Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login

Similar Deviations
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
Show
Add a Comment:
 
No comments have been added yet.

It was hard work being infatuated with something like her, a woman who Gilbert was sure was raised by wolves, not humans. Her hardened heart, broken many times over the years caused her to close that part of her and she was determined never to love again, much to Gilbert’s despair. She could tolerate friends, but not a lover. Gilbert was resolute to let her open her mind, to make her see the beautiful things in life and to make them a part of her.

‘Gilbert?’

Gilbert glanced down at the voice, meeting large, jade spheres. Her long, russet locks, decorated with a cerise bloom, fanned about her head in the grass, which to Gilbert made her look like an angel. Her mouth was curved upwards in a smile as she gazed at him, showing pearly teeth. In her slender hands she held a crown of dandelions and she beckoned him to bend down with a finger.

‘Come here,’ she said, giggling at the confused expression on his face. ‘I want to tell you something.’

His hearing perked up and he sank onto an elbow until he was at level with her face. ‘What is it, Elizabeta?’

‘Nothing!’ she exclaimed, quickly placing the flower tiara upon his frosty tresses. It took Gilbert a moment to realise what had happened but by then, Elizabeta had slipped away, searching the elongated blades of emerald for more yellow buds, her bright green dress flapping around her ankles.

He watched her, smiling inwardly. She caught him looking and waved a hand. ‘Hey, Gil! Help me look!’

‘But that takes effort,’ Gilbert grumbled loudly, getting slowly to his feet. He laughed at the irritated look she sent him as he walked over to her. She shook her head but a small grin played at the corners of her lips.

‘You’re crazy.’

‘So are you,’ he retorted, swinging an arm around her shoulders and giving them a squeeze. ‘But I love you anyway.’

Elizabeta rolled her eyes, pushing him playfully away. ‘I love you too, you idiot.’

Gilbert’s heart soared at that but then it came plummeting back down. He knew she only loved him as a friend, a brother even, but nothing more. If only she knew how much she means to me, Gilbert thought sadly, fingering the piece upon his bonce delicately. He took it off and put it in Elizabeta’s hair.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, a hand going to her head.

Gilbert slapped it away gently. ‘Nein, leave it there. It suits you better!’

‘I made it for you, though,’ she mumbled, kneeling down and picking out more dandelions. ‘I think it goes well with your colour hair.’

He flushed, distracting himself with plucking flowers in his area of the grass. Why does she have this effect on me? This is so not awesome of me, he thought, twirling a stem between his fingertips.

Suddenly, he felt himself being pulled backwards and his nape met something soft. Scarlett eyes going wide, he fathomed that Elizabeta had settled him in her lap.

‘Stay there,’ Elizabeta commanded lightly, setting a pile of the golden blossoms on his torso. Gilbert could only stare at the woman in surprise as she slid a nail into the bottom of a stalk, threading another through the gap she made.

He couldn’t remember the last time she did something like this to any one, let alone him. She had been reserved since that night, hardly showing affection to any living soul. Gilbert didn’t say a word, just merely relished her warmth and comfort.

His orbs trailed over her features, studying them: a face framed with sharp cheekbones, fine jawline and round chin, eyes bordered with black, curled lashes, a straight, dainty nose and lips a subtle pink. A few strands of hair danced in front of him, gleaming in the sunlight.

‘What’s wrong, Gilbert?’ Elizabeta queried, worry embedded in her tone. ‘You’re quiet. You’re never quiet.’

‘Just thinking, Liz-Biz,’ he replied, using the pet name he made for her. He heard her tsk and he let out a chuckle. ‘What? It’s a cute name!’

‘You make me sound like I’m a bee,’ she countered, glaring down at him. ‘Do I look like a bee?’

‘Nein, but it’s a cute name,’ he told her, poking her cheek. ‘And you’re cute!’

She smacked his prodding limb, blushing, which made Gilbert smirk. ‘Shut up. I’m not cute,’ she argued, her brow furrowed.

‘Ja, you are,’ he sang, seizing a lock of her hair and bringing it to his mouth. He put it between his nose and top lip and waggled his eyebrows at her. ‘Moustache.’

Elizabeta snorted, then threw her head back and roared with laughter. Gilbert loved her laugh. It brought happiness in the ambience and it tinkled like an angel’s breath. It caused his beating organ to skip a beat every time he heard it and the corners of his eyes to crinkle in a smile.

