"This Is The Way The World Ends"
Title: "This Is The Way The World Ends"
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: China, Germany/N. Italy, Canada, France, onesided England/America, Russia/America.
Summary: Written for pyrrhiccomedy, for her reverse request meme. Here's the prompt: Oh balls! A meteorite is going to hit the Earth in two days. No, there's nothing anyone can do about it. We're all going to die. Who do the nations spend their last hours with, and what do they take the opportunity to say?
Author's Notes: I get the faint impression that this could have been something markedly hilarious. But, because I like to depress the hell out of myself, angst ensued.
+++
Sunrise
Beijing still moves, even in the face of annihilation. And China watches it.
He drapes his arms over the sun-warmed bricks of the observatory wall, gazes down at his people, his city. After years of economic power, years of dealing with the West, this feeling of helplessness is new, and he’s glad he’s not going to have the opportunity to get used to it.
Bronze dragons curl around the ancient astronomical instruments situated across the platform, snarling with empty green mouths. China remembers how to use them. He could look, if he wanted. He could see what’s coming.
He could measure just how long he has left.
He doesn’t.
+
Morning
Dust motes gleam in the long streaks of light pouring through the high windows, and gold-painted stars flare against the bone-white sweep of the ceiling. Santa Maria delle Grazie is silent, save for the faint sputtering of a thousand prayer candles, overflowing their ornate stands and spilling out onto the floor.
Germany looks into the painted face of Christ, and wonders if anyone is listening.
“Germany?” Italy’s arm is warm around his waist. “What’s wrong?”
He turns his attention to the disciples, to their expressions: everything from horror to utter peace. The latter is supposed to come with time. And time is something they no longer have. “...Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of dying?”
Those words, in that voice...Germany nods, suddenly unable to speak.
Italy waits a long moment before replying. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He reaches out and brushes a tiny smudge from the corner of the fresco. “But I will miss this. Cenacolo Vinciano was always my favorite.”
Germany presses a kiss to the other nation’s hair. He doesn’t let himself think as he says, “If you see Him--” he nods to the figure at the center of the table, “put in a good word for me.”
He knows there’s not a chance. He knows they’re both going to flicker out forever, like the prayer candles shivering in the stillness.
But...
Italy smiles, and his hold on Germany tightens. “I won’t need to.”
+
Afternoon
Canada’s knuckles are raw. He’d been knocking for the better part of an hour, and his skin began chafing off around twenty minutes in. He had graduated to beating on the polished oak soon after that, stopping every once in a while to catch his breath.
“England, please! I know you can hear me! Just--just let me in!” He rests the crown of his head against the door. “England...there’s not a lot of time.”
There’s no answer.
Canada swears, and kicks the wood as hard as he can. Glass rattles in the front windows.
Damn it. God damn it.
The phone lines were all down, overloaded by millions of people trying to reach their families. But somehow, Canada had been awoken by the shrill tone of his cell phone, vibrating in the pocket of the jeans he’d fallen asleep in the night before. He’d fumbled for his glasses and missed the call. The message came in on a delay, forty minutes later.
"--anada, hey, it’s me. You’re not picking up, so...yeah. I’m on a pay phone, so you probably didn’t recognize the number. My cell’s shot to shit, I’m getting, like, zero bars right now...Um. Listen, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to--” It was garbled, there, hissed like static. "--but it’s not...it’s not like he doesn’t have you there, you know? ...Well, I hope you know, because I sure as hell don’t...Jesus. I’m almost out of time here, so, uh, I love you. Seriously. I do. You’re...you’re a damn good brother, and I’m sorry. About everything. Sorry I stole your blanket when we were kids, sorry I didn’t give you more credit, sorry England doesn’t--didn’t....Damn it. Shouldn’t have said...Sorry about that too. Love yo--”
And that was it.
Canada gives the door another kick. “He’s not coming, England! You’re going to have to settle for me!”
Like you always have.
He pushes the thought away, and decides to go through the window. The porch steps creak as he jumps down into the grass. One loose bit of paving, a rock. That’s all he needs. He drops to his knees and pries at the bricks at the edge of the front walk.
