound came out, just like Mei.

"What's wrong?" You said. Although, you didn't hear yourself.

Struck with a wave of panic, you started to pat your neck. You tried to talk more, but you couldn't hear a thing. You tried talking, whispering, humming and even screaming. Nothing.

Mei looked at you differently and finally covered her mouth with her hands. The doctor looked down and quickly walked out of the room. Your eyes were glued to your hands. Could this be...

Minutes later, you found yourself sobbing in Mei's arms once again. This couldn't be real. A nightmare, it was just a nightmare. Right?

After about 30 minutes, the doctor came back into the room. In his hands was a sheet of paper and a pen. You looked up at him with a disgusted face and buried yourself in Mei's arms. She shook you lightly, encouraging you to look back up at him.  You did as you were told, although you were sure you looked like pure crap right now. Messy and unwashed hair, ugly hospital gown, tears streaming down your face. But the tall man seemed to ignore that.

Instead, he took the sheet of paper along with his pen and started to write something on it. When he was done, he handed it to you.

Mrs. ____________, you were in a short coma for about a week. You were in an accident, do you remember? The night of August 10th you were driving on the road along with Gilbert Beilschmidt, Antonio Carriedo Fernandez, Francis Bonnefoy and Belle Peeters. Your car drifted into the wrong lane and you unfortunately ended up crashing into a larger truck. You were all brought to the hospital after a couple of witnesses saw the crash and called 9-1-1. You've been in the hospital since then. You suffered from a head trauma and a dislocated shoulder, but that was all. Although now you don't seem to hear us, correct? I just finished talking with some of the other doctors and well... You seem to have also lost your sense of hearing during the accident.

You dropped the paper onto the bed sheets, more tears threatening to spill. You started to hyperventilate until Mei calmed you down by gently massaging your back, careful not to touch your injured shoulder. You hiccuped a few times and buried your face into your hands once again, crying your heart out. Even though you couldn't hear your own cries. That is, until realization hit you. You quickly stopped crying and grabbed the pen and paper and started writing something down at a rather fast speed. You handed the paper to the doctor and watched as he read it carefully.

What happened to them?

He pinched his lips together before looking back up at you and hesitantly writing down the 12 words that would probably haunt your life forever.

Gilbert, Francis and Belle died. Antonio is in a coma.

You screamed as loud as you could, shattering everybody's ears but your own.
Please don't hate me since I practically just killed Gil, Belle and Francey-Pants :iconcanadasulkplz:

Here's Chapter 1! God, you have no idea how hard it was to write this :iconlazycryplz:

Link to the Prologue:…
Link to Chapter 2:…

Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz ©
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

Neon lights flashed, loud dubstep boomed through the giant speakers hanging pretty much everywhere throughout the terrace and red plastic party cups lay all over the place. Girls slipped their tops off and jumped into the pool while several guys were too busy having drinking contests among themselves. Couples hid beneath the staircase or in the garage to make out without being disturbed by other nosy guests.

Laughing, you clutched your stomach and tried not to spill your drink all over your clothes. Antonio's joke sent practically everybody around into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Your head seemed to spin in all directions, the effects of alcohol quickly getting to you. You could see that you weren't the only one getting drunk here. Francis was one step away from passing out, causing him to lean on Belle for balance.

"Guys! What's so funny?" Gilbert cheered as he made his way into the small group of friends while swinging his arm around your shoulders. You smiled back up at your loud boyfriend.

"Just a joke Antonio said." Belle giggled, a little tipsy.

"Where were you during this past hour? I've been looking everywhere for you..." You slurred, your voice carrying a happy tone. Gilbert smirked and kissed your cheek. He retrieved the arm that was around your shoulders and sunk his hand into his pocket. The white-haired teen pulled out a full set of keys and dangled them before your fascinated eyes.

"A-Are those..." You stuttered. He smiled and nodded while everyone leaned forward to get a better look at the silvers keys.

"You bet! Ludwig's letting me drive his baby back home!"

Ludwig, Gilbert's younger brother, owned a very expensive Mercedes-Benz G-Class and acted like a parent towards it. Never got it dirty, took extra care of it andnever let his older sibling drive it. The young German was very aware of how extreme Gil could get and therefor refused to let him drive it, despite the Prussian's begs and pleads.

"How did you get him to give you the keys?" France asked, quite amazed.

"Easy! Just act nice towards him, show him how mature you are-"

"You got him drunk, didn't you?" Gilbert turned to you, biting his lip before planting a quick kiss on your lips.

"Will you still love me if I said yes?" You chuckled and nodded.

"Yes, of course. But enough with the talking! I want to go ride that fancy Mercedes!" You started running towards the yard's exit and out into the vast parking lot, eyes searching frantically for the vehicle. Belle, France, Antonio and Gilbert came rushing behind you, eager to see the car as well.

As you arrived on the spot, you all gasped in awe.

"It's... It's..." Stuttered Antonio.

"...beautiful." Cried Francis, half drunk.

"Well what are you guys waiting for? Get in!" Cheered the Prussian as he jumped in the driver's seat.

"I call shot gun!" You declared before rushing towards the door on the opposite side of the car. Belle, Francis and Antonio got in the back and slammed their door shut without even bothering to buckle in. Fortunately, you seemed to be the only one who remembered. You reached for the radio and turned the volume up, Skrillex's Cinema blasting through the speakers. All of your heads started to bob up and down to the beat as Gilbert turned the keys and slammed on the gas pedal. You were sent to the front from the car's sudden speed, but regained yourself pretty quickly.

Your albino boyfriend turned the wheel and drove down the town's main road. Belle rolled her window down and popped her head out.

"I feel so alive! ________, you have to try this! It's so fuuuuuuuun!" She yelled, her hair flying in the wind behind her. You giggled and turned around to pull her back inside.

"Idiot, do you really want your head to be torn off by a passing car?" You laughed as she stuck her nose in the air, also drunk.

"I can do whatever I want, thank you very much!" You rolled your eyeballs and turned back to Gilbert who wasn't even paying attention to the road.

"Hey! Eyes on the road, dummkopf." You ordered him, but he ignored you. Instead, he was trying to make Francis stop tickling the back of his neck. Worried, you slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Gilbert! I'm serious, watch the road!" He turned to you and raised his eyebrow.

"Seriously, frau? You don't think I'm responsible enough to drive? C'mon, at least try and have a good time." He slurred, getting tipsy. You narrowed your eyes and pinched your lips together, ignoring Belle, Francis and Antonio's cries in the back of the car.

"I'm not saying you're not responsible! I just don't want to end up in a serious accident like-"

"GILBERT! THE ROAD!" Screeched Toni as he violently shook his friend's shoulder. You both turned your heads to where Antonio was looking only to see a large truck coming straight towards you.

Gilbert's scream was the last thing you heard.
And so here's the prologue to my new series: ChinaxReader ~ Silent Serendipity

So as you can see, Reader-chan (aka YOU) just got in an accident with Belle and the BTT. I won't say more because that would be ruining the surprise, eh? All will come in time. I've been planning this series for a while now, I was just waiting to be done writing other people's one shots. I used China this time because not a lot of people use him and I like using the countries who don't get chosen as often as America or England, for example. I really do hope a lot of people see this and will find this interesting! <3

PS. And yes... I changed my avatar to China... to get into the mood lol



The picture does not belong to me, I found it somewhere on Photobucket but I lost the link.
What Ludwig's car looks like:…
Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz ©
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

The woman he loved, he met her only once in his life.


It was early in May, when the air was crisp and the clouds were grey and the promise of rain hung still in the air. Puffs of smoke snaked through the sky as a train sped forth and travelled through the rails. The horn resounded and the wheels screeched to a stop as the train reached the station, the bellow of the conductor and the patter of footsteps enough to call the attention of the German soldier seated inside.

"Excuse me," a woman called out, her heels clicking as she made her way towards the man. "Is this seat taken?"

Sapphires met emeralds as Gilbert's eyes fell onto the girl, the power of his gaze like a torrential downpour waiting to be released onto the world.

He blinked. She tapped her foot, impatient.

"Not at all, Miss," the soldier replied at last. "Go ahead; sit by me. My name's Gilbert, by the way."


We're so different, you and I; it's a wonder how we'll ever survive.


"So…" the woman began, "what brings you to this lovely train ride, Herr Gilbert?"

The soldier blinked at this, mouth agape, almost in disbelief. "Sind sie auch Deutsch?"

"Nein," she answered back, "but I could tell you were by your accent. I can speak German, but I'm actually from Hungary."

"Oh. Well then…" Gilbert said in between mouthfuls of wurst, "what brings you to this not-so-lovely train ride, Miss – uh, Miss…Hungary?"

She laughed at this, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. It's brown, almost like chestnut, just the shade between caramel and chocolate. A tulip rested on her temple. Pink, like the color that slowly stained her cheeks.

"It's Elizabeta," she replied, "Elizabeta Hedervary. I used to go by Hedervary-Edelstein, but it's just Hedervary now. "

"Oh?" the soldier cocked an eyebrow in askance. "What happened? Divorce? Lover's spat?"

She shook her head before taking a bite of her share. Gilbert didn't hesitate to call a waiter and ask for seconds.

"No, it wasn't. Something just…something came up. He, uhm," she paused for a moment, almost hesitant, and fumbled for the right words. She moved closer to him, and rested her elbows on the table. Her voice was softer, more hushed, like she was divulging a secret not meant to befall another's ears.

And with her next statement, Gilbert knew that it was.

"He was sent to a camp and he never came back."

She didn't need to say anything more to him, and neither of them needed to have it explained anyway. It was 1944, and everyone immediately understood that being sent – or rather, being sentenced to camp meant being sentenced to death row. There was no need for niceties or sugarcoating. It was the truth. Harsh, cold, bitter, and relentless as it may be, this was the truth. Their reality.

Gilbert, however, thought of trying to make light of the situation. He opened his mouth, but the words were caught in his throat. His tongue seemed to be at knots.

"I-I see…" he managed to say at last, his voice sounding nearly choked. "I'm sorry for your loss."

An unsettling silence washed over them, neither making a sound besides the clatter of their utensils against the surface of their plates. The waiter soon came with a second serving of wurst and potatoes for Gilbertwhich he gulped down gratefully if only to keep himself busy.

Elizabeta was the first to speak up.

"So what brings you here?"

"The food," he said, cracking a joke in hopes of alleviating the tension, but found himself unable to do so.

Elizabeta only forced out a weak smile.

Concentration camps were no joke.


After they finished their meals, the soldier excused himself and headed out of the dining cart and towards the smoker's area. Gilbert, however, didn't light a cigarette.

Instead, he bit on his lip as he fished in his pocket, cracking a smile once he managed to retrieve his harmonica.

Outside, he let the view encompass him. His eyes gazed upon the trail of alpines, the mountains snow-capped and serene, while his skin relished in the breeze that tousled his silver hair.


Trapped within the shelter of his melody, the soldier failed to notice the clicking of heels or the presence of the woman who came up from behind him.

"Herr Gilbert?"

Gilbert's shoulders jolted in surprise at the sound of a voice, ready to blow off the idiot who interrupted him and ruined his music, but his mood instantly shifted as he spun around to face its owner. "Wh—"

Strong vermilions softened at the sight before them. Green eyes. Brown hair. Pink tulip. It was her.

"Mind if I stay with you?" she asked politely.

So she didn't think he was much of an ass earlier. So she didn't hate his guts just yet.

Relief washed over him.

Thank God.

"Sure," he shrugged, faking nonchalance. "Be my guest, Miss Liz… Mind if I called you 'Liz,' by the way?"

"It's fine," she said with a smile. "'Liz' is fine."

And Gilbert smiled too.

"You can call me 'Gilbert,' or just plain ol' 'Gil.' I like it simple. No fancy titles and whatever."

"Sure, Gil," she said, and noticed that Gilbert had already begun to put away his harmonica. "You can keep playing, you know. I don't mind."