‘You are such a dork,’ Elizabeta clucked, brushing his bangs away from his forehead before positioning the newly-created wreath upon his head. ‘There. That’s better.’

‘Do I look awesome?’ Gilbert crowed, hopping to his feet. ‘More awesome than usual?’

‘Yes, oh mighty King of the Dandelions,’ Elizabeta chanted, her irises alight with amusement. Gilbert struck a heroic pose but it didn’t last long as a gust of wind blew his tie into his face. He heard Elizabeta chortle as he moved it away and he gave her a blank expression.

‘Well, don’t just sit there,’ he reprimanded, holding out his hand. ‘Come, let me show you the world, my Dandelion Queen.’

‘Why, thank you, my liege,’ she gushed, taking his hand and getting pulled to her feet. ‘Where to first?’

‘This way!’ Gilbert shouted, dragging Elizabeta off in a random direction. He peeped back at her and beamed, his crimson spheres glinting with adventure and she returned the gesture with a devious grin.

They spent the rest of the day running around the field, acting like little children and Gilbert’s infatuation with Elizabeta had turned into pure love by the end of the day.

***

‘Mein Gott, it’s hot,’ Gilbert complained, pushing his dark sunglasses back up his slippery nose.

‘Be glad we’re not in Australia, then,’ Elizabeta muttered, slapping sunscreen onto her arms and legs. ‘Now there was a hot country, if there ever was one.’

‘I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me you went until you got back,’ Gilbert rumbled, peering over his shades at her. ‘I was worrying about you for weeks!’

‘You know, Gilbert, you’re like a puppy,’ Elizabeta told him, smiling hugely. He scoffed, crossing his skinny limbs across his bare chest. She giggled at his childish behaviour.

It was a hot summer day, and the sun was taking its toll on every one, and due to this, the beaches were packed with people, Gilbert and Elizabeta amongst them. If there was one thing that Gilbert hated, it was heat and with his pale complexion, the beach wasn’t the most ideal place for him to be, no matter how badly he needed to cool down. But Elizabeta had begged him to go with her, promising a great day out.

The things I do for that girl, he mused, watching her rub in the cream on her skin. He had to admit, she looked sexy in her black one piece: it hugged her curves and showed just the right amount of cleavage.

‘Put those eyes back in that skull of yours, Beilschmidt,’ Elizabeta warned, glowering at him. He put his hands up in a surrender, smirking at her defensive stature.

‘Alright, I’m sorry for staring at a pretty woman,’ he murmured, resisting the urge to grin at her flustered state.

‘M-Make yourself useful,’ she stammered, holding out the bottle of sunscreen. ‘Can you do my back?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, ducking as Elizabeta attempted to hit him. He snickered, squeezing some of the white liquid out into his palm. ‘Turn around, Liz-Biz.’

‘Please, stop calling me that,’ Elizabeta grumbled, spinning around in the yellow grain, facing the other way. Gilbert chuckled, about to say a snarky remark when his voice died in his throat.

Why didn’t she tell me she had a backless swimsuit? He panicked, struggling to not ogle at her bare back. She was exposed from her shoulders down to the small of her back, where the shape of the costume curved into a point just above her hipbones. Gilbert spread the cream all over, his cheeks very warm, and not because of the sun.

He tried to keep his hands under control as he rubbed in the lotion; they trembled slightly as he went lower and lower. Her flesh felt smooth underneath his calloused palms and plenty of naughty scenarios played in his mind. No! Bad Gilbert! That is unawesome of you!

Wiping the excess fluid onto his own skin, he stuttered, ‘You’re ready to go, frau.’

‘Thank you, Gilberry,’ Elizabeta prattled, pecking his crimson cheek, digging around in her bag for her hat.

‘G-Gilberry?’ he spluttered, the spot where she kissed him tingling. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘It’s payback,’ she replied matter-of-factly, tucking her plait into her large, straw sunhat. ‘For calling me Liz-Biz.’

Gilbert narrowed his eyes at her behind the lens when an idea came him. He waited until Elizabeta had turned away before scrambling to his feet. Sliding his arm under her knees, she let out a squeal as he picked her up. Laughing manically, he ran down the sand and jumped into the water with Elizabeta still in his hold. The sea was cold but pleasant on their hot bodies.

