[Fanfic] - When Skies Are Gray (1/1)
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: animal character death (off-screen)
Characters or Pairings: Prussia, France, Spain, Germany
Genre: H/C, angst
Word count: 1,475
Summary: Prussia didn’t lose his immortality when his nation was dissolved. Gilbird, however, did.
Written for hc_bingo for the square: Grief
Prussia stands over the tiny mound of earth, his hands still dark with dirt, fingernails ragged and broken, and stares at the sky above the abandoned field around him. It’s dull and dreary, which is fine. It matches his mood.
This day hasn’t come as a surprise; he’s done this too many times before and the signs were obvious. Gilbird’s been getting weaker for months now, until entire days were spent solely atop Prussia’s head, resting in his hair because flying was too much of an effort. So when Prussia awoke earlier to find the little yellow bird unmoving on his pillow, still nuzzled up against his forehead, he was sad (and isn’t that a fucking understatement) but not surprised.
It’s a cruel twist of - he hesitates to call it fate because the last of his faith has long since withered from disuse - that has allowed him to retain his immortality while taking that same longevity away from what has since become a string of avian companions. He can only assume it’s some strange sort of punishment, but for what, he can’t say.
That’s not exactly true.
He has plenty of theories, but all of them suck. They flash through his mind as he lowers his head back to the ground: it’s for no longer believing, perhaps, or for abandoning his people by losing his nation, or for refusing to give up his thirst for battle. For never being good enough for the rest of the world, a small voice whispers in the back of his mind (he tells it to shut the fuck up, because that’s bullshit).
That line of thought is quickly shaken away. It’s useless, and Prussia hates useless things.
The ground below him is bare of any markings. There’s no plaque or marker to call out the spot, no name displayed to the empty sky. Prussia doesn’t need a physical engraving. The details are etched in his mind.
He’s tried to stop naming them, the small chipper birds that always seem to find him when he is once again alone, sorrow still clinging to him like a second skin and defenses not yet hardened enough to turn them away. He tells himself it’s because none of them can live up to their namesake (the one that was with him for centuries before the clock started ticking again in 1947), but that’s a lie.
If there’s one thing he refuses to do, it’s lie to himself.
It’s a rule he tries never to break. He’s always honest in his own mind, standing alone and unarmed in front of whatever truths the world throws at him. It’s not because he’s brave or strong (he’s both and he will unleash a fury on anyone who dares to say otherwise, but that’s not the point) but because he is forever on his own and there’s no one else to speak the truth if he is unwilling. Countless wars have taught him that truth is often the most effective weapon of all, and Prussia never yields a weapon without a fight.
So he can admit to himself it’s out of self- protection that he tries not to name the little birds anymore, tries to keep his distance. Time after time, he makes the same vow not to get attached, because he’s learned the hard way with humans that mortality isn’t something he can win against, no matter how ruthlessly he fights or what strategies he employs. In the end, though, he can never stop the name from tumbling from his lips; the mantle of “Gilbird” is all he has to give in return for companionship so freely offered.
Not to mention it’s an awesome name.
A soft plop of something cold and wet hits his hair and is all the warning he gets before the skies open up with an echoing rumble, the world dimming as if someone has dialed down its ambient lighting. Sheets of rain race downwards and Prussia is soaked through before the patter of raindrops hitting grass has risen from a tentative pecking to an almost deafening roar around him.
Unconsciously, his eyes flick across the horizon, searching for the familiar blur of yellow that always seeks refuge in his clothes in this type of weath- reality asserts itself, cutting the thought short as he remembers there will be no yellow blur today.
A jarring sensation running up his legs jolts him back to awareness and he realizes it’s because he’s fallen to his knees in the grass.
This should be routine by now, he tells himself, even as a renewed pressure springs up behind his eyes. He opens them wide, refuses to blink, but it’s a losing battle and he knows it. The only consolation is that there are already drops of water streaming down his face from the sky. A little bit more is barely noticeable.
The rain is abruptly diverted away, parting to fall around him like a curtain less than half a meter from where he’s kneeling on the ground. Prussia blinks in surprise, water still dripping down from the drenched hair now plastered to his head. (There is other moisture on his face, obscured by the rain, but he’s not thinking about that).
Looking up, he sees a great black umbrella, held steady against the weather by a large, strong hand. The hand is his brother’s, and farther up, clear blue eyes are tight with concern and sympathy. Flanking him to either side are Prussia’s two best friends, both looking abnormally subdued.
Politically, he has always been alone; sure, there were alliances, but never the serious, long-term unions so common to the other nations. It’s easy to forget there are people who care about him in a way that has nothing to do with land and borders. As much as he hates being seen at anything less than his best, Prussia can’t help but be happy they’re here. Besides, it’s not the first time they’ve seen him like this, in this place.