The soldier grinned at her in response.

And, just like always, he blew on his instrument and let the tune carry them away; out past the mountains and farther than the train could ever reach.


Gilbert continued playing for about an hour and a half, until he wore himself out and was left with nothing more than a parched throat and chapped lips.

Elizabeta clapped. "You're a wonderful musician, Gil. I enjoyed your performance."

"I don't need you to tell me that, I know that the awesome me is awesome," Gilbert said haughtily, chin up and head held high. "Danke schön…how do you guys say it over in Hungary?"

"Köszönet," she answered him.

"Well then," he said to her, feeling almost shy all of a sudden, "Köszönet."

She laughed, yet another light and pleasant giggle, but with a small snort at the end. "You've got the pronunciation all wrong, you know? But I'd give you points for effort."

"Pfsh, yeah right. I'm too awesome to be wrong."

"Oh, sure. Whatever you say," she scoffed, though she couldn't hide the grin in her voice.

There was a quiet stillness that lay between them again, only this time, it was more comfortable than it was unsettling.

"Well, uhm," Gilbert shifted awkwardly in his place, "you know you never really answered my question. What led you to ride this rickety old train anyway?"

"It's not that bad, actually," she reasoned. "Better than what I had to deal with at home. It was horrible there. I needed an escape."

"An escape, huh?"

She nodded, her green eyes fixed on his. "My family was killed in the war. When I heard news that they were evacuating the women to a safer and more secure shelter, I boarded this train right away."

"Hm… So where are you headed to?"

There was light in her eyes as she said it, and it broke Gilbert as soon as the word had slipped past her lips.



Oh God.

Gilbert swallowed at that, a nervous lump forming itself in his throat. He knew what that meant.

She was a Jew.

He was a soldier, and she was a Jew.


They were on the farthest ends of the world, the oppositions of a broadened spectrum.


Well of course she's a Jew, Gilbert mentally slapped himself, though the pain from the knowledge of this fact had already numbed his senses. He was an idiot. Her husband was a Jew so it'd make sense that she was one, too.

"So what are you, Gil?" she said, her voice interrupting his train of thought.

"Uhm, a person?"

"Not that, idiot," she teased. "I know that. I mean, what do you do?"

By now, Gilbert would've bragged about his being in the army – his position, most of all. About the badges that they've pinned onto his chest, and the stars that adorned his shoulders. By now he would've told her of his dreams of proclaiming victory in battle, and leading his country to win the war. He was a soldier; it was simple enough. But he was out of uniform that day, and was, instead, clad in a light brown day suit, a vest in a darker shade of brown, with a white polo underneath and a tie, red like his eyes and loose enough so as to let him breathe freely.

So how could she have known?

Bile rose up his throat, dread settling itself in the hollow of his stomach.

His mind screamed, but the words only came out as a soft whisper.

"Oh? M-me? "the soldier stammered. She nodded, waiting patiently.

He didn't have the heart to tell her.

He knew that if he did, she would be afraid. Of him. Or worse, that she'd finally hate him and his guts.

So he lied.

"I'm a musician, you see…a traveling musician. I play the flute, but that's in my suitcase in the baggage car right now. My old man taught me how to play it. I carry this harmonica around though, so I'd still have something to do if I got bored on the train."

"Wow, your father must'v—"

Gilbert shook his head. "I say 'old man' but he wasn't really my father. I was an orphan, and he just took me in."

"I see. That was very kind of him. How is he doing now?"

"He passed away already."

"Oh, I'm sorry-"

"Nah, it's fine. It was a long time ago. Old age," he replied, albeit grimly.

"Wouldn't you like to die of old age?" she asked him then, fingers curling at the hem of her skirt. "I know I would. It would be peaceful, almost fulfilling, to know that you have spent your life fruitfully down to the last minute. How about you, Gil?"

He looked at her, his eyes knowing and pained, and hesitated, but didn't answer.

It was quiet again, but it only happened for a second though, for without a moment's hesitation, Elizabeta spoke up.

"My husband was a musician too, before." Even if they were hardly alike, she didn't really mind the change. Music was music, and she loved it all the same. She said it wistfully, almost plaintively. "He was a pianist."

"That must have been nice."

"Yes, it was." Her voice was warm, still heavy with affection, but now seemingly distant. "He was."

"I'm sorry…again—"

"It's all right," she cut him off. "You don't have to be."

"So, Liz, why…why Auschwitz, of all places?"

He tried to sound calm about it, but his voice was tinny, and even to himself, seemed so far away.

The woman, however, didn't seem to mind.

"I used to be a cook in this restaurant, but the war took that away from me. I lost my job, and I lost my home…but they told me that there would be plenty of job opportunities over in Auschwitz, and that they'd be happy and willing to accept me despite my…uhm…circumstances." Elizabeta continued with a sigh, almost dreamily, "It's the land of promise."


Such bullshit.

So this was the lie they'd been feeding to the masses? That the Jews would be sent to women's shelters and given job opportunities? They were being deported, for Pete's sake. Sent to a camp. There would be no job opportunities, no safe homes. They were going to die.

She was going to die.

Gilbert reeled with disgust, not only for his superiors, but also for himself. How could he let this happen? He didn't want to let this happen.

But what could he do?

He could tell her to come with him and have her dropped off at his stop, but soldiers would be waiting there and that would be like feeding her to the wolves. He could tell them to stopover at some station and delay their travels so he could give her a chance to escape, but then that would make him appear suspicious and the German troops think of him a traitor. He could abort this deportation mission, but then that would cause his superiors to charge him with treason, meaning he could die as well. And he was only a Lieutenant, there was no guarantee that anyone would even listen to him, much less obey his orders. He would still have to bring it up to his superiors before anything could be done, destroying the whole point of his plans in the first place.

Warning bells rang at the back of his head, but he tried to ignore them the best way he could. Ignorance is, as they say, pure bliss.

But it wrecked havoc on his mind, this dilemma between fulfilling his duty as a soldier and his duty as a man. To serve his nation or to protect this woman?

It was a gamble, all or nothing.

Gilbert dove and took the risk.

"H-hey, you know what, "Gilbert began to ramble, like he always did whenever he was nervous. His palms began to sweat, and he rubbed them as discreetly as possible onto the cloth of his trousers. "I've got this gig at a bar in Moravia and they could probably use someone who's handy with a pan in the kitchen…"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Gil, I don't think that'd be such a good idea. I can't accept those kinds of terms if it's just a possibility, or a probability. Auschwitz, on the other hand, has already promised me a job."

Now, Gilbert had never met such a stubborn woman before and honestly it all became infuriating and yet…and yet, he found it oddly endearing. The way she was driven. The way she set her mind to something and paid heed to nothing or nobody else.

None of this was going to end well, and he knew it, but he tried to forget. Tried to overlook that, for he couldn't help but hold on to even the smallest sliver of hope possible.

Hope, after all, was something he hadn't clung onto so tightly upon entering the war.

"Oh yeah? Well, screw Auschwitz." Gilbert said all of a sudden, and Elizabeta's eyes widened in momentary shock.

"Excuse me…?"

"Yeah, it's a crappy place to live in. Why …why don't you come with me instead?"Please, he almost added, but he bit his lip in order to keep himself from pleading and sounding desperate.

"Why should I?"

And she was right. Why should she? What business did he have to tell her to come with him? Because she was going to die? He'd fought in battles. He'd been to war. Nobody liked the weight of a burning carcass lying on top of their conscience. But people died, and such was the brevity of life. So why would it matter to him if anything should happen to her? Why would it be any different?

Because she was nice?

Because he liked talking to her?

Because he – god forbid – loved her?

But it was true.

All of it.

In the briefest of moments, in the short span of time that they had shared together, he loved her. He loved her more fully, more fiercely, and more passionately than anything or anyone else in the world. It didn't matter how long they had known each other, or how short his duration of stay had been there aboard that train.

He loved her in that moment just as much as he would've in an entire lifetime.

The only life that matters to me is yours, he wanted to say, but none of it seemed right to him. The words all seemed too futile, too mere, too inadequate. So he did what only he knew he could do best.

He kissed her.


The rain began to fall right then, starting as a light mist then a cool drizzle, before eventually leading to a heavy shower at its peak.

Let the rain wash over your soul, he remembered someone say to him before as a child, and the water kiss away the tears which stream down your cheeks.

Not that he was crying, but he sure felt like it, though.

"We should probably head back inside," he murmured, before pulling her in for another kiss, clothes drenched as he used his back to try and shield her from the downpour.

"You should probably change out of these clothes too," she whispered, pulling away as she further undid his tie, all nimble fingers and clockwork precision. "Lest you catch your death."

"Mm, you're right."

"Come," she said, latching her small hand in his. Her touch burned him, searing his insides.

And even after she let go, the feeling still remained.


What lingers in our senses are the things we crave the most.


"You know," she said, shifting in the sheets of the sleeping car. "I hate my legs."

"How come? I love them," Gilbert grinned mischievously.

"Oh shut up," she said, playfully swatting his arm. "They say that legs are the measure of a woman. That every scar demotes them of their worth."

"Well, I say otherwise," Gilbert inched towards her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He brought her closer to his chest, cradling her in his hold.

"Every graze of skin, every cut on the surface, every blow you've dealt, and every brush with death. Cicatrices formed over the years of your existence. "His fingers traced over the marks on her legs, carefully so, as if she were fragile. Forged of porcelain and glass and fine china. "These are the burdens you've carried. These are the scars that make you…you."

"See?" he whispered to her now, voice soft and gentle and lilting in her ear, and it took every ounce of Elizabeta's strength to keep her eyes from misting over. "It is your wounds that make you worth more."

They were here now, blinking, awake in this moment. He leaned in closer. She smiled.

And for a while, it's almost as if nothing else ever mattered.


She will never remember this. Those starlight kisses and this featherweight embrace. The way he touched her, fingers grazing over her cheek ever so gently; large, calloused fingers warming themselves over the petite ones of hers. The way their bodies thrust together and melded as one. They way he would hold her.

The way he would love her.

No matter how gentle, how careful, or how sincere he may be; no matter how much effort he took to fill in every crevice and gap in her heart…still, she will forget. Her memories will vanish, withering away in the trickling sands of time.

Tick. Tock.

Only four hours left.


Life is too short for whom you hold close.


Afternoons bled into evenings as they sat together in the passenger car. Gilbert leaned against the window, and by this time, the rain had stopped and the sun was setting, and the light shrouded the soldier in hues of orange and red and yellow that turned his silver hair into something nearly blonde, and he looked like nothing Elizabeta had ever seen before.

"Gil, " she said, "sing for me."

"What? "

"Sing for me."

"I...I don't want to disturb the other passengers."

"I'm sure you won't," she answered confidently. "Now, come on."

"Alright, " he acquiesced, "but I'm not very good…"

"You'll be fine. Your voice is fine. I'm sure of it. I have a good ear."

"Uh…so what do you want me to sing?"



"Anything. Your favourite song, maybe."

So he sang for her, soft like the feel of her skin, warm like the press of her lips, gentle like the touch of her hands. For she was the love song he sang and he'd sing – at dawn, at dusk, at morning, at night – when his mind was clear and his heart was alight and his voice was ringing with such pristine clarity it rivalled even that of the most beautiful sunrise.

"Blue skies, smiling at me…"


There was the comforting weight of his hand resting on hers, the tiny puffs of his breath, warm amidst the fog, that bristled past the skin on her cheek, and his soft voice that pulled her, just a little bit deeper, into the drowning depths of her emotions. Their fingers intertwined and she leaned on him, head resting on his shoulder, her weight falling on him as she sank into his chest, just a little bit closer – but not too much lest he found her heavy and uncomfortable – as she took a deep breath and let out a small yawn.



"That's good. You can sleep if you want. I'll wake you up when we reach our stop."

"Okay," she said, almost half-asleep.

He hummed, fingers tap-tap-tapping on the armrest, his thumb rubbing gently atop hers.