“Canada.”
Grass tears up beneath his shoes when he spins around in a crouch, steadies himself one-handed. He knows who it is before he even looks up. The smell--cigarette smoke, expensive cologne--is enough. “How long have you been here?”
France shrugs and takes a long drag on his Gauloise. “A few hours. Much longer than you.”
Canada gets to his feet and brushes grass stains from the knees of his jeans. “You could have told me he wasn’t answering.”
“I thought you might have better luck than I did. I was wrong.”
“He doesn’t want me, France.” Canada says quietly. It’s the first time he’s ever said it, really said it. He doesn’t feel anything.
France doesn’t reply, and Canada tries not to think about how exhausted he looks. He wonders how long “a few hours” actually is. Eventually, the other nation flicks his cigarette away and gathers Canada into his arms.
He drops his forehead onto France’s shoulder, breathes him in. “Do you think he ever did?”
France rubs a hand gently down his back. “Don’t make me lie to you, cheri.”
Canada wonders faintly if England can hear them. He’s suddenly too tired to hate himself for caring.
+
Sunset
England checks the latch, nudges the door firmly back into the frame, and waits for someone who isn’t coming.
+
Night
It is, Russia thinks, a beautiful night for the world to end.
The frozen tundra is spread out before him, and the wind kicks up shuddering flurries of snow, sends them spiraling into the still air. They whip up to join the glittering spray of stars, and Russia remembers lying on his back when he was very small and following Ukraine’s hand as she traced out the shape of the Great Bear. “Look, Vanya,” she had whispered, her voice fading into little puffs in the cold, “Look how big he is. You’ll be big like that someday--strong and good, just like that bear.”
Good.
He doesn’t know about that, but he has grown strong. He’s faltered, yes, but times change. He’s torn himself free of the ashes of the twentieth century. How strange, then, that everything should spin to a stop just when he has his feet under him again.
Footsteps crunch haltingly through the snow behind him, and Russia braces one of his hands back against the icy ground. The moon casts a soft glow over his face, fades over the crooked line of his mouth as he smiles. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Oh yeah?” America drops down next to him, the hood of his parka pulled up snugly. His glasses are fogged with his own breath. “Why not?”
“I didn’t tell you where I would be.”
America shrugs, and settles into Russia. Their hips fit together. “Since when is that a problem? I always find you, don’t I?”
Russia turns his scarf over and over in his hand. The scars gleam dully on his bare neck. “I suppose you do.”
There’s a moment of silence. A star streaks across the sky, sharp and radiant, and America’s breath catches. “You think that’s it?”
“No. It won’t be here for three more hours.”
“Oh.” America laughs, suddenly. “You know, I tried to pick it out on my way over here. I’d look up and just find one, whichever, it didn’t matter, and pretend...pretend I knew...There was actually one that was doing pretty good there for a minute, and then I realized it was a satellite.” He laughs again, and the sound is too bright for the tundra. “Probably one of mine.”
Russia sighs. The air aches in his lungs. All the lights are going to go out, soon, but there are some that he hopes go quickly. Mercifully. He captures America’s chin in cool fingers, and kisses him.
It’s a good kiss, long and warm, and by the end of it, America’s hand has slid to the side of Russia’s neck. He brushes his thumb over a ragged scar. “I just wish--” his voice is thick. “--I wish there was something I could have done. For everyone.”
“You tried,” Russia says softly. He nudges their foreheads together, and holds America’s gaze.
“I guess.”
Another shooting star. Russia wonders if it’s a piece of what’s coming, scattering off into the stratosphere. Then America takes his hand, and he decides he doesn’t care.
“Thanks for letting me find you.”
Russia smiles. “Thank you for looking.”
They watch the stars for the rest of their lives.
+++
-This is the Beijing Ancient Observatory.
-This is the Cenacolo Vinciano. Also known as The Last Supper.
-This is the Santa Maria delle Grazie. The Last Supper is housed in the refectory.