He let go of her under the water and reappeared from beneath the blue world. Realising that he lost his sunglasses, he looked around the ocean-floor, patting his foot in case they were nearby. He found them when his toe knocked against them and he retrieved them, putting them back on after shaking the water out of them.

Suddenly, a wave of spray splashed his face and he turned to the source: an angry, sopping wet woman with a long braid of brown hair and a black swimsuit.

‘GILBERT!’ Elizabeta yelled, clutching her sodden hat. ‘What was that for, you twat?’

‘To loosen you up,’ Gilbert told her simply, shrugging. ‘You’re too uptight. It’s unawesome of you.’

She glared at him for several moments, her hands in fists and on her hips. He blinked innocently at her, his mouth curving upwards in one corner.

‘Oh, this is on,’ Elizabeta growled, scooping some of the ocean into her hat and chucking the item at Gilbert. He yelped as the hat hit him square in the face, sending him flying backwards into the water. Her triumphant laugh filled the air, however, it was short-lived at Gilbert splashed her in retaliation.

They raged on, continuously splattering each other with the sea, their war cries and raucous hoots and snorts piercing the atmosphere well until it was dark. It was then that Gilbert apprehended that Elizabeta would always, no matter what, be the one and only woman he loved.

***

‘Elizabeta!’

Gilbert’s heart was in his throat. Fear coursed through him like a treacherous high tide, engulfing him and clouding his senses. He banged on the door to Elizabeta’s apartment with urgency, his silver hair matted to his forehead and his cherry eyes round in horror.

There was no answer and Gilbert was ready to sob. The message he had received from her earlier was imprinted in his mind, branded in his vision: It’s over.

Why didn’t I see it sooner? He scolded himself, running his hands through his drenched hair. If only I stopped it before it happened… I should have seen it!

‘Lizzy! Open the door, bitte!’ he called, his crown rested on the egress, his palms flat against the wood. ‘Please… you don’t have to do this!’

‘How do you know?’

Gilbert paused, relief washing over him. She’s still here, he told himself, breathing in deeply. She hasn’t done anything stupid.

It had been a month since that day at the beach and in the meantime, Elizabeta had found herself a new man. Gilbert had known that her most recent boyfriend was trouble and that he was going to do what the others did to her in the past. He hated himself for not realising sooner and for not saving Elizabeta while he still could. Guilt flowed in his veins, along with sympathy and anger.

‘I know because that arschloch doesn’t deserve you and you certainly don’t deserve him,’ he replied, fighting to keep his voice steady. ‘Oh, Liz. Why do you keep choosing those who aren’t right for you?’

What would you know, idiot?

The entrance to the residence burst open, revealing a tear-streaked, messy-haired Elizabeta standing in the archway, her irises darkened in fury. Gilbert took a step back, terrified and unsure of what to do. In her sorrowed state, Gilbert was surprised at the vigour she had in her when she launched herself on him, beating him wherever she could.

‘How the hell do you know how I feel?’ she shouted, her arms flying at Gilbert’s torso. ‘How do you know what I’m going through? Who are you to know who’s right for me? How do you…’

She stopped abruptly, breathing heavily and her stature limp. Gilbert said nothing, just merely looked worriedly down at her, slowly wrapping his limbs around her. Elizabeta broke, weeping quietly into Gilbert’s shirt, her sniffles muffled through the material. Gilbert led her back inside, shutting the door with his foot. He held her as she cried, whispering soothing words and rubbing circles on her back.

‘I’m sorry…’ she muttered, gazing up at him imploringly with shimmering pools of green.

He shook his head, tucking a lock of russet behind her ear. ‘Don’t be,’ he told her, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. ‘It’s not your fault.’

Returning Elizabeta into his embrace, Gilbert scanned her apartment, the dining room table catching his attention. Upon it were bundles of rosemary, tied together to form chariots. It was a habit of Elizabeta’s that whenever she was upset, she built random objects with whatever she could find. It seemed that the herbs in her cupboard were what she had left.

‘Gilbert?’

Gilbert hummed to show that he was listening, still hugging Elizabeta’s shivering figure. The scent of her shampoo wafted past his nostrils, the sweet smell causing memories to burst into colour.

‘Why do I keep choosing the wrong guys,’ she said, locking her wrists around Gilbert’s neck, ‘when I have you?’