"Oh…and Gilbert?" she said, almost above a whisper. Quietly. Hesitantly. Cautiously.




She stirred in her sleep and woke up to the sound of a gruff voice beside her.

"We still have another hour, you know."

"We…?"she raised an eyebrow, her attention now more alert. "I didn't say that I would be going with you."

He paused for a moment, turning to face her and look her in the eye. "Are you sure you still don't want to join me?"

"How about you join me? We could go to Auschwitz together," she smiled, looping her finger round a stray lock of hair. "We could elope."

A small glint of pain and guilt coated his expression, which he attempted to mask by plastering a wry smile.

"Sorry, Liz. I don't think I can, "He licked at his lips, chapped and worn from all the biting he'd done. "I can't go to Auschwitz. Please, Liz. Just go with me."

"Why are you so against Auschwitz?"

"Because…" he said quietly, "because you might die."

He said it not as a fact, but like a possibility. Like there was still a chance that she might still live. Because he wanted to believe it. Because he wanted her to believe it, too. He knew the truth would break her – that she was being sent to a camp. That she would die the same way her husband did. Tortured. Executed. Murdered.

He wasn't lying, not exactly. He was only embellishing the truth.

"It's not safe there, Liz," he said, "I'd rather you be with me."

"I'm sorry, Gil," she cupped his face in her hands. "Czechoslovakia's not the safest place for people like me either. I promised my husband I'd seek a better life, and I know Auschwitz is where I ought to be headed."

"So…" his voice trailed off nervously. "Is this the end for us?"

"Perhaps," she answered quietly. Her gaze never leaving the sight of pitch black; the view out the window was barren of anything, even the slightest twinkle of stars. "Or perhaps it isn't. Perhaps we'll meet again. You can never tell. Nothing is ever too sure in this world that we live in. Nothing is ever 100%. But sometimes, it is enough."

"Are you always this poetic when you wake up from a nap?"

She giggled at that, a dainty chuckle followed by a small guffaw. "I like to read, okay?"

"If this is the end for us, then so be it. I'd be thankful. How great it is for me to have lived a life where I could stay by your side; to have held your hand in the dark and to find hope in the idea of running away with you; to have seen the world, in all its dimensions; and to have spent the remainder of my hours in this universe, proud to have been your companion. If I die, then I'll die, but at least it is enough for me to die with no regrets." Then she moved closer to him, her voice more solemn, more serious. "It is enough for me to be sure that you and I exist in this moment."

Gilbert said nothing to that, only giving her hand a small squeeze in response. Her hold on him was tighter than he had imagined.

"You carry the sky with you, Gil," Elizabeta spoke warmly, almost fondly of him. "You and your music. Never forget that."

"I…I still have another hour. Your stop isn't due 'til another three," Gilbert swallowed heavily, his heart racing and trapped in the narrow cage of his chest. "Go back to sleep, Liz."

"Okay, I guess I will."

"Träum süß."


Dawn came quickly, like one fell swoop that the soldier had been completely unprepared for. The sun had risen, and Gilbert squinted at the brightness that assaulted his irises.

Silently, he rose from his seat as the train slowed to a stop, and drew the blinds so as not to disturb the Hungarian woman beside him. Not sparing her a second glance, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it across her lithe figure.

Goodbye, he wanted to say.



But he swallowed his words, picked up his heart, and stepped outside.

He saluted his superiors, grabbed his suitcase, and made his way out the station. But as the horn echoed through and the conductor bellowed once more, Gilbert turned around and gazed upon the third window of the third carriage, where a woman with brown hair and a pink tulip lay sleeping. The melody of an aubade played on his lips and he hummed out a tune, watching and waiting until her figure faded in the distance and the train sped away, trails of smoke stretching out farther, much farther, than his music could ever reach.

Hello everyone so I woke up today headache-free after the past 36 hours of torture hahahuhu and decided to finally work on making a new story (yay) So a lot of the tragic PruHun fics that deal with loss tend to be about Prussia disappearing or Hungary leaving to go marry Austria so I figured I ought to try something a tad bit different, and have Hungary fade out –sorta?- instead. This idea has actually been with me for practically a year, and a mulled over it a long time with my friends and stuff but at last I managed to get off my lazy ass and start working on it. It's a pretty long oneshot, because I missed doing oneshots, and I hope this makes up for my 3-month hiatus of any actual progress in the fanfiction world. This may not be my best work (I don't think I'll ever have a best work though lol) but I did get to use some of my favourite plot bunnies stored up from over the past year so I hope you enjoy.

I rarely write in past tense (present just comes more naturally to me huhu), so if ever there are any mistakes or irregularities, I'm sorry. D:

Many many many thanks to Whaddapack and afternoon rain and to my former seatmate G for their support in helping me finish this story. This oneshot would probably end up really shitty if not for your help (now it's only half as shitty HAHAHA jk…1/2)

Anyway, I'll stop rambling so you guys can start. Happy reading and I hope you like my work. J

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Huhu.


Author's Notes:

- "An aubade is a morning love song (as opposed to a serenade, which is in the evening), or a song or poem about lovers separating at dawn. It has also been defined as "a song or instrumental composition concerning, accompanying, or evoking daybreak". In the strictest sense of the term, an aubade is a song from a door or window to a sleeping woman. Aubades are generally conflated with what are strictly called albas, which are exemplified by a dialogue between parting lovers, a refrain with the word alba, and a watchman warning the lovers of the approaching dawn." – Wikipedia; as soon as I heard about the word, I knew there wouldn't be any other title as perfect as this :3

-Auschwitz concentration camp (German: Konzentrationslager Auschwitz) was a network of German Nazi concentration camps and extermination camps built and operated by the Third Reich in Polish areas annexed by Nazi Germany during World War II. It consisted of Auschwitz I (the original camp), Auschwitz II–Birkenau (a combination concentration/extermination camp), Auschwitz III–Monowitz (a labor camp to staff an IG Farben factory), and 45 satellite camps. The first transports to Auschwitz began in early May 1944 and continued even as Soviet troops approached. During the last years of World War II, they suffered severely, with over 600,000 being killed (within Hungary's 1943 borders) between 1941 and 1945, mainly through deportation to Nazi German-run extermination camps. The plan was to use 45 cattle cars per train, 4 trains a day, to deport 12,000 Jews to Auschwitz every day from the countryside, starting in mid-May; this was to be followed by the deportation of Jews of Budapest from about July 15. One hundred and forty-seven trains were sent to Auschwitz, where 90% of the people were exterminated on arrival. Because the crematoria couldn't cope with the number of corpses, special pits were dug near them, where bodies were simply burned. It has been estimated that one third of the murdered victims at Auschwitz were Hungarian. According to historian Péter Sipos, the Hungarian government had already known about the Jewish genocide since 1943. Some historians have argued that Horthy believed that the Jews were being sent to the camps to work, and that they would be returned to Hungary after the war." – Wikipedia

-"It is enough for me to be sure that you and I exist in this moment." is a quote by the oh-so-very-wonderful Gabriel Garcia Marquez in his book, "A Thousand Years of Solitude." My favourite work of his would be "Love in the Time of Cholera," but hey, ATYoS is a good read too. If you want, go ahead and read both hahaha

-The national flower of Hungary is the tulip.

-"Blue Skies" was a popular song written by Irving Berlin and composed in 1926. I listened to Ben Selvin's and Ella Fitzgerald's versions of this, and like yeah, wow, you just gotta love old music. ( but tbh yes, I picked this song because it didn't just talk about the sky, but because the songwriter's name was Berlin. Judge me all you want but I figured it was perfect WAHAHA)

-"In 1940, under pressure from Germany, Slovakia joined the Axis. The desire for autonomy was one of the great issues of Slovaks in Czechoslovakia. Josef Tiso and nationalists of the Slovak People's Party pushed for Slovak independence and aligned themselves with the National Socialist Party in Germany. Hitler promised Tiso that he would support him if he separated Slovakia from Czechoslovakia. On March 14, 1939 Slovakia declared independence, calling itself the Slovak Republic. German troops soon occupied Bohemia and Moravia." – Wikipedia

-Notice that Gilbert never mentioned his surname here, while Elizabeta gave her full name and even explained the use of her maiden name. Normally, it would be logical to just go with "Gilbert Beillschmidt" but remember that in this story, he was an orphan. Now, I'm not saying that orphans have no last names, because they do. They could either have their last names taken from their first mother/father or assigned by a Judge or staff member from the orphanage/hospital (according to yahoo answers hehe). It's just that I think in this AU, he'd never felt that it was true self, so unless he was required by the law or some officer to give it, (because seriously, imagine if he were just addressed as Lt. Gilbert or something that'd sound pretty silly and unprofessional, I think proud ol' Gilbo would like to sound as badass as possible in his line of work and command all his co-workers to call him Lt. Beillschmidt every damn time as his head continued to swell up in pride) he'd rather just go by with 'Gilbert' or 'Gil' in casual situations.

-Alpines can refer to the mountains or to the trees.

-"A lieutenant (abbreviated Lt., LT., Lieut. and LEUT.) is a junior commissioned officer in many nations' armed forces, fire service, or law enforcement.Lieutenant may also appear as part of a title used in various other organizations with a codified command structure. It often designates someone who is "second-in-command," and as such, may precede the name of the rank directly above it. For example, a "lieutenant master" is likely to be second-in-command to the "master" in an organization using both ranks. The senior grade of lieutenant is known as first lieutenant in the United States, and as lieutenant in the United Kingdom and the rest of the English-speaking world. In countries that do not speak English, the rank title usually translates as "lieutenant", but may also translate as "first lieutenant" or "senior lieutenant". Second lieutenant is usually the most junior grade of commissioned officer. In most cases, newly commissioned officers do not remain at the rank for long before being promoted, and both university graduates and officers commissioned from the ranks may skip the rank altogether. In non-English-speaking countries, the equivalent rank title may translate as "second lieutenant", "lieutenant", "sub-lieutenant" or "junior lieutenant". Non-English terms include ensign and Leutnant for the German Army. " - Wikipedia

- "Nearly all 19th century German historians made Frederick into a romantic model of a glorified warrior, praising his leadership, administrative efficiency, devotion to duty and success in building up Prussia to a leading role in Europe. Historian Leopold von Ranke was unstinting in his praise of Frederick's "Heroic life, inspired by great ideas, filled with feats of arms...immortalized by the raising of the Prussian state to the rank of a power." Johann Gustav Droysen was even more extolling. Frederick remained an admired historical figure through the German Empire's crushing defeat in First World War, and the Nazis glorified him as a great German leader pre-figuring Hitler, but his reputation became far less favorable in 1945 in both East and West Germany after the fall of the Nazi regime, largely due to his status as a favorite icon of the Nazis." – Wikipedia; Of course, that Frederick and Gilbert's 'old man' as he referred to in this story do not share the same timeline (because that would make Gilbert ancient lol) but I just wanted to share this tidbit of trivia with you so that you know even Old Fritz had some sort of relevance to Nazi history. (Not that I like/support the Nazis or anything, because what they did was downright horrible and inhumane and words aren't enough to describe just how wrong their actions were…let's all just offer a prayer for the Jewish souls that died in the Holocaust to show respect for their sacrifices J )

-Reference for Gilbert's outfit in 1940's men's fashion: htt 736x/89/ce/ca/89cecacf1

Translations (taken from GT and YA hahahuhu lol sorry idk how to actually speak these languages)

Herr [German] - Mister

Wurst [German] – sausage

Danke [German] – thank you

Danke schön [German] – thank you very much

Nein [German] – No

Sind sie auch Deutsch? [German] – Are you German too?

Was? [German] – What?

Träum süß [German] – Sweet dreams/Have pleasant dreams

Köszönet [Hungarian] – Thank you

I really appreciate how you took the time to read all of this, I hope that you enjoyed this story as much as – if not more than – I did in writing. Please do leave a review, I love them and they make my day. Thank you :)

Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

It was a beautiful winter's day in Copenhagen, Denmark. Said country, that day, was walking down an empty street early that morning with his friends, the rest of the Nordic 5. To be more specific, Sweden, Finland, Iceland, and Norway.

