Hetalia Kink meme part 9 -- CLOSED

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hetalia kink meme
part 9

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Wake [1/5]

[anonymous]

Prussia’s funeral was not on a rainy day or even an overcast day. Nor was it on a sunny day, though no one would not have been surprised because he had the most horrible sense of timing.

France wasn’t crying. Neither was Spain. Nobody seemed to have the energy to even muster a tear. Except perhaps North Italy. But his silent, still face disturbed the soul on some primal level. No, it wasn’t happiness or even serenity, just blankness.

It surprised France. Of all nations, North Italy had witnessed death in its many disturbing faces, including the death of an empire. Surely this- this wouldn’t be- It wasn’t worth talking about, not at this time.

They buried him quietly near the palace of Sanssouci, where his beloved Old Fritz had wanted to be buried.

Why did they do this? France would have been happy to let his former friend’s body rot- but something of old etiquette, old ritual stopped him. If even England could grant a funeral to Prussia, then he could do the same. They could all pretend that Prussia had died and they still had lingering respect for him, enough to give him honors- You could snub your friends all you would like but you treated your enemies with the greatest of courtesies.

Of course he and Spain got outrageously drunk after that funeral, drinking the cheapest wine they could find and staring up at the ceiling in a haze of dying brain cells. They didn’t say anything though. And they quietly poured out a third glass from time to time to the ghost that clomped into France’s barren apartment on thick black boots and put up moody feet on splintering furniture.

“I shouldn’t be surprised, what you bastards did,” Prussia said to them. His neck held livid bruising and angry red lines, but his face was pale and drawn and otherwise very normal. No swollen lips, no bulging eyes. “I guess I would have done the same-” He cut himself off. “No, I wouldn’t have. Because I would have killed you little bitches already.” He grinned a dead man’s grin, teeth yellowing and gums receding.

His brilliantly red eyes (now true red, no longer that curious red-violet that could almost be normal) flickered from both of them. “Fuck you both,” he said at last. “Fuck the both of you to Hell and all that-” He slammed down his glass so hard that the table collapsed, sending the heavy-bottomed cup rolling on the dust-saturated carpet. His boot slammed down on the glass, splintering it. He picked up France’s box of cigarettes, his book of matches, and clomped out the door in a huff, leaving the stench of decaying flesh and grave dust in the apartment.

France and Spain didn’t meet each other’s eyes.