Spain gives a muted smile. “Hi, Prussia. Found you.”
His dark-haired friend knows better than to ask stupid questions like ‘Are you okay’ and Prussia is absurdly, ridiculously fucking grateful for it. He tries to smile up at them, but isn’t sure he manages much more than a brief tightening of his lips.
“Can’t keep you fuckers away if I tried,” he manages to croak out, and that’s all the encouragement they need.
France crouches and murmurs quiet words, lost to the rain, while Spain plops down beside him, seemingly uncaring of the mud that must be soaking into his fashionable jeans, and slings a heavy arm over his sopping wet shoulders. A hand that feels like France’s cards through his hair, slicking it back so the rainwater won’t drip into his eyes anymore. Prussia leans into their touch and lets himself be cared for, grateful that (at least for now) he no longer has to go at it alone.
The umbrella remains unmoving over all four of them, a shield against the torrent of rain as it continues to fall.
“One of these days I’m going to teach you to embrace life’s little luxuries, starting with proper rain attire.” France’s voice is quiet in his ear, the teasing words at odds with the soft tone.
“Wasn’t raining when I started.” The protest is half-hearted, more out of routine than anything.
France smiles indulgently and squeezes Prussia’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go back and get you dry.”
He can’t bring himself to say anything again, only nods mutely, but it’s enough. His friends help him to his feet and he lets them. It’s France’s arm around his shoulders now and Spain is gripping his hand, thumb running small circles across the top near the knuckle.
Prussia knows without asking that they will both stay over with him tonight.
West is still standing frozen in place, watching them all with unblinking eyes. His knuckles are white around the handle of the umbrella and it’s obvious he wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say, or if he should at all. It’s one thing they have in common, Prussia thinks. They both suck at emotional shit.
“Thanks for coming, West.” The words are quiet and hoarse and he doesn’t think West can even hear him over the pounding of rain against nylon, but he gets a nod in acknowledgement anyway, and the hand gripping the umbrella eases just slightly.
With a final glance backwards, Prussia straightens his back and squares his shoulders, ready to leave.
Though there’s no external threat at hand, the three automatically close ranks around him, West at his back with the umbrella held high, and France and Spain each by his side. They make their way slowly across the empty field together.
Prussia swears he can hear a chirping in the distance.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: animal character death (off-screen)
Characters or Pairings: Prussia, France, Spain, Germany
Genre: H/C, angst
Word count: 1,475
Summary: Prussia didn’t lose his immortality when his nation was dissolved. Gilbird, however, did.
Written for hc_bingo for the square: Grief
Prussia stands over the tiny mound of earth, his hands still dark with dirt, fingernails ragged and broken, and stares at the sky above the abandoned field around him. It’s dull and dreary, which is fine. It matches his mood.
This day hasn’t come as a surprise; he’s done this too many times before and the signs were obvious. Gilbird’s been getting weaker for months now, until entire days were spent solely atop Prussia’s head, resting in his hair because flying was too much of an effort. So when Prussia awoke earlier to find the little yellow bird unmoving on his pillow, still nuzzled up against his forehead, he was sad (and isn’t that a fucking understatement) but not surprised.
It’s a cruel twist of - he hesitates to call it fate because the last of his faith has long since withered from disuse - that has allowed him to retain his immortality while taking that same longevity away from what has since become a string of avian companions. He can only assume it’s some strange sort of punishment, but for what, he can’t say.
That’s not exactly true.
He has plenty of theories, but all of them suck. They flash through his mind as he lowers his head back to the ground: it’s for no longer believing, perhaps, or for abandoning his people by losing his nation, or for refusing to give up his thirst for battle. For never being good enough for the rest of the world, a small voice whispers in the back of his mind (he tells it to shut the fuck up, because that’s bullshit).
That line of thought is quickly shaken away. It’s useless, and Prussia hates useless things.
The ground below him is bare of any markings. There’s no plaque or marker to call out the spot, no name displayed to the empty sky. Prussia doesn’t need a physical engraving. The details are etched in his mind.
He’s tried to stop naming them, the small chipper birds that always seem to find him when he is once again alone, sorrow still clinging to him like a second skin and defenses not yet hardened enough to turn them away. He tells himself it’s because none of them can live up to their namesake (the one that was with him for centuries before the clock started ticking again in 1947), but that’s a lie.
If there’s one thing he refuses to do, it’s lie to himself.
