Past the Present Future
Past the Present Future
Genre: angst, romance
Pairing: PruCan (PrussiaxCanada)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,343 words
Soundtrack: Love Song Requiem (Trading Yesterday), Tourniquet & Bring Me To Life (Evanescence), 30 Minutes (t.A.T.u)
Disclaimer: I no more own Hetalia than the moon is, in fact, made of cheese.
Summary: It won't be long now. They're both waiting, but soon enough the waiting will come to an end and they'll be set free.
Comments: Hahaha part of me is still looking at this like "um, what". Have some angst.
-x-x-x-
Midnight has long since come and gone. He doesn't have a watch, but if he had to guess he'd say it was probably around three. He's be wrong- it's closer to two- but no matter.
The night around him is cool, and the windows are open, and he is huddled under the blankets on his bed, just the tip of his nose peeking out from under the protective warmth. He shivers despite the blanket, though, and in his mind he doesn't see his bedroom, familiar and comforting; he sees snow falling gently on streets downtown and the Christmas lights sparkling from the windows of every store they pass.
He gasps at the very thought of that, and the shivering intensifies tenfold. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, but all that happens when he does so is that his vision sharpens, until he can almost make out a face-
So he opens his eyes again, staring determinedly out of his little cozy pile to see the door standing open. In the living room down the hall he can see the faint flicker of the TV that he left on, the dull chatter of late-night comedies and infomercials serving as a falsified soundtrack for his falsified imagination. He can still hear the sounds from elsewhere, anyway: the laughter and babble of school hallways this time, and he can almost smell the gym-socks-and-textbooks-and-Sharpie scent that was so signature of his highschool, and then he smells the one certain cologne that only one person he knows- knew- wears, and then it's all over- backing out would be impossible at this point. He's crossed that line.
-x-
They met as spring was melting into summer two years ago. Matthew was a junior at the time, and he'd been dragged along to one of his cousin Alfred's parties again. Usually he just sat on the back wall of some room or other the entire time, never drinking or talking to anyone, but something had been different that night. There had been some new guy there; he'd just moved from Germany, apparently. He'd been curious- intrigued- but not enough to act on it. He was therefore completely unprepared and quite surprised when a stunningly attractive albino with a thick German accent say down next to him on Alfred's old brown couch.
"Hi," he'd said, grinning at Matthew and glancing up into his eyes. In response, he'd let out a weak little sound that might have been intended as "hello" (or possibly "Hi, my name is Matthew and I want to have your babies"- biology wasn't really on his mind, after all, at least not in that sense). Either way, he got a laugh, slightly grating and completely fitting, somehow, in return, and then "I'm Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt. And you're cute."
Is he flirting with me? Matthew had panicked. But he held his terror in, and nervously said, "Um... I'm Matthew Williams. And, um, thank you?"
Gilbert laughed again, and all at once he was completely hooked.
-x-
Slowly- more slowly than almost anything he's ever experienced- the shaking stops, and he carefully ventures out of his pile of blankets to stand up. He shuffles around the foot of his bed, kicking the things- clothes, trash, books- that litter the floor out of his way as he does so. Normally, his room is much neater than this, but cleaning hasn't so much been a priority lately.
The blinds are drawn, but a little bit of moonlight filters through anyway. He reaches over, nearly loosing his balance but succeeding in grabbing the string and pulling open the dingy plastic blinds. As accustomed as his eyes now are to the darkness, it shocks him to suddenly get the full force of the moon and the flowing signs of the few convenience stores and other shops around. He staggers back a step or two, frowning and blinking, and the brightness pierces his chest like a knife never could.
He waits, and when his eyes are adjusted he takes another couple of steps forward to meet the window. Leaning towards the pain-bright lights, he presses his forehead to the cool glass. It is a welcome reprieve, the shock of the cold; if only it could last, then he might be all right. Instead, though, thoughts and feelings quickly burn right through the ice of the reality that the window presents. Nothing, of course, could ever be more real than these thoughts, and this one fragmented hope- the memory of a dream of a lover- and that is his curse.
-x-
They were in the same English class- that is to say, the last period of the day, they were together. As soon as that became clear, Matthew developed the oddest habit of being unchangingly red from the moment he entered the room to the moment he left, whether or not Gilbert so much as looked at him.
Gilbert, for his part, did so approximately every five seconds. He'd stare briefly at what they were reading, and then his gaze would flash across the room to Matthew. Book, Matthew. Book, Matthew. It was an unchanging phenomenon.
But then one day it did change. One day, finally, when the final school-bell of the year rang, Gilbert, with no respect at all for patterns and unchanging phenomena, walked across the room. He stood there, at Matthew's desk, so close, and people were staring, but still Gilbert just stood there, unmoving. Finally, people turned away and hurried from the room, and it was then that Gilbert said evenly, "So, Matthew. I- uh- do you want to, you know, hang out sometime?"
As if he could say no.
-x-
Eventually he is recovered enough to move away from the window, and when he does so he becomes decidedly aware that, firstly, he is very hungry; secondly, he is very thirsty; thirdly, the splitting headache isn't just internal, it's probably caused by dehydration. So he resumes his shuffling- this time to the kitchen- kicking his way back through the clothes and trash and books currently serving as a stylish new carpet. He shuffles past, in turn, the still-glowing TV, the door to the bathroom, and the bookshelves that are currently half-empty and disorganized, seeing as a sizable bit of their contents are strewn presently upon the bedroom floor, and finally he reaches his destination. In a continuation of the zombie-like gait he has adopted, he makes his way to first the cupboard, where he takes one of the last clean cups, eyeing the growing pile in the sinks which has long since begun to smell, and secondly the refrigerator, from whence he removes a carton of milk- luckily still fresh- and also some slightly old but still edible Chinese takeout. He pours the milk all the way to the brim of the glass, then puts it back in the fridge making a mental note to acquire more in the future since the carton is now nearly empty. Then, sipping a bit off the top of the glass of milk so as not to spill, he reverses direction and retreats to his waiting bed.