He froze, unable to think straight. Did she say what I think she just said?

‘You’re always there for me,’ Elizabeta continued, and Gilbert could feel her fingers playing with the little wisps of hair at his nape. ‘You treat me with kindness, and even though you’re an idiot, you somehow manage to make me laugh.’

All that Gilbert was able to do was to stare at Elizabeta with his orbs as big as dinner plates. He didn’t want to believe what he was hearing in case it was a hallucination, but a part of him was driving him to consider it being true.

‘To be honest, Gilbert, I would be lost if it weren’t for you,’ Elizabeta resumed, threading her digits through the platinum strands on Gilbert’s head, who purred with satisfaction at the touch. ‘You’re my best friend and I… well, I thought that’s what we’ll always be. That’s why I went out with those guys: to try and forget that you and I were never going to be together. I’m so stupid, aren’t I?’

If she was expecting an answer, she didn’t get one for Gilbert, in the spur of the moment, crashed his lips onto hers. Almost instantly, she kissed him back and Gilbert’s stomach began doing flips. Her lips were warm, velvety and heavenly – it was better than he had ever imagined.

His hands rested on her hips and the back of her head as he tilted to the side to deepen the exchange, sparks exploding at their connected mouths. Elizabeta’s palms slid down his chest as they parted, her lids hooded with love swirling in her irises.

It was a sight Gilbert vowed to never forget. Too long had it been since he had seen her so full of life, so radiant with affection, so happy with being in love. He felt accomplished in terms of making her see the beauty of love and he had finally gotten the woman of his dreams.

‘Is this your way of telling me that you love me?’ she joshed, a cheeky grin playing at her features.

Gilbert looked at her seriously, nodding. ‘Ja, because you are – how do you Hungarians say it? – my awesome kedvesem.’

Elizabeta flushed and a victorious feeling bubbled in the pit of Gilbert’s being. It was rare to see Elizabeta embarrassed and flustered but whenever it happened, Gilbert couldn’t help but feel jubilant, especially if he caused it. He received a light punch in the shoulder and another passionate kiss.

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘But I’m your awesome idiot,’ Gilbert rebutted, rubbing his nose against hers. She chuckled, the corners of her eyes crinkled in a smile.

‘Yes, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Hello everyone~
Guess what?
THIS IS MY 100TH DEVIATION
:iconcannotevenplz:
Oh my gosh
This is crazy XD
It only took me two years to get here D:

I think you can tell that I was just waiting to make PruHun my 100th :3
I love them so much :iconblushplz:
And I love AusHun at the same time.
... Is that even possible?
Meh
Whatever XD

Anyway, this another part of the Eurovision songfic series I am doing and this time, it's Hungary's Kedvesem. This song, along with L'Enfer Et Moi, is one of my favourite songs in this year's Eurovision Song Contest. Not to mention that ByeAlex is pretty attractive //shot

So, I hope you like this PruHun fluff~
It's almost 3000 words, omg D:
And Hungary's totally OOC T^T


Comments are much appreciated~

ENJOY

Identitet: ~Coming Soon
Lonely Planet: ~Coming Soon
Shine: ~Coming Soon
Hold Me: ~Coming Soon
Solayoh: ~Coming Soon
Love Kills: ~Coming Soon
Samo Shampioni: ~Coming Soon
Mizerja: ~Coming Soon
An Me Thimase: ~Coming Soon
Only Teardrops: ~Coming Soon
Et Uus Saaks Alguse: ~Coming Soon
Marry Me: ~Coming Soon
L'Enfer Et Moi: doubleox515.deviantart.com/art…
Waterfall: ~Coming Soon
Glorious: ~Coming Soon
Alcohol Is Free: ~Coming Soon
Kedvesem: ~You are here
Eg A Lif: ~Coming Soon
Only Love Survives: ~Coming Soon
Rak Bishvilo: ~Coming Soon
L'Esssenziale: ~Coming Soon
Here We Go: ~Coming Soon
Something: ~Coming Soon
Pred Da Se Razdeni: ~Coming Soon
Tomorrow: ~Coming Soon
O Mie: ~Coming Soon
Igranka: ~Coming Soon
Birds: ~Coming Soon
I Feed You My Love: ~Coming Soon
It's My Life: ~Coming Soon
Crisalide: ~Coming Soon
Ljubav Je Svuda: ~Coming Soon
Straight Into Love: ~Coming Soon
Constigo Hasta El Final: ~Coming Soon
You: ~Coming Soon
You and Me: ~Coming Soon
Gravity: ~Coming Soon
Believe In Me: ~Coming Soon

Hetalia (c) Hidekazu Himaruya
Storyline (c) doubleox515
Kedvesem (c) ByeAlex

Preview picture is not mine.
Image found here: www.google.com.au/search?hl=en…
Show
Add a Comment:
 
No comments have been added yet.