+
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: China, Germany/N. Italy, Canada, France, onesided England/America, Russia/America.
Summary: Written for pyrrhiccomedy, for her reverse request meme. Here's the prompt: Oh balls! A meteorite is going to hit the Earth in two days. No, there's nothing anyone can do about it. We're all going to die. Who do the nations spend their last hours with, and what do they take the opportunity to say?
Author's Notes: I get the faint impression that this could have been something markedly hilarious. But, because I like to depress the hell out of myself, angst ensued.
+++
Sunrise
Beijing still moves, even in the face of annihilation. And China watches it.
He drapes his arms over the sun-warmed bricks of the observatory wall, gazes down at his people, his city. After years of economic power, years of dealing with the West, this feeling of helplessness is new, and he’s glad he’s not going to have the opportunity to get used to it.
Bronze dragons curl around the ancient astronomical instruments situated across the platform, snarling with empty green mouths. China remembers how to use them. He could look, if he wanted. He could see what’s coming.
He could measure just how long he has left.
He doesn’t.
+
Morning
Dust motes gleam in the long streaks of light pouring through the high windows, and gold-painted stars flare against the bone-white sweep of the ceiling. Santa Maria delle Grazie is silent, save for the faint sputtering of a thousand prayer candles, overflowing their ornate stands and spilling out onto the floor.
Germany looks into the painted face of Christ, and wonders if anyone is listening.
“Germany?” Italy’s arm is warm around his waist. “What’s wrong?”
He turns his attention to the disciples, to their expressions: everything from horror to utter peace. The latter is supposed to come with time. And time is something they no longer have. “...Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of dying?”
Those words, in that voice...Germany nods, suddenly unable to speak.
Italy waits a long moment before replying. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He reaches out and brushes a tiny smudge from the corner of the fresco. “But I will miss this. Cenacolo Vinciano was always my favorite.”
Germany presses a kiss to the other nation’s hair. He doesn’t let himself think as he says, “If you see Him--” he nods to the figure at the center of the table, “put in a good word for me.”
He knows there’s not a chance. He knows they’re both going to flicker out forever, like the prayer candles shivering in the stillness.
But...
Italy smiles, and his hold on Germany tightens. “I won’t need to.”
+
Afternoon
Canada’s knuckles are raw. He’d been knocking for the better part of an hour, and his skin began chafing off around twenty minutes in. He had graduated to beating on the polished oak soon after that, stopping every once in a while to catch his breath.
“England, please! I know you can hear me! Just--just let me in!” He rests the crown of his head against the door. “England...there’s not a lot of time.”
There’s no answer.
Canada swears, and kicks the wood as hard as he can. Glass rattles in the front windows.
Damn it. God damn it.
The phone lines were all down, overloaded by millions of people trying to reach their families. But somehow, Canada had been awoken by the shrill tone of his cell phone, vibrating in the pocket of the jeans he’d fallen asleep in the night before. He’d fumbled for his glasses and missed the call. The message came in on a delay, forty minutes later.
"--anada, hey, it’s me. You’re not picking up, so...yeah. I’m on a pay phone, so you probably didn’t recognize the number. My cell’s shot to shit, I’m getting, like, zero bars right now...Um. Listen, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to--” It was garbled, there, hissed like static. "--but it’s not...it’s not like he doesn’t have you there, you know? ...Well, I hope you know, because I sure as hell don’t...Jesus. I’m almost out of time here, so, uh, I love you. Seriously. I do. You’re...you’re a damn good brother, and I’m sorry. About everything. Sorry I stole your blanket when we were kids, sorry I didn’t give you more credit, sorry England doesn’t--didn’t....Damn it. Shouldn’t have said...Sorry about that too. Love yo--”
And that was it.
Canada gives the door another kick. “He’s not coming, England! You’re going to have to settle for me!”
Like you always have.
He pushes the thought away, and decides to go through the window. The porch steps creak as he jumps down into the grass. One loose bit of paving, a rock. That’s all he needs. He drops to his knees and pries at the bricks at the edge of the front walk.