When he gets there, he sits down Indian-style, drinks most of the milk in three long gulps, then takes the box of takeout and begins to open the lid. Halfway through this process, his brain catches up to what he's about to be eating and he freezes. Surely not... but no, he realizes, still frozen in place, it has to be. After all, he hasn't left the house since.
He tries very hard not to let it happen, but it does.
His mind steps back and acquires data: sound bits (cackling laughter, chatter, the hiss of oil in a wok), jpegs (crimson, chow mein, chopsticks, happiness in his own eyes as reflected on the back of a spoon), mp4 videos (a smile, a kiss, a laugh), and taste (soy sauce and magic and Gilbert and brilliant summer spice). No- no, he doesn't want to remember, but all of a sudden there is a leap in his heart and tears cloud his eyes. That day meant so many different kinds of joy, boundless and irreplaceable, but now- it's gone, isn't it?
It's gone.
Could he have ever taken it? No, he supposes not, leaning back against his headboard and shoving the takeout box aside; after all, had he not tried his hardest to take, to obtain, to keep, and had he not failed?
Yes, of course, he had. And then this was his fault, if he couldn't had ever succeeded and yet he kept trying anyway. It was his fault, his decision to pin hopes and dreams on that boy with the platinum hair and the ruby eyes, and his funeral will be the result of those hopes and dreams falling from his hands and shattering. And to him, that statement is quite literal: he can almost feel the angel at his shoulder, a slightly malevolent presence just waiting to take him away. It is terror itself to think of, but he can't just ignore it. If he did, he thinks, he would break.
-x-
For quite some time, Matthew's life was a collection of happy, shiny rose-tinted days all laid out in a row to be admired. Nothing much changed from one day to the next- only the departure from the old locations to the new, times and places and people shifting almost imperceptibly aside, once their time making memories had been served, to make way for the next set. It was hazy to look back on now- part of him was somewhat certain none of it had ever happened at all. It had been 18 months, however, or so he supposed; that was quite a lot of time to have slipped away in fake memories. It was possible, though. At this point, he would take any out, no matter how odd or impossible.
After all, had they not walked together, happy, on that night (was it really so few days past? Was he really in such a state that these handful of days- three, four- felt like the eternity he'd once dreamed of?) when the stars twinkled as the lights all around, their smiles just part of a tirade of joy seemingly shared by all? And hadn't he walked his Gilbert- his love- home for the evening, sealed the night with a kiss, and turned away? Was that not the truth he'd fought so hard to deny himself sight of?
He had been entangled in a conversation as he left the apartment complex- a friend from work had stopped him as he left with an exclamation of surprise ("Oh, Matthew! I didn't know you...") and he'd had to explain to her that, no, he didn't live here, he'd just been dropping someone off, and then who that someone was, and then "Oh, so you two are dating?" and "yes, we met in high school/we go to the same university/no we haven't talked about moving in together/were you always this nosy, Elizabeta?" And that was how he'd still been talking, under the eaves, half an hour later, how he'd been trapped far too close.
How he'd heard the sound, the ugly, horrendous sound, that had pierced the night, causing Elizabeta to shriek, and neatly killed them both.
-x-
He shoves the Chinese takeout and the mostly-empty glass aside; they are remnants, are they not? Well, he is a remnant too, of a separate sort; but that's different. Remnants of people- of lives, hopes, dreams, and love- are priority. He is better than these simple artifacts of human waste because... because he is.
He shudders, throwing the blanket, crumpled in the middle of the bed, back over his shoulders; it is December, after all, and therefore cold. Fitting, he supposes, but for the shakily blooming flower that, even now, slowly unfurls another of its wide crimson petals. It is a comfort, however small, to have the warm cloth tucked around him once more; at least physically he is more at peace, no longer shivering momentously with every heartbeat.
He draws a long, slow breath, and it is then that it strikes him- he knows. The flower is blooming for him, after all; its sickly-sweet scent has caught his attention, coursing through him with a siren's call. His will is weak, and its pull is strong. With his blanket still wrapped around him, he shudders slowly to his feet, once more beginning his hazy, zombieish shuffle towards the kitchen; he is as though in a deep, dreamless sleep.
He smells a faint hint of cologne atop the flower's scent as he enters the kitchen, and hears the slightest smile on the air over the dull roar coming from teh television that remains on in the other room. A voice breathes in his ear.
"Yes, Matt. You're close. So close."
With a gasp he lurches toward the kitchen counter, grabbing the edge of the Formica countertop in an attempt to regain his balance. His breath is now coming in permanent painful gasps, but he manages to reach a hand out and grab one of the dull wooden handles resting serenely in the knife block. With a rusty hiss, his chosen tool slides from its roost, the bare light glinting off the surface. He hasn't used this one much- it's the largest, and most of the cooking he does is nothing so sophisticated as to need this sort of knife, really- so he is quite confident that it will be sharp enough to do its job well.
He stands up surprisingly straight for a moment, closes his eyes, and without giving himself time to think, drives the blade lovingly home.
-x-
It is not, as he had expected, pure, bright white, but rather deepest black. That did not meant he was completely wrong, though, because he was not alone.
"We'll be together now, love."
"Forever?"
"Yes. Just as I'd hoped."
"You were right. This is perfect. I love you."
And so both remained blind to the greater truth.
-x-x-x-