It was early in the month of December, the snow gently falling down onto the five's clothes and hair. Denmark's bright blue eyes shone with a childlike joy, a certain sparkle that only he could possess. His spiked up hair was flaked with the small, white crystals, as well as his large black coat. He seemed to have a slight skip in his step, walking along with a small jump every now and then. It was as though he was trying to engage the other Nordics in his little game, with only Finland complying. Denmark laughed joyfully, his smile so contagious, it almost made Norway's lips twitch up slightly, though, he was rather skilled with keeping his straight expression. 

"Come on you guys! You're being a bore! It's so much fun out here!" Denmark threw his head back, letting his tongue roll out, just barely catching the drifting snowflake above him. "See?!" He said, his voice lisping out between his tongue and teeth. "Just try! You'll feel like a kid!" 

Iceland shivered, huddling deeper into his overcoat, balling his fists tighter inside his pockets. "Well, no offense to you, I've had enough of childhood that I have dealt with and have to remember." Finland smiled, happily responding to Denmark, 
"Well, I do love to feel like a kid! I don't see why not!" With that, he followed the Dane's pose, then giggled when a snowflake floated onto his tongue. Then nudging Sweden to follow him. "Su-san! It's fun! You should try it!" Sweden shrugged, his face still emotionless. "Ja, why not?" He followed, dropping his mouth open slightly as his features relaxed. Finland's smile became impossibly wider, he knew that the intimidating nation was now enjoying himself as much as he was.

Norway, meanwhile, watched the whole conversation take place, surprised slightly even when Sweden had complied to such a childish game. He smiled softly, and giving a small shrug, just as Sweden had, and created the same position the other three had. A small flake fell onto his tongue, his smile getting just a tad larger. He let his head roll back into its normal posture, and turned to the only country not participating. "Brother dearest, why don't you join? You used to make me do this with you all the time."
Iceland grimaced at the pet name, and responded. "I've told you not to call me that. Secondly, I am not a child anymore and can take care of myself."  

In truth, Iceland was shocked that his older brother had let Denmark, a country whom was found to be very obnoxious to the older of the two, make him smile. Seeing Norway smile was very rare, and it was a nice sight to behold. Norway's smiles were serene, not too large, and not too small. His laugh was even more rare, and those were (secretly) treasured by his brother. Not that he would ever tell.

Iceland looked around him, seeing that the rest of the nations had gone back to the challenge of catching a snowflake. He shook his head, letting a smile of his own appear on his lips. "Well," he started, catching the Nordic's attention, "if you want to have fun, you do it like this~" He lunged forward, grasping Norway's arm in his hands, running toward a large, snow-covered hill. "Hey! Wait up you two!" The rest of the group came running after Iceland, who had already made it to the top of the hill. Remembering something from when he was a child gave him an idea. He found a stone in the snow, placing one foot on top of it, and striking a hero pose. "I'm the King of Northern Europe!" He called out to the still quiet streets, now filling with Norway's howling laughter. It was spreading, and soon, the other countries were joining him, even Sweden had a smile of his own.  

When their laughter had subsided, Denmark spoke up to the Icelandic boy still perched atop the hill. "Hey, no fair! I'm the King of Northern Europe!" He ran to Iceland, pouncing on him, who yelped from the sudden force. As the rolled through the snow, they broke out into a fit of giggles. Iceland scrambled out from underneath Denmark, quickly scooping out and compacting a ball of snow. Denmark's eyes widened, but instead of the snow hitting him, Iceland had chucked it at Norway, the snowball hitting his nose and splattering all over his face.

Norway wiped off the snow slowly, a playful smirk tugging on his lips. "You'll pay for that brother dearest~" He picked up a handful of snow, quickly shaping it into a sphere. He threw it towards Iceland, who dodged at the last second, and hit Denmark in the back of his head.

The Dane turned, smirking evilly. "Let the snowball war commence."


Now it was getting dark. The Nordic five were trudging towards Denmark's warm home, their clothes and hair soaking wet. Their laughter still rang out through the moonlit streets, though it was now breathless, considering the snowball fight lasted throughout the rest of the day. 

They arrived at the warm house, crinkling their noses at the sudden warmth enveloping them. It still felt nice, though. Denmark walked into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with five cups of hot chocolate, and a plate of cookies. "Thanks, Dane." Norway smiled, helping himself to a mug and a couple cookies.

A comfortable silence fell over them, quietly munching on the snack and sipping the still warm coca. When their food and drink were gone, they began to talk amongst one another, telling jokes and embarrassing stories, all laughing at the memories. It was about midnight when they retreated to bed, now in warm, dry clothing. Iceland stood up first, stretching his limbs. "You know," he mumbled tiredly, catching the rest of the Nordics attention, "we should do this more often." The four other nations smiled and nodded in agreement.

And so went another winter in Copenhagen.  
Welcome to OOC land! It's the most frustrating place on earth!

Every character is OOC! That's five people! My own personal record!

Okay, so this sad story popped into my head I got from a picture, but then my brain was all: 
:iconmindplz::iconsaysplz: YEAH RIGHT! This will be cute~ :3

So now you're stuck with this fluff-tastic Nordic family :D

Hetalia: :iconhimaruyaplz:

Story: :iconsharkgirl567:

I love you people! :iconluvluvplz:

The preview image is not mine, I take no credit for it.
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

Un jour, nous vieillirons
Et lorsque ce jour viendra
Il se pourra que tu demandes l’éternité
Mais si l’un de nous deux part avant l’autre

‘The wanderer’, they called him.

She first laid eyes on him drifting the streets of Paris. It was merely a brush past, a contact of the fabric of their clothing, but she felt the tingle, the static spark of curiosity, nonetheless. He always looked so sad, the cobalt of his eyes darkening with his mood, the curve of his thin lips downturned. There was always a trace of something in the aura surrounding him – yearning, perhaps? A desire for something more? A sense that he had not yet fulfilled what he had set out to achieve, that there was  a component missing? Whatever it was, she was determined to find out.

He always seemed to be close by after that first encounter, whether it be seated in one of the cafés she passed by on her way home or admiring the same painting in the art museum. She occasionally caught a flash of blonde hair in the corner of her eye, saw a speck of dark blue in the distance. Some sort of instinctual sensation told her that she wasn’t the only one who possessed such feelings of inquisitiveness; he felt the same towards her. However, neither of them were daring enough to approach the other, to find out why exactly they felt the way they did.

In the end, it took her five years to finally work up the courage to talk to him. In the end, it took them five years to finally learn each other’s names. In the end, it took them five years to find out that what they felt wasn’t merely interest.

In the end, it took her five years to find out his secret.

Encore un peu, juste un petit peu
Si tu retires de tout
Es-tu encore à mes côtés

She thought that if she was to write down all the things she loved about him, her words would fill up an entire book.

The way his eyes shone, for example, when he spoke of  food, of the arts. The way he would smile ever so slightly when she made an attempt at a joke, or when she unintentionally amused him. The way he gestured ever so passionately when he talked, how his words flowed smooth as silk. The way he would listen attentively when she recited even as simple a thing as the events of her day; he was a wonderful listener, paying attention to even the smallest of details, able to recall them later with the utmost clarity. She loved how his blonde hair caught the sunlight in just the right way, how he smelled so sweet, like roses or chocolate.  

But it wasn’t just the insignificant things, the trivial aspects, that mattered. It was also the way he exhibited the right amount of protectiveness, not too much as to seem clingy. It was the way he would clasp his hands in hers, how his blue eyes were filled with concern when they met her own (e/c) ones. It was the way he would embrace her, how he would whisper reassuring words into her ear, when she felt miserable. It was the way his lips were soft, gentle, tender against hers, how his breath would tickle her neck, how his hands ran through her hair in exhilaration and hers through his in return. It was how he was always so full of ardour, of zeal, that it was infectious.

It was with not the least bit of shame that she could admit that she loved Francis Bonnefoy.

Et je te regarderai
Mais telle que je suis me paraîtra être nue
Et je remercierai cette toupie de charme
Pleine de bonheur

Over the many years that they came to know each other, she learnt that he loved to talk – particularly about the past.

He would speak of the days of the Kingdom of France, of the multiple monarchs and of Jeanne d’Arc. He spoke of the period of time known as the Renaissance, how art and architecture were beginning to flourish. He told her about the French Colonial Empire, how it grew to the extent as to involve countries, continents, many islands. He often drifted into recounts about other countries and how they were faring at the time – his long rivalry with England, for example, and the rule of the now non-existent Holy Roman Empire.

Despite all this, the wars still remained the part of all his narrations that intrigued her the most. Past conflicts, such as the French Revolution, would catch her attention, but never as much so as ones that had occurred in the last century. Learning about it while she was in school was one thing, and hearing it from someone who had been there at the time, who still had a fresh perspective on all of it, was another. She learnt about the numerous – far too many, in her opinion – French casualties during World War I, heard about the Allies’ victory over the Axis Powers in the Second World War, but not without fatalities of their own. She learnt of France’s slow loss of control over the former empire, of the struggle within Algeria, of how the country progressed up until today.

All the devastation wrought upon the Earth, all the victims of war, all the suffering that not only the entire population but the select few hundred people had to withstand – she didn’t know how he managed to endure it all. It must have taken such strength, such resilience, to bear such a responsibility, to carry such a heavy weight on one’s shoulders; but when she expressed this to him, he sent her a small smile, tinged with a hint of sadness, and told her that none of them really had such spirit – they just learnt to become accustomed to it.

J’aimerais que nous vieillissions ensemble
Il ne s’agira pas d’une vie éternelle
Mais d’un air et d’une vie aussi vrais qu’un minuscule printemps

Once, she asked him what eternity felt like.

“To most,” he had answered, “it would probably seem like a dream come true, or a gift sent from a superior being somewhere. Never growing old, able to do everything and anything you wanted – tour the world, see all the sights, never forget the special moments captured in time.”

“What’s it like to you, then?” she had queried.

The corner of his lip had twitched upwards into a bittersweet smile. “The exact opposite of that, I’d assume. It isn’t really the blessing most people seem to think it is. Watching seasons change, watching the alteration of everything around you, watching people grow old, have kids, die – whether they’re complete strangers or people you’ve come to love, it’s exactly the same. Knowing that you can’t really have true companionship apart from others like you… It isn’t exactly the life I would wish to have.”

After a moment of silence, she had asked quietly, “But did you wish for it?”

“No,” he had said, eyes downcast.

“Would you change it if you could?”

“Perhaps, or perhaps not.” He had glanced up from underneath his fair lashes, a flash of cobalt greeting her. “If the circumstances had been different… I probably never would have met you, wouldn’t I?”

“But that doesn’t matter, does it?” she had asked. “I’m just one person, not even of much importance. Why pick me?”

“Because,” he had replied, smiling nostalgically, “you are the one who makes eternity worthwhile.”

Cependant marcher ensemble serait tellement de joie
Et accompagner tous ceux que nous aimons, tellement tout pour nous
Well... I don't know where this came from. o.O
It's pretty random. I'm not sure whether it even makes sense, but this is one of the shortest things I have ever written. xD
Hope you enjoy it, I guess~

English lyrics:
One day, we will grow old
And when that day comes
You might ask for eternity
But if one of us goes before the other

A little more, just a little more
If you withdraw from everything
Are you still by my side

And I will watch you
But I will see myself like I were naked
And I will thank this spinning top of charm
Full of happiness

I wish we could grow old together
It won’t be an eternal life
But a tune and a life as true as a tiny spring

Even so walking together would be so much joy
And accompany all those we love, everything for us

By the way, if you don't know the song, it's the one playing in the background during Beautiful World Episode 5: Though I May Depart, You Shall Remain. It's called Tel un minuscule printemps if you want to look it up - it's a beautiful song. ;w;

Hetalia (c) Hidekazu Himaruya
Tel un minuscule printemps (c) Hetalia soundtrack
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

“Hey, look what big brother Turkey gave me for my birthday,” Bosnia smiled, holding up his birthday present proudly, obliviously pleased with it. A few pairs of eyes looked over to meet almond yellow eyes that seemed to stare into their very souls. A large, coiled body wrapped around the Bosnian’s arm, tongue flicking out, tasting the room and sensing the bodies of the five nations in the living room. Bosnia had a received a snake. Its scales were patterned with greens and yellows and hues of gray and black. Judging by the large size, it was probably a constrictor.  
Macedonia flinched back a back due to reflex when the large, man crushing snake looked her way, flicking its tongue out in interest.