It’s a rule he tries never to break. He’s always honest in his own mind, standing alone and unarmed in front of whatever truths the world throws at him. It’s not because he’s brave or strong (he’s both and he will unleash a fury on anyone who dares to say otherwise, but that’s not the point) but because he is forever on his own and there’s no one else to speak the truth if he is unwilling. Countless wars have taught him that truth is often the most effective weapon of all, and Prussia never yields a weapon without a fight.
So he can admit to himself it’s out of self- protection that he tries not to name the little birds anymore, tries to keep his distance. Time after time, he makes the same vow not to get attached, because he’s learned the hard way with humans that mortality isn’t something he can win against, no matter how ruthlessly he fights or what strategies he employs. In the end, though, he can never stop the name from tumbling from his lips; the mantle of “Gilbird” is all he has to give in return for companionship so freely offered.
Not to mention it’s an awesome name.
A soft plop of something cold and wet hits his hair and is all the warning he gets before the skies open up with an echoing rumble, the world dimming as if someone has dialed down its ambient lighting. Sheets of rain race downwards and Prussia is soaked through before the patter of raindrops hitting grass has risen from a tentative pecking to an almost deafening roar around him.
Unconsciously, his eyes flick across the horizon, searching for the familiar blur of yellow that always seeks refuge in his clothes in this type of weath- reality asserts itself, cutting the thought short as he remembers there will be no yellow blur today.
A jarring sensation running up his legs jolts him back to awareness and he realizes it’s because he’s fallen to his knees in the grass.
This should be routine by now, he tells himself, even as a renewed pressure springs up behind his eyes. He opens them wide, refuses to blink, but it’s a losing battle and he knows it. The only consolation is that there are already drops of water streaming down his face from the sky. A little bit more is barely noticeable.
The rain is abruptly diverted away, parting to fall around him like a curtain less than half a meter from where he’s kneeling on the ground. Prussia blinks in surprise, water still dripping down from the drenched hair now plastered to his head. (There is other moisture on his face, obscured by the rain, but he’s not thinking about that).
Looking up, he sees a great black umbrella, held steady against the weather by a large, strong hand. The hand is his brother’s, and farther up, clear blue eyes are tight with concern and sympathy. Flanking him to either side are Prussia’s two best friends, both looking abnormally subdued.
Politically, he has always been alone; sure, there were alliances, but never the serious, long-term unions so common to the other nations. It’s easy to forget there are people who care about him in a way that has nothing to do with land and borders. As much as he hates being seen at anything less than his best, Prussia can’t help but be happy they’re here. Besides, it’s not the first time they’ve seen him like this, in this place.
Spain gives a muted smile. “Hi, Prussia. Found you.”
His dark-haired friend knows better than to ask stupid questions like ‘Are you okay’ and Prussia is absurdly, ridiculously fucking grateful for it. He tries to smile up at them, but isn’t sure he manages much more than a brief tightening of his lips.
“Can’t keep you fuckers away if I tried,” he manages to croak out, and that’s all the encouragement they need.
France crouches and murmurs quiet words, lost to the rain, while Spain plops down beside him, seemingly uncaring of the mud that must be soaking into his fashionable jeans, and slings a heavy arm over his sopping wet shoulders. A hand that feels like France’s cards through his hair, slicking it back so the rainwater won’t drip into his eyes anymore. Prussia leans into their touch and lets himself be cared for, grateful that (at least for now) he no longer has to go at it alone.
The umbrella remains unmoving over all four of them, a shield against the torrent of rain as it continues to fall.
“One of these days I’m going to teach you to embrace life’s little luxuries, starting with proper rain attire.” France’s voice is quiet in his ear, the teasing words at odds with the soft tone.
“Wasn’t raining when I started.” The protest is half-hearted, more out of routine than anything.
France smiles indulgently and squeezes Prussia’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go back and get you dry.”
He can’t bring himself to say anything again, only nods mutely, but it’s enough. His friends help him to his feet and he lets them. It’s France’s arm around his shoulders now and Spain is gripping his hand, thumb running small circles across the top near the knuckle.
Prussia knows without asking that they will both stay over with him tonight.
West is still standing frozen in place, watching them all with unblinking eyes. His knuckles are white around the handle of the umbrella and it’s obvious he wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say, or if he should at all. It’s one thing they have in common, Prussia thinks. They both suck at emotional shit.
“Thanks for coming, West.” The words are quiet and hoarse and he doesn’t think West can even hear him over the pounding of rain against nylon, but he gets a nod in acknowledgement anyway, and the hand gripping the umbrella eases just slightly.
With a final glance backwards, Prussia straightens his back and squares his shoulders, ready to leave.
Though there’s no external threat at hand, the three automatically close ranks around him, West at his back with the umbrella held high, and France and Spain each by his side. They make their way slowly across the empty field together.
Prussia swears he can hear a chirping in the distance.