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.

I'M HERE FOR THE TUTORING. MAY I COME IN?

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

CH5: sherlockedhazza.deviantart.com…
CH7: sherlockedhazza.deviantart.com…

Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz ©
Show
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: sherlockedhazza.deviantart.com…
Link to Chapter 2: sherlockedhazza.deviantart.com…

Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz ©
Show
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.
Show
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

~Ciao

LINK TO CHAPTER 1: sherlockedhazza.deviantart.com…

The picture does not belong to me, I found it somewhere on Photobucket but I lost the link.
What Ludwig's car looks like: upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia…
Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz ©
Show
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…”

“Good.”

“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.

White.
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
Show
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]
Show
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 that year; a tradition you had not relived since youthful years of boyhood, and one you had 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 had no umbrella, much less any promise of sleep with the pounding of the rain.

Your hands linger at your pockets before hastily burying themselves, 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 dismay, 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 ever thought possible.

There 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.

Was 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 soaking 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 could 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 child-like 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 thin body and 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-

*cough*

I do not own England or Hetalia.

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

There she was. The girl of his dreams. (Full Name). She was a beauty. No one could deny that. Just who was this special girl? Who longed to be with her forever?

Well, it was just a certain man named Matthias Køhler. You see, Matthias and (Name) had been dating for six months. They certainly were happy times for the Dane. He was head over heels for her. That’s quite an impressive feat considering Matthias was an infamous playboy.

Though they were perfect for each other, fate had other plans. It tore apart the two lovers, but it wasn’t a typical breakup. It was actually an amicable one, a breakup that they both agreed upon.  So, the two went their separate ways, thinking that they’d never see each other again, but fate wasn’t done.

So, here he was. Matthias was taking the train to his boring job at his boring office with his friend, Lukas. He sat there with a solemn smile, thinking about all the blissful memories they had made together.  He sat there, letting his eyes drift among the various passengers when he saw her. The angel he had longed to see.

The sun’s rays captured her flaxen hair in a beautiful glow and her eyes sparkled with mirth as she laughed at a joke that her male companion said. God, she was so beautiful. Matthias could feel his face relax and turn into a smile as he saw how joyful she was. He could hear Lukas scoff at his behavior, but that was just a distant sound. Matthias was lost in a world composed of just him and (Name). He wouldn’t lose any sleep tonight. He had seen his angel and he had a plan to get her back.

As Matthias continued to stare at her, (Name) turned her gaze to the love-struck Dane. The corners of her mouth lifted up into a small smile that she couldn’t help but make. He was still the silly Dane she knew. The miniscule action made Matthias’s heart flutter like a hummingbird’s wings. He knew that he would never see her after this train ride, but he didn’t care; they shared a moment that would last until the end.

The train gently came to a stop as it opened the doors for the passengers to either leave or get on. Matthias sat for a millisecond more, not bothering to get up as he thought about how Cupid must be smiling at his mushy actions. He watched (Name) grasp her friend’s hand leave with him while he gave her a tender kiss on the cheek. Her (e/c) orbs brightened with joy, just like they did when Matthias did so to her.  At this, Matthias’s cerulean eyes dampened with realization and sorrow. He knew he would never be with (Name) ever again.
Yay! I'm alive!

So, sorry for not being on for a very long time. I've just had other things to do.

(I should totally be working on my series, but I'm too lazy to. Don't kill me!)

Anyways, here's a random, short, lame and bittersweet drabble about (drumroll please) The King of Northern Europe~!

So, regarding my series, I'm working on part 3. I'll finish. Don't worry.

Right....so that's it for now. I hope you guys enjoy!

Hetalia (c) :iconhimaruyaplz:
You (c) You
Story (c) Me
Show
Add a Comment:
 
No comments have been added yet.