“A snake…” Slovenia muttered. “He got you a snake out of all things he could’ve given you… Well isn’t this amazing.”
Bosnia, being oblivious to sarcasm, smiled. “You really think so? I knew you’d like him.”

“I was being sarcastic…” Slovenia mumbled under his breath, which Bosnia didn’t catch; he was too busy stroking the creature’s head with his thumb in a loving manner.

“Where’s big brother Serbia?” Bosnia asked, looking side to side for his older brother. “I want to show him my snake.”

“He’s showering,” Slovenia explained, pulling his legs up onto the couch, lounging on it.  

“That thing is creepy…” Macedonia whispered to Croatia in a hushed voice, trying not to upset her older brother, though she doubted he would take offense to that comment. Croatia’s blue orbs peeked over the newspaper she was reading and took in the sight of the happy-go-lucky Bosnian stroking his snake like a cat. She looked back down at the newspaper.

“Yeah, I guess…” She muttered, not really seeming to care. “Bosnia, you better have a cage to keep that thing in…”

“Of course I do,” Bosnia looked slightly offended that she didn’t assume he had this all planned out. “It’s in my room.”

“Well, can you go put it in there?” Montenegro grumbled, having a stare down with the reptile. “It looks like it wants to eat me…” The snake just stared deep into Montenegro’s brown robs with a look of interest.

“He has a name,” Bosnia argued.

“And I bet it’s a good name,” Croatia mumbled, flipping over the newspaper and then mumbling something dark about Serbia. “Just put the snake away before Montenegro flips a table.”

Bosnia gave a small sigh of defeat before he headed into his room where he had the enclosure for the snake set up. Lightly stroking its head, he lifted the lid and set his reptile down in the cage, smiling innocently at him. For a moment he thought the snake winked at him but he assumed his imagination was getting ahead of him again, it had a habit of doing that. Without another word, he smiled and headed back to where most of the family was at, so he could badger them about dinner, which Macedonia already seemed to be doing.

But, he was unaware that he didn’t close the lid properly, he was a bit scattered brained at times. He didn’t mean harm at all; in fact he was just trying to put his snake away like he was asked. But the snake had different plans.

It simply pushed against the lid of the cage, its large mass easily pushing it off the glass enclosure and giving it freedom. Promptly, the reptile worked its mass out of the tank on onto the table the tank had been placed on, and then to the floor after that.

Eventually, it was free to room to wherever it wished. Tasting the air with its tongue, it naturally wanted to find a warm place, so it set off to find it.
Serbia ran his finger through his wet black locks, trying to get all of the shampoo out of his hair. His eyes were squeezed shut to keep the product from getting in his eyes and causing them to become irritated, he hated when that happened. Singing a song softly to himself, the noise drowned out by the sound of the water hitting the shower area, he rinsed out his hair and dared to peek open his eyes.

Facing him was a pair of yellow orbs, only a mere few inches away from his face.

Out of reflex, he leapt back as far as he could go, letting out a loud cry of shock, and staring at this large, scaly creature that had managed to work its way into his shower. Its large body coiled around a towel rack, its tongue flicking out in what Serbia thought was amusement.

“Did you hear that?” Macedonia asked Croatia, who seemed very absorbed in her reading material. “That sounded like big brother Serbia… should we check on him?”

“Ne,” Croatia shrugged, looking rather ticked off at something in the paper. “He’ll figure it out on his own.

Not even a few moments later, Serbia came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips, his body still dripping wet, foot prints off water in the carpet behind him. Those green orbs of his seemed to be alive with some sort of anger as he gestured to large reptile wrapping its way around his arm.

“Does this belong to any of you?” He asked disapproval in his voice.

Five pairs of eye were shot at the Bosnian who seemed very occupied in his pack of cigarettes.
Random crack written at one in the morning xD
Sorry if the quality sucks xD I'm dead tired.
The idea just randomly popped into my head one day and I thought it'd be fun to write. So here it is.
I don't own Turkey or Hetalia but my OCs belong to me.

Drabble One: [link]
Drabble Two: You are here
Drabble Three: [link]
Drabble Four: [link]
Drabble Five: [link]
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

”Pinky Promise

I want to see snow.

You had a secret relationship with him.

It wasn’t anything like a romantic or sexual relationship—and definitely not both—unfortunately, but it was a relationship; it was a friendly one that had never left classroom 287, your shared fifth period Pre-Calculus class. The desks were paired off there, pushed together for partner work, and after he had been moved from the other side of the room for playing around too much with his friends, Circe had been taken from you and he had been placed there instead.

Who were you talking about?

Jett Kirkland, of course.

You had been kind of worried to work him, because your Pre-Calc class was notorious for partner work, because of a lack of textbooks, and without Circe to help you, you were positive you were going to fail. And it hadn’t been like you could actually trust Jett to do his work and help you understand, because from what you had gathered, his was irresponsible and lacked the ability to focus on the tasked at hand. And when you two had first started out working together, it had seemed that you were right—as he’d constantly lose focus and talk to his friends from across the room as you struggled to understand what the questions were asking.

But he was different.

He could be a little reckless, yes, but Jett Kirkland aced through Pre-Calculus, and when he had noticed you were having a hard time, and he’d help you in short intervals, juggling you and messing around with his friends—which was sort of nice because you had grown to rely on Circe, but with Jett…he gave you enough of a push, but he didn’t linger so that you could help yourself. It was like baby steps, if that made sense.

But as mentioned, you two had a relationship.

It had sprouted like a small bud because of his help, but what really made it bloom was when you caught a little message scrawled in the corner of page 192, the one you two were currently working on.

I want to see snow.

We can see it together.

You hadn’t known that Jett had written that when you had responded; impulsivity, a trait rare in you, had taken over—a simple elation mixed in with a little curiosity at this stranger’s innocent wish. You had forgotten about it almost immediately after, your attention stolen by the seventh problem. Jett had already done the work, six problems ahead of you with only two left to finish, and you had quietly tapped the back of his hand to catch his attention. His opisthenar had flexed at that movement, his fingers curling in, and he had turned his vibrant green eyes towards you so you could ask him for help.

He smiled radiantly and said he’d help.

I’d like that.

When you had glanced up a few moments later to read the next problem, you caught another message right underneath yours. Your eyes flickered towards Jett’s paper in surprise, connecting the messy writing on both the textbook page and his notebook paper as the same—both his. Your heart had fluttered at that, but you weren’t even sure if he had known that it was you.

It’s a December date then.


You two never spoke about the messages you two wrote in that textbook, but it became evident that he did know it was you, as at the end of every math class, he’d erase the messages, and you supposed that was reflective of the type of relationship you two had: uncertain and transient, always lingering in the edge of oblivion, but it always left you craving more.

The messages grew longer, taking up whole pages in a single 45-minute class period. His laughter shook your very core as you wrote to him, and you focus your eyes following the curve of his hand as he wrote back to you. Mindless, silly, empty promises were made in that class—you two would see snow together, you two would see a special comet, you two would go play with the koalas in Australia, whatever. Empty promises, but they meant the world to you, because they reflected a secret relationship with this beautiful Aussie that would never be verbalized, a childish pinky promise that would never get fulfilled.

But it was fun to pretend.

Even after you began to fall.

Soon enough, you’d catch yourself not staring at the words he wrote but at him himself. The sharp edges of his jaw, the ever-present scarlet blush on his tanned cheeks, the messy brown hair that seemed to always catch the light just right and those tendrils that defied gravity, his rough hands, the pink of his mouth, the twinkle of his irises… Your heart was almost always pounding away inside your throat when you spoke to him, to the point where you didn’t even ask him for help anymore, simply tapped his opisthenar to visually catch the muscles in his hands and forearm tighten up just a little and then point to the question when he turned to you.

His voice resonated deep within you, and he spoke as if he could tell you the secrets of the universe and you’d understand.

But you did understand.

Math, that was—thanks to him.


Why do you always have that bandage on your nose?

It’s a secret.

From me?

It’s embarrassing.

You cracked a smile a smile as you tried to focus on the teacher. You couldn’t imagine Jett being embarrassed that easily, especially not by an injury. What could he have done that he couldn’t even share with you?

I don’t know the reason, but I bet I can think of several different things more embarrassing that it.

Like what?

Like being seen with you.

You heard his friends tease him when they thought you weren’t paying attention or out of ear-shot—sitting with the fat girl, the one who probably had the biggest crush on him because boys seldom showed any interest in her. He was too nice, and did he like the fat girl back? But the girl had a name, and he’d defend your honor, repeat your name, say positive things about you—how you were nice too, and how could guys approach you when you were so quiet, they probably just got intimidated? If you were less shy, you’d be swimming in guys.

But no, of course not. He didn’t like you.

It was just you that liked him.

You spilled food on yourself last Tuesday during B-lunch.

You saw that?

He was about to pass the textbook back when he paused and kept it, adding more.

If we have B-lunch together I refuse to say. You’ll have to torture the truth out of me.

That seems a bit excessive.

You did not think you were ugly, and you knew the male population was not a gigantic several-headed conglomeration of shallow, sexual desires. Guys did like you, and several guys had liked you, and you had had a boyfriend and made out with guys before, but yes, you were shy, and Jett’s friends seemed to not understand that chubby did not equal undesirable and shy didn’t equal lonely, and Jett didn’t seem to understand that shy didn’t equal inexperienced, but you shouldn’t have listened in on their conversation anyway.

It didn’t matter. You were content with your one-sided love. It would be brief, like the passing comet you two had never seen, but you’d get over it. For now, you were fine with this secret relationship, something that was unique to both you and him.

I’ll let you keep your secret. Mysterious = interesting.

So you like mysterious men?

Your face burned, but you didn’t look at him.



His messages kept getting shorter, vague and empty like the transient relationship you two carried. You found his eyes drawn to the textbook at all times, and the awkwardness and lack of curiosity from me led you to follow in his footsteps. One day, he had even been reduced to drawing sketchy and messy pictures for you instead of even writing anything out—a koala, a really bad Australia, your math teacher—and you had responded with exclamation points and drawn faces, but the appeal was quickly lost.

It was too time-consuming and too confusing, something that your relationship with him was not supposed to be.

And as he wrote less, shared less, his interactions with his friends also became quieter, less frequent. There was this bubble the separated you and him and the rest of the world, and you wanted to preserve the fragile balance before it burst and he realized he had better things to do and better people to be with then someone like you.

Hadn’t you overheard him telling his friends that he would be spending tomorrow with the girl he liked?

It was bound to happen.

The comet is passing tomorrow night.

That was the longest sentence had had written in weeks, and it wasn’t what you wanted it to be. He had promised to take you to see the comet, but he had found someone else to go with. But you couldn’t be selfish. This hypothetical relationship you two had was good enough, and you could deal until you moved on.

You just wanted him to be happy.

I bet it’ll be a beautiful sight. Too bad I’ll be sleeping!

You had to keep it casual, keep the conversation flowing. You didn’t want your crush to show. You wrote down some more.

But maybe I’ll dream about it?

He stared at the textbook for the longest of times before he finally resolved on what he’d write.

With a koala in Australia. Dream of that. Overlooking Sydney’s harbor, sharing some Tim-Tams with me. God, what a good dream. I want Tim-Tams.