“Canada.”
Grass tears up beneath his shoes when he spins around in a crouch, steadies himself one-handed. He knows who it is before he even looks up. The smell--cigarette smoke, expensive cologne--is enough. “How long have you been here?”
France shrugs and takes a long drag on his Gauloise. “A few hours. Much longer than you.”
Canada gets to his feet and brushes grass stains from the knees of his jeans. “You could have told me he wasn’t answering.”
“I thought you might have better luck than I did. I was wrong.”
“He doesn’t want me, France.” Canada says quietly. It’s the first time he’s ever said it, really said it. He doesn’t feel anything.
France doesn’t reply, and Canada tries not to think about how exhausted he looks. He wonders how long “a few hours” actually is. Eventually, the other nation flicks his cigarette away and gathers Canada into his arms.
He drops his forehead onto France’s shoulder, breathes him in. “Do you think he ever did?”
France rubs a hand gently down his back. “Don’t make me lie to you, cheri.”
Canada wonders faintly if England can hear them. He’s suddenly too tired to hate himself for caring.
+
Sunset
England checks the latch, nudges the door firmly back into the frame, and waits for someone who isn’t coming.
+
Night
It is, Russia thinks, a beautiful night for the world to end.
The frozen tundra is spread out before him, and the wind kicks up shuddering flurries of snow, sends them spiraling into the still air. They whip up to join the glittering spray of stars, and Russia remembers lying on his back when he was very small and following Ukraine’s hand as she traced out the shape of the Great Bear. “Look, Vanya,” she had whispered, her voice fading into little puffs in the cold, “Look how big he is. You’ll be big like that someday--strong and good, just like that bear.”
Good.
He doesn’t know about that, but he has grown strong. He’s faltered, yes, but times change. He’s torn himself free of the ashes of the twentieth century. How strange, then, that everything should spin to a stop just when he has his feet under him again.
Footsteps crunch haltingly through the snow behind him, and Russia braces one of his hands back against the icy ground. The moon casts a soft glow over his face, fades over the crooked line of his mouth as he smiles. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Oh yeah?” America drops down next to him, the hood of his parka pulled up snugly. His glasses are fogged with his own breath. “Why not?”
“I didn’t tell you where I would be.”
America shrugs, and settles into Russia. Their hips fit together. “Since when is that a problem? I always find you, don’t I?”
Russia turns his scarf over and over in his hand. The scars gleam dully on his bare neck. “I suppose you do.”
There’s a moment of silence. A star streaks across the sky, sharp and radiant, and America’s breath catches. “You think that’s it?”
“No. It won’t be here for three more hours.”
“Oh.” America laughs, suddenly. “You know, I tried to pick it out on my way over here. I’d look up and just find one, whichever, it didn’t matter, and pretend...pretend I knew...There was actually one that was doing pretty good there for a minute, and then I realized it was a satellite.” He laughs again, and the sound is too bright for the tundra. “Probably one of mine.”
Russia sighs. The air aches in his lungs. All the lights are going to go out, soon, but there are some that he hopes go quickly. Mercifully. He captures America’s chin in cool fingers, and kisses him.
It’s a good kiss, long and warm, and by the end of it, America’s hand has slid to the side of Russia’s neck. He brushes his thumb over a ragged scar. “I just wish--” his voice is thick. “--I wish there was something I could have done. For everyone.”
“You tried,” Russia says softly. He nudges their foreheads together, and holds America’s gaze.
“I guess.”
Another shooting star. Russia wonders if it’s a piece of what’s coming, scattering off into the stratosphere. Then America takes his hand, and he decides he doesn’t care.
“Thanks for letting me find you.”
Russia smiles. “Thank you for looking.”
They watch the stars for the rest of their lives.
+++
-This is the Beijing Ancient Observatory.
-This is the Cenacolo Vinciano. Also known as The Last Supper.
_-_The_Last_Supper_(1495-1498).jpg){kind=link}
-This is the Santa Maria delle Grazie. The Last Supper is housed in the refectory.
+