Amazon is what you need. If you share, I’ll finally be able to experience the joy.

I know what I’ll buy with my next purchase then. Your happiness is top priority.

Your cheeks burned as your chest ached, and you wished he wouldn’t write things that made you so hopeful, especially after he had told his friends he’d be watching the comet with the girl he liked. And you reminded yourself that he was doing it, he was writing to you again, sharing about himself, and that made you happy. You reminded yourself that what you two had was good enough. It had to be.

Or I could buy them for us to share.

I’d like that, (name).

Oh. He had spelled out your name, and he had gotten it right, and you were just feeling…all kinds of ways right now.

But you needed to calm down.

Jett Kirkland was already in love with someone, and she was not you.


He sneezed beside you, covering his face before he did so. You opened your mouth to say something, to bless him, but a choir of those came pouring out of the people around. You shut your mouth and turned your attention to what your math teacher was saying, but your hand found your pencil.

Bless you.

Crikey, (name), I think at this point if I ever heard your voice, I might explode.

Did you really just write “crikey”?

I’m Australian!

I thought that was a stereotype? I didn’t know anyone really said that.

Jett laughed a little to himself when he read the message, taking out his big eraser to get rid of the evidence on the page. If you neared your eyes to page and squinted, you could almost make out what had been written in there so far. He located his pencil again, the scratches of his pencil much louder in your head than your teacher and this silly class.

You’re really something, Sheila.

What’s a Sheila?

You’re a Sheila.

Is that another Aussie thing?

I can teach you many more Aussie things than just a few slang words.

Teach me everything you know.

The bell rang, startling you, but Jett quickly cleaned off the page and shoved the textbook on the book rack below his desk. You two collected your things and stood simultaneously. You looked over at him, and Jett gave you a dazzling smile before he lifted his hand to wave goodbye.

His friends yelled for him to hurry up.

He left.


I can help you, if you want.

You looked away from the test you had just received, your final score written at the top in the boldest scarlet marker your teacher seemed to own. A 77, despite the fact that you had done so well on the quizzes and homework.

With what?


You are?

We could meet during lunch in the library. I could help you.

Your heart was fluttering again, and your eyed your test momentarily. You had gotten quite a few questions wrong, obviously, but you realized that reason why was because of simple mistakes. You could only count 3 problems you had genuinely gotten wrong because you weren’t sure of how to work it out. You stuffed the test in your binder and grabbed your pencil.

I’ll be okay, but thank you.

It was sweet of him to ask, but he had his friends, he had the girl he liked. You couldn’t be selfish.

Speaking of the girl, how had the weekend gone? Had she enjoyed it, seeing the comet with him? Was the sight beautiful? Did her heart pound like yours did when you got close to him, when you watched his green eyes light up and the muscles in his arm flex and the sharp crook of his nose? Did she treasure him like you did? Was he happy with her? Did she even know that he liked her, and if she did, did she want a relationship or had she asked to just be friends?

You hoped so.

More than anything, you wished Jett a million forms of happiness.


Snow had been predicted, and it seemed as if it was going well with Jett and the girl he liked. You had heard him boast to his friends that he would be spending the first snow fall with her, so he hoped it really did snow. He had never seen it before, not in real life, because while Australia got snow, his town had never gotten any. He wanted to spend a cold, snowy Christmas with her, and he said all this as his face burned crimson, and as your heart palpitated unnaturally, as you tried to keep your face neutral.

Your relationship with him had started with a simple promise that you two would see the snow together, but how could you hold him back from being with the girl he liked?

It might snow Sunday!

How exciting! My sister and I have already planned to watch movies in preparation for snow and Christmas that day.

Lies. Definite lies. You didn’t have a sister, and you had no plans, but you wanted him to know that, if he happened to remember about the promise that had begun your friendship, it was okay. You would survive, and he could be with the girl he liked, and everything would be fine. You could deal, and he didn’t have to know how much it hurt to not be able to follow through with at least one of the promises made between him and you.

How could either of you do it anyway? Your relationship was confined to this classroom, to notes shared in a textbook. It would never leave those math pages.

And you’d be okay, you were sure of it.

That’s great! I’ll probably hang out with a few people, get to really experience snow. Crikey, I’m really excited.

How long have you lived in the States, again?

About a year, why?

Because there you go with “crikey” again. Haha it’s cute.

Stop making fun of me, “y’all”.

I don’t say that!

Jett was laughing, but he paused his response as his friends yelled for him. He quickly made a face, earning a roar of laughter from that side of the room, and you looked down at your notes. How nice would it be to be able to laugh with him like that, to be able to get his attention from across the room? Then maybe your promises would occur, maybe then an actual relationship could occur—a beautiful friendship, a real one that wouldn’t end when this class did.

He wrote something back, but you refused to look at it.

Maybe it was best if you backed out gracefully, before you got yourself too hurt. The girl he liked was probably skinny and gorgeous, and she could properly verbalize herself in front of him. The girl he liked went to places with him, saw things with him, spent actual times with him. You could never have that, and you realized it would not be okay. It couldn’t be okay, because moving on wouldn’t it be that easy.

How could it when you were in love with Jett Kirkland?


It was snowing.

You stood in front of the windows of the library, pressing your palms against the frigid windows. The heat of your body condensed on the thick glass as you watched frost collect on the walls and grass, and for a brief moment, you were happy. It was Monday, so the snow had been late, but it was here. But it was here, and that meant Jett could spend the time he had promised you with the girl he actually liked.

Would the snow always taste like a bittersweet memory? Right now, it felt like it would.

You backed away from the window and returned to the table you had occupied. It was your lunch break, but you hadn’t felt that hungry, and you were finishing a homework assignment that was due the next day, and you just felt very safe and serene here. At least Jett wasn’t in here, to make the snow awkward for you. You could close your eyes, hold your breath for ten seconds, and let go to focus.

But he sat down in front of you.

Jett and you had never interacted outside of your math class, except the one day he had waved at you as you two ran into each other on the way to seventh period. You had avoided that hallway since, because while it had made you happy, you hadn’t wanted that hallway to also fill you with bitterness once your relationship with him was terminated.

You looked down at the questions you had been answered, didn’t say a word as you picked up your pencil and begin to finish your work.

He didn’t say anything either, simply sat there, and a few glances here and there informed you that he had been observing you the entire time—at least until he stole a blank sheet of paper from your folder and a green pen from your case, and you could hear his light breathing and the pen tip against the page, and you wondered why he didn’t just speak. Was your relationship with him really so secret, so pathetic and restrained, that he couldn’t speak to you during the free time you two had outside of class?

Maybe it was better this way.

It’s snowing.

I see that.

What are you going to do to celebrate it?

I have nothing planned.

He furrowed his thick eyebrows, apparently a Kirkland family trait, and then he begin to write something down. You felt the seconds tick by, slowing down as you watched him form an entire paragraph, and then frustration crossed his face, and he crossed out the entire thing and crumbled up the sheet. He raised his face, his vibrant irises meeting yours.

“You promised we’d see the snow together.”

You blinked in surprise. Except for when he explained math problems to you, you had never really heard him speak—not to you, not about anything but math. And then he had done it to bring up a promise you thought he had long forgotten? It had been a month since that had been made, and he still remembered?

But what about his girl?

When you didn’t respond, he decided to continue. “You know, I get it. You don’t really like me. I’m loud and kind of obnoxious and those notes just make the class go by easier. I know you don’t really like me, Sheila, just tolerate me, and I know our relationship is fleeting and falling, but I want you to know that I like you. Since the first moment that I saw you, I’ve liked you.”

You dropped your pencil, and it rolled off the table and collided with the floor. Neither of you moved to pick it up, because you definitely couldn’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from his, not when this conversation was really happening.

“You’re nice, even to someone like me, who has stupid friends who tease us and call you names, and I have a weird personality and an accent you probably hate, and I want to take care of you, even though I can’t.” You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t think. His words weren’t even making sense. “I want to see the snow with you, and I wanted to see the comet with you, and I want to take you back to Australia with me to pet a koala, and I want to talk to you at lunch and in class, and I’d like if we could be something beyond our math textbook! If you just gave me a chance to at least be your friend—not boyfriend, if you didn’t want to—I promise I will try to make it worth your while. I just want a chance, (name) (last name).”

You stood rapidly before your hands began to frantically collect your stuff. He covered his mouth, lowering his eyes, and with a look that expressed guilt, he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being selfish. This is so out of character of me.”

You pushed your chair out of the way, and it fell back, and you were lucky the librarian was one the other side of the library because you moved over to where he was, grasping his shoulders because shy did not equal estranged, because quite did not equate a lack of boldness, and your mouth came down on his because what better way to express what was in your mind? What better way to speak then through touch?

His hands rose up to clutch your face, his fingers disappearing into your hair as he palms cradled your cheeks and his thumbs brushed the back of your ears, and he tasted sweet, and how could you be so stupid and blind as to not realize that you were the girl he liked?  Of course he had said he’d be seeing the comet with the girl he liked and spending the day in the snow with the girl he liked, because you had promised him those things and more. He liked you, overweight and shy and odd and all. He liked your quirks and your flaws, and he found comfort in your warmth and the caress that came with the skin contact of your fingers brushing the back of his hand during math class. Jett Kirkland liked you, and you had been an idiot to not realize it when it had been so obvious the whole time.

Your relationship with him was like a meteor; not because it was transient, but because it radiated an odd kind of beauty—one that was burned into your mind long after it was gone, a precious memory for one to hold. Your relationship with him could only last so long, but you were willing to fill that emptiness with affection and hope for a longer and brighter tomorrow.

You broke free for a split second, resurfacing for some more air, and the twinkle was back in the hills and valleys of his eyes, and a smile broke out on your face. You reached for his hand, still tangled in your hair, and you looped your pinky around his before you pressed your lips to his tanned forehead.

“It’s a December date, then.”

For the beautiful :iconbatdrizzy: I hope you enjoyed it and that I got everything you asked for correct (the fluff, the chubby reader, Australia in general)!!

sharing a high school text book and leaving each other notes and answers in page corners au

Two really shy students who just leave each other small notes out and about because they’re too shy to speak to each other in person.

As mentioned in my last request, for all of these requests besides ONE, I will try to find specific au prompts to inspire me and get the creativity and writing going when writing these requests. Do you guys think I did well?

I was rly rly excited to write this one after finishing yesterday's, because Apink came out with a new album recently, and going off with the excitement over "Flower Petal" (both the song and the fic), I got inspiration for this one and decided to call it "Pinky Promise" after another song on the same album, which also fit pretty fucking perfectly into the storyline.

I really do hope you enjoyed it, and I'm sorry if any character came out OOC (in my defense my only experience with this character is from that one scene in the Hetalia school, so you can blame the Hetalia wiki
and also the Australia folder in the Country x Reader group, since I had to read some fics of him to get a feel for what sort of personality he had
), or if there is anything wrong with the grammar and POV (it does happen!) If anyone sees a mistake, please tell me?

Australia  © Hidekaz Himaruya
You © APINK's Pink Memory Album which is bae so y'all should listen like right now
Story + Circe  © foreverbeforenight (me)
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

It’s easy enough to see how you wonder for her and think of her presence, despite your steady belief you are a fellow fixed in his ways of life and his own mind.

Even the first time you meet, and despite your cold stare and your hurried burying of your hands in your pockets for lack of sensible words, you don’t ignore her when she bids you a good morning. You don’t simply walk on like the rest, and leave her in the gutter with her wet chalk and her beautiful, yet hopeless dreams of a worldly canvas. Even though you stumble at her soft inquiries, you allow yourself to spend that precious minute with her, watching what she draws with her filthy, blackened hands. You tell her you care, and with sincerity you think her drawings lovely, and she smiles at you. Who knows, maybe you even return it.

You watch her at her work even as the rain falls, when the Heavens open and you cannot see beyond your apartment for the frosted glass and spiralling fog. But looking down at her, you neglect your hot tea and books of chemistry and literature, trading the few solo hours you have for a chance to watch her shelter underneath deserted café chairs and try to protect the work she has slaved away at for hours upon hours, despite the frequent tides of rain and distant, rumbling thunder after August’s wavering heat. Still, you don’t help her. It is not your duty or requirement, you know, when you are warm and comfortable with your blankets and scarves and apathy. But the image of her intrigues you, and even later you allow yourself to think of her, when you know you should be revising Orwell and Coleridge and drinking the tea that is already stone cold from your neglect and contemplation.

For months upon months you watch her, keenly and closely, eyes wide with curiosity and fingers lingering at the window’s glass, pressing against a thin barrier you know is separating you from the rest of the world, and from her. You don’t know whether she has a home, somewhere out there, or whether or not she has resigned herself unconsciously to a life lived in struggle. It’s a strange thing indeed to contemplate, especially when seeing how she smiles upon the passersby, regardless of whether they timidly return it or otherwise look at her in pure disgust, as though she is little more than dirt, or perhaps something far lower. Still, she smiles in her ignorance and naivety, clinging onto her own desperation as though it is all she has left. Perhaps, you think, it could just as well be.

But oh, how she draws so beautifully! Her fingers are her brushes, her chalk her guidelines. She draws with reds and oranges and yellows in the autumn, her greens and blues in summer and her violets in the depths of spring. In the winter her hands are cold enough that she cannot close the tips of her fingers around the chalk but rather paints with the snow, and her own frigid blood.

In truth, she surprises you. The sight of her makes you consider your own living whenever you should properly regard her, and the consideration of how you have lived for as long as you can recall is not something you consider to be of importance. How is it that she can live so easily, so happily, and with so little? How is it that she still smiles and her eyes still glint in the darkness, regardless of the circumstances or the banks of snow surrounding her? How do her hands still create such purely beautiful, unmarred creations, so contrasted to the body of their creator?

It is that same intrigue, undoubtedly, that urges you to one day approach her, almost running down the flights of steps only to find yourself engulfed in the cold. You pull your scarf against your mouth, your coat against your shoulders.

Watching her at her work, it is a time before you are able to bring yourself to try and catch her intention, rather than be lulled into a respecting silence. She lifts her head as soon as she hears you cough, and she grins. You don’t know why, but she grins, the same moment your eyes drift to the colourful marks she has imprinted upon the pavement – a memory engraved in the far reaches of your mind.

Looking back at her, you see how she is expecting you to speak; when you remain silent her face falls, and you turn your head away.

“Sir, this isn’t your home, is it?”

The words are strange and foreign, filling you with an unnerving emotion, and almost against your will you turn back to look at her with wonder and a thought filled pause.

What does she know? Is she aware of how you watch her at her work and dream of a homely city as she draws with the same colour as the rising of the sun? Is she aware of how the snow outside your window can only stir in you recollections of a large, creamy moon in the dead of night, and how the blues and greens with which she paints her dreamt skies and pastures can only strike in your head longings for the shining Thames, despite how you try to tuck them away, trying fruitlessly to forget such foolish sentimentality?

“You must be from a great place, sir.”

Looking back once more, your eyebrows lift, and she laughs.

“How do you know?”

She can do little more than shrug in answer, but the peculiarity of it all makes your mind drift and thoughts wander.

“You’re from London, sir?”

Her eyes shine at your perplexed, stunned glance.

“Yes,” you answer her, stiff and cold.

“Why are you here, then? Why aren’t you there, sir, where you belong?”

“I can’t afford it.”

She pauses, seemingly regarding your words with a careful consideration. Perhaps she is amused, inwardly laughing at how you bother with speaking to her, but within a short time she speaks once more.

“The train rides must be long ones, then.”

And then she turns back to her work, but you see her falter with the chalk, fingers flexing themselves. Shocked, perhaps somewhat annoyed, you can do nothing but continue to stare, until at last your eyes narrow and you turn back, mind heavy with consideration.


Your summer is spent at the coast this year, a tradition you have not relived since youthful years of boyhood, and one you've grown to miss.

Yet, it’s a pity it was such an unpleasant holiday, you think, somewhat regretful, the train rattling as your hands absently touch upon the opaque glass of the window, idly and pointlessly carving light patterns of boredom and contemplation. Your carriage is solitary, a large portion of the train empty and silent as the world outside grows dark. Still, you can’t consider it a pity, since at last you’re alone and allowed to lose yourself in your own thoughts. The glass is cold, dripping and icy to the touch, flecked with rain. Pity you had to lose what time you had to the storms and the wet.

It’s late, moon large by the time you step onto the platform, sombre and haggard. The trains rush by you, stirring you back into a dim reality as you clutch at the sleeves of your coat, regarding of the large clock against the wall. You've no umbrella, much less any promise of sleep with the pounding of the rain.

Your hands linger at your pockets before delving into the denim, a sigh slipping from your lips before you can hesitate. You try to take the walk quickly, but wind up taking the incorrect street (with thanks, undoubtedly, to the rain blurring your vision and sense) and returning at a somewhat ungodly hour. Your mind is in disarray, thoughts mingling and confused, even more so when your feet touch upon the familiar ground leading to your apartment.

For there you see a strange sight – a dark figure pressing themselves against a wall, hands trembling as they appear to be holding up a blanket or cover of some sort, as if trying to shield themselves from the rain. Throwing the water from your eyes and hair, you step forwards, marvelling but also reeling back in shock at what you now see clearly beneath the streetlight.

It’s the street artist, the girl, the same one you spoke to all those weeks ago.

Her fingers grasp at the corners of what you gradually see to be a large cover, like a tarp, eyes intently looking upon the drawing etched against the wall. For a minute you wildly glance behind you in shock, wandering whether you took the wrong train, after all, or whether you are still lost in a dream.

“I-It’s London,” you stammer.

At sound of your voice her eyes lift, meeting yours with the most intense look of excitement you’ve ever seen in the eyes of another human being. She beams – eyes rich and shining and beautiful in the blackness.

“I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

Her drawing is immaculate, faultless, so softly lit by a sketched moon and dark, shaded paving stones. There is a soft, unspoken thrum in your heart as she stares at you with her silhouette dripping and wearied, regarding the forms of a chalked Big Ben and Westminster Bridge, narrow houses and ancient stone. You choke on your words, staring at her with the most incredulity you've ever thought possible.

Here she is, soaked and alone, without a home or a kindly spoken word to remember, and she has done something so great, so gracious, committing an inconceivable kindness and compassion without a blinked eye or word of resentment.

Is it reality?

For a moment in time, there is nothing you can do but stare, incredulous as your breath hitches in your throat and your body stills, the rain still so relentlessly coming down upon your hesitating form and soaked clothing. You can do nothing but look at her with disbelief as emotion floods you, and you are lost in a sea of shock and your own snagged words, trapped in your throat. How can it be that she is so selfless to someone so undeserving, so unkind? What worth are you, someone so ignorant and unknown? Who are you to her, as apathetic and cold as your demeanour represents? What need, what feeling did she ever possess, to feel so compelled to do something so selfless? What do you mean to her, that she would appease you of all people, and with such passionate anticipation, so childlike in her delight?

Her hands are dusted with chalk and streaked with rain as she folds them and looks at you, smiling with a pride and satisfaction that shines beyond her gaunt face.

“You won’t need to be homesick now.”

You turn to look at her, wordless, but she sees your eyes – as wide and disbelieving as they are.

And in that moment, you know she has understood.

A request for ~Derpingam, from about three months ago. Man, I'm so slack... and I'm still not entirely pleased with this, haha. ^^;

It's a non-country AU, FYI.

Anyway, hope it's enjoyable. I tried some funky POV changes; England is being addressed through second and the reader in third. Point of view-ception. //shot

The plot may be somewhat similar to my other England x Reader (Filth), but it was requested that the reader be a homeless street artist... so I just went with it and ended up with this and oh my gosh why am I having such an inadequacy complex-


I do not own England or Hetalia.

You own yourself.
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

White. That was all she could see.

The colour of purity, of virtue, of chastity. The colour of infinity, of renewal, of a clean slate; of newly fallen snow and of a blank canvas left unpainted. The colour of beauty and of youth, and sometimes, of love: the colour of a bride’s dress, of the veil concealing her face. The colour of the feathers of a dove, flying free into the cloudless blue sky, perhaps never to be seen again. The colour of freedom, of choice, of independence, of light against dark and good against evil. The colour of possibilities, of hope, a prospect in what was otherwise oblivion. Such a beautiful colour, white, so serene and harmonious – and yet it could just as easily go the other way.

It was the colour of hydrangeas, the flowers of a withdrawn, hard-hearted, frigid disposition. It was not only the other half, the contrasting associate, of black, but its companion, its cohort, its partner in crime. It was the colour of mourning, of loss, of a body left vacant. It was the colour of void, of emptiness, of doubt and insecurity. It was the blank spaces in between, the questions left unanswered. It was the answer just out of reach, the riddle unsolved. It was whole, it was united, but still… it was not. Too empty to be full and too full to be empty, included yet excepted. No one could really understand it.

No one can really understand me.

She blinked, and suddenly there were brown lines criss-crossing against the whiteness she had once believed to be infinite. It was infinite no longer, for those were tiles – tiles on a ceiling. A ceiling meant that she was inside. How did she get inside? What was she doing inside? Her head hurt. It hurt so much. She closed her eyes, and now all she could see was red. Or was it pink? It didn’t matter that much, because there was a pang in her chest. That hurt too. Why did everything hurt?

I want the pain to go away.

She flipped over onto her side and opened her eyes again. Now she could see a green wall. There was furniture up against the wall – a wooden table and two chairs. There were flowers on the table. Several bundles of nice, colourful flowers wrapped up in pattered plastic, adorned with bows and ribbons. They weren’t white, fortunately. She was fed up with white. Were the flowers for her? Who would give her flowers, besides… besides him?

Memories tugged at the corners of her consciousness, vying for her attention. They hurt her brain. She couldn’t let them win. She couldn’t concede. Flipping back onto her back, the white ceiling with its myriad of paradoxes greeted her once again. The lines started to blur into the white once again, rendering the puzzle whole, as her breathing quickened and the throbbing in her head worsened. The pills… where were they? They kept the memories suppressed. They made her feel better. They made the agony withdraw, numbing her mind into a subdued state.

They stop me from thinking about what happened to him.

But there were no pills. There were no doctors. She was fed up of them, too. Fed up of relying on people she didn’t know, of nameless strangers. Her wish may have been their command, but still they bent and twisted those wishes, climbing through the loopholes and tearing the biddings apart into strips of paper. She couldn’t rely on anyone – not even herself. The only person she could truly depend on was gone. He was gone and she couldn’t fix that.

Instead, she let the memories carry her away like a leaf in the breeze, like a current in the ocean. She let them take her away into the deepest, darkest recesses of her mind, the places she had left unexplored for what seemed like eons. Maybe then she could find the solution to the problem, join the gaps, colour in the white.

Maybe then we can be reunited.


It had been raining.

The downpour slashed against glass windows, as sharp and vicious as knives, the intent to kill heavy in the action itself. The clouds hung low and imposing, the grey sky overcast and gloomy, domineering over the entirety of the small town. The rumble of thunder sounded in the distance as lightning scissored across the heavens, creating a rip in the fabric of the clouds. Wind blew, strong and insistent in its force, sending leaves, twigs and even elements of man-made structures – sign posts, roofing, wooden fencing – skidding and flying across the streets. Trees inclined to the side, their seemingly robust trunks and resilient braches now nothing more than insignificant disturbances to the profound gale force.

In short, it was the worst thunderstorm Australia had seen all year. It had come out of the blue, completely unexpected, startling street-wandering citizens out of their reveries and sending them running for the shelters of their homes. Just as abruptly as the storm had arrived, the streets began to flood, rainwater streaming and snaking down the paved surfaces like water over a riverbed. In a matter of seconds, the water was already waist level and rising fast. They had certainly experienced storms like this before, but at least there had been fair warning. Emergency supplies were dug up out of cupboards and safety equipment was prepared as people attempted to stay as far above ground level as possible.

She was perched on the bed in her bedroom on the second storey of her house. Resting her elbow on the windowsill and placing her chin in her hand, she stared out the large glass window, brow furrowed in concern. She couldn’t make out much, not with the rain being as turbulent and riotous as it was, but it was enough to see that the storm had wrecked more damage than necessary. Undoubtedly, it would have a radius spanning kilometres beyond the town, which, in fact, was her main point of apprehension.

He had left early this morning for a business trip far outside of town. He had been unaware of the potential storm – they all had, really – so he bid her farewell with not even an umbrella as protection. The weather this morning had been as clear as weather could come during winter: perhaps a few clouds, the vibrant cerulean hue of the sky slightly muted. There was not the slightest indication of a lethal thunderstorm. If anything, it had been one of the best days since autumn. However, the weather was a deceitful and temperamental thing, a system as fragile as the ice of a snowflake, prone to the winds of change – quite literally.

The storm was probably not as widespread as to reach his destination – if it was, it was truly a monster of the weather – but there would certainly be risks on the way back. She bit her lip nervously as she contemplated this. Her own job did not require her to leave town, ensuring her safety, but that meant his was compromised instead. The scales of fortune were tipped in her favour, but of course they required compensation. Everything had to be balanced. Push and pull, up and down, matter and antimatter, a death for a life. It was a law that governed the basic principles of nature and extended to something as complex as human life – for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Simple physics that could cost someone their existence.

She withdrew her arm from the windowsill and lifted her legs up onto the bed, wrapping her arms around them. She hoped nothing had happened to him. She hoped he was safe, that maybe the storm would die down before it could grasp him in its greedy little arms. She hoped for his sake, and for hers. Why mine? she thought, cocking her head. Why my sake as well? It was a pointless question, for the answer was already clear to her, but she liked to ask it anyway. From the moment they met, as two high school students cramming for a biology test in the stuffy school library, until now, as two successful adults with respectable careers, it was clear that they were meant to be. She smiled to herself, because as corny as that may sound, it was true.

He was the other piece of the puzzle, the yin to the yang. His needs were hers and her needs were his. They were two separate halves yet one in unison at the same time. They were friends, they were lovers, they were soul mates. Through the years of their relationship, a sense of trust had grown between them, a sense of belonging and of acceptance that could not be found elsewhere. They were inseparable, and as a result she could not imagine life without him; it was indubitable that he felt the same way.

As if on cue, the phone sitting beside her started to ring, the melody echoing almost eerily in the silence. She picked it up and glanced at the name on the screen, a small smile curving her lips.

Jett Kirkland.

Lightly tapping the answer button, she brought the phone up to her ear. She was met with poor sound quality, the harsh buzz of static blending in with the rush of the rain. No surprise there.

“Jett,” she chastised. They had known each other long enough to not require proper greetings. “You shouldn’t be calling while driving.”

She could almost hear the smile in his voice, see the sparkle in his light green eyes. “It’s fine. I’ve got earphones in.”

“That’s no excuse,” she said sternly, but let it slide. Jett was a responsible driver. He could handle a mere distraction.

“The rain’s picked up a lot on the way back. Is something going on there?”

“Yeah.” She pursed her lips into a thin line, casting a glance out the window. The storm had not shown any signs of yielding. “Big cyclone. Probably the worst we’ve had all year.”

Jett whistled in awe. “That bad, huh?”

She nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see her. Realising what she had just done, she cleared her throat, and amended, “Mm-hm.”

“Well, I’ll be back soon, okay?”

She frowned. “It’s flooding here. Be careful. I don’t think you can make it into town.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he reassured her. “I’ll stop as soon as I see anything dangerous, maybe give you a call. See you soon.”

“Bye,” she said just as he hung up.

Sighing, she swung her feet off the bed and stood up, walking over to turn on the radio on her bedside table. Sitting down on the edge of the bed next to it, she flicked through a couple of stations – the latest hits, cheesy ‘90s boy bands, country and rock ‘n’ roll – before finally settling on one with a weather broadcast. She sat back and tried to decipher the weatherman’s speech through the crackle of static.

“—one of the worst cyclones we’ve had in the past fifty years. Winds are reaching over two hundred kilometres per hour. Several car crashes have already occurred – fortunately with no casualties – and flights are being cancelled all over the country. The cyclone, currently unnamed, is fast intensifying to a category three and is expected to potentially reach category five. It’s currently centred in Queensland but is slowly progressing southward. Warnings have been sent out to prevent people from approaching beaches and coastline areas due to high tide, and evacuation preparations have been made. Stay tuned for more news as we switch over to sports—”

She switched the radio off. That was all the information that she needed. If it was severe enough to warrant evacuations, they were going to be in for one hell of a storm. Not that she wasn’t fascinated by it – she had always taken an interest in storms and the processes that contributed to their creation. Her friends had often teased her, saying that she would be far more suited to a job in meteorology than what she had chosen to pursue, but it was not really the science that interested her. It was more of the act of creation, of the spawning of such a seemingly small thing that could grow so large and intense in a short time span. The formation of a force so formidable that it could pave a path of destruction wherever it chose to go, a mass killing machine that started from something as simple as the basic cycle of evaporation and condensation.

Nature was strange that way.

The phone’s shrill ringtone cut through the silence, interrupting her train of thought. Picking it up from its position face-down on her bed, she looked briefly at the caller ID before a twinge of concern rushed over her.

“Hello?” This time, she believed a proper greeting was required.

“Hey,” said Jett’s voice. His normally carefree tone was unaffected, jubilant as ever. “I don’t think I can get through. The water levels are rising and it seems my windscreen wipers are losing the battle against the rain.”

She smiled half-heartedly at the joke before reverting back to a serious manner. “Jett, don’t panic. I think they’re sending out rescue teams right now.”

“Panic? Rescue teams?” He chuckled. “It’s not that bad, is it? I’m sure it can’t get that much worse than this.”

She shuddered as she glimpsed out the window. The trees looked like they were going to be uprooted and unless her eyes were deceiving her, large segments of rooftops had already been pulled off of houses. It was a miracle that the phone lines had not yet been cut off. “Believe me when I say it can.”

“Look, the only thing I’m worried about is the obscuring of my vision,” he reassured her. In her mind’s eye, she could see him craning his neck to get a better view. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

That did not diminish her worry. “I know, but…” She hesitated. “Promise me you’ll call again as soon as it gets too bad, okay? Just stay where you are, and—”

“Stay where I am?”

Her blood ran cold in her veins, her breath hitching in her throat. “Jett – you’re still driving?”

“Um, yeah.” She could hear the frown in his voice. “Why? Is that bad?”

“Stop. Stop right now.”

“__________, I’m sure it’ll be f—”

“Jett, please. Use the emergency lane if you have to. I’ll call for help right now.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then she heard him sigh. “Fine. I’ll pull over in a sec.” His tone was exasperated. “I can’t see very well, though. Hang on…”


“Okay, I’m doing it. My God, I can’t see anything in this weather.”

“Call me again later, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll—” There was a flash of silence, an instant of suspension, before Jett’s voice returned, its tone urgent and panicked. “Oh, sh—”

There was a loud crash, and the line went dead.

“Jett?” she asked, her heart thudding in her chest. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead and her breathing quickened in anxiety. “Jett, are you there?”

No response.

Jett!” she yelled, and then clapped her hand over her mouth. She was shaking all over, tremors running through her body. “Jett, talk to me, dammit! Stop joking around, I know you’re there!”

Still no response.

“Jett,” she whispered this time. Her breath was ragged, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She knew she wasn’t jumping to conclusions. It was true. He was gone. “Oh my God, Jett, you idiot. Why didn’t you listen to me? W-why… Talk to me… Please…”

Her efforts were futile. She knew they were, but that didn’t stop her from trying – trying to hear his voice one last time. It was no use. The line was dead, and- and…

and so was he.


She clutched at the bed-sheets, a bitter smile twisting her lips. So that was what happened. No wonder it drove her insane. No wonder the doctors tried to help her keep those memories repressed, buried deep within the alcoves of her mind. What they didn’t know was that they weren’t helping her at all. They were simply making it worse, as every time the memory returned, it returned sharper, more defined, more clarified in detail. Soon, neither they nor the little white pills could make her forget any longer. She hoped that day would come soon.

Flipping over once again to stare at the wooden furniture, she delved deep into another memory – the only other reminiscence she associated with him that she could remember as precise as this one. It had been almost a week until his body had been recovered from the wreckage of his car. The storm had subsided to meek drizzles and the media was already issuing statements of cost, of damage, of casualties. She had paid special attention to that last one. There were six casualties. Six – such a small number for such a large storm, but to those who knew the deceased, it did not seem so small after all. Six lives lost – six families, six circles of friends, six groups of colleagues, six bodies left unoccupied. So little yet so much had changed at the same time.

They’d asked her if she wanted to see the body – not his body, but the body. She couldn’t remember who ‘they’ were. Probably just another shadowy, faceless entity with little regard to her issues. She had entered the room, fists clenched tight. Had she already been admitted to hospital at this point? She wasn’t sure. This part was fuzzy, but as soon as she laid eyes on him, it all came into clear focus. It was too traumatising to describe, but one aspect stuck in her mind, inerasable. The worst part was his eyes, those light green orbs, the window to his soul. They had been so bright, so full of life and of joy, looking upon the world – and upon her – with an unbound love; now they were lifeless, pallid, the colour drained out of them. She had been the one to close his eyelids.

That was the last thing she remembered.

Life is a fragile thing, she mused to herself, fingering the covers. Existence was like a feather in the wind, tossing and turning in the breeze. One push, one intervention, it could end up somewhere completely different from the intended destination. If it were snatched out of the air, its course would be ended, its quest to achieve disrupted, no longer to be pursued. It could be torn, it could be trampled on, it could flutter away, never to be seen again – so many potentials, so many prospects. Like everything else, its destiny depended on those ominous scales of balance. One small adjustment could cause a chain reaction, a domino effect.

She felt as though that was what had happened to Jett’s life – it was the feather, the petal, one of many others. Nothing significant in the grand scheme of things, although it was to her. Their fates were tied, their providences connected. Their positions could have been reversed, and it would be her out there in the wake of destruction and him inside, sheltered from harm. She was one side of the scale and he was the other; to be inclined towards her would require reimbursement on his behalf, just as she had realised months ago. Why she did not do anything to prevent the consequences she did not know – selfishness perhaps, maybe negligence and overconfidence.

Jett was a responsible driver. He could handle a mere distraction.

It turned out she had been wrong – but then again, was anyone always right? Was there really anyone so perfect, so flawless and unadulterated in their knowledge? Would they have known that the one day would have costed Jett his life? Would they have seen the storm coming, have the prudence to persuade him to stay home instead of travelling all that way? If there really was, she hated them – hated them because they had not been around, had not decided to associate themselves with her and Jett, had not really cared.

But what was done was done. It was irreversible, unfixable, irrevocably unalterable – the storm, his death, her admittance to hospital, all of it. That was the nature of life. It was the beginning, it was the end. It was the little things, like a feather, subjected to the will of greater forces, like the gale force winds of a storm. It was gentle and considerate, but it was also harsh and unforgiving. It gave and it replenished and yet it stole what did not rightfully belong to it – a childhood love, a partner, a life. It was multi-faceted, layered with meaning. It was limited… and it was infinite.

A request for :iconautumn--thunder:! ^_^

I'm sorry it took so long - I actually had another concept for this story and started writing it but halfway through decided I didn't like it... so I gave up on it ._.
Anyway, I'm glad I changed it and I hope you like it and that it is sufficiently sad xD

Hetalia (c) Hidekazu Himaruya
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.