A Perished Sun

By: The DayDreaming

Warnings: Language. Tony is in here, so if you can't handle a little bad language, you seriously need to grow a spine.

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any properties herein except for story concept. All characters belong to their respective owner. I'm just a lowly fanfiction writer enthralled with Hetalia.

This chapter has not been beta'd or checked for mistakes. If you feel there are any glaring errors besides my poor vocabulary and grammar, feel free to point it out and I'll do my best to assuage the situation.

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

-Emily Dickinson

Chapter 1: Where are We?

It was a novel idea at the time, is all Prussia can remember.

Life had never been as simple as when he could just hop on a plane and fly around the world for his benefit, and his alone. In all respects, he shouldn't have; as his brother likes to refer to him, he is an exemplified form of indiscriminate chaos, tied to nowhere and nothing yet leaving everything touched in his wake. Gilbert is of the opinion that it makes him sound like a sort of very morbid poetry, if poetry weren't for pansies (which he most certainly was too awesome to be).

Yet, in the swampy waters of a dozen foreign affair and security officials, he manages to stride away with a mere flash of his ID card and a jaunty smirk sharp enough to make even stubborn American airport guards think twice before trying to stop him. All in all, Germany is going to be getting a very unpleasant wake-up call, but Prussia can't find it in himself to really care one way or the other.

And yet, all this thinking is stalling. Dappled in the luminous glow of a late, summer afternoon under vibrant green maple trees, he stands at the foot of the house like an out of place statue, a lawn ornament bought on whim with no real place to be put, and so is pushed aside. Not that he was even placing himself within the same realm as an albino lawn gnome (more along the lines of a very awesome, brawny man statue that isn't ashamed of the fact that his junk is being used as a water fountain for yard décor).

Even knowing that there's no reason to be hesitating (not that he was really hesitating, per se, just admiring the very fine details of the grain-work on the ancient wooden door before him, very awesome grain-work by his experienced eye), he still can't quite bring himself to knock. This is where the afterthought of his entire journey over to the United States of America being a very novel idea sets in; as with all 'novel' ideas, it's entirely off-base and unworkable within the realms of reality, but really, it's fucking Prussia who thought of it, so he can damn well execute it, too.

Before his mind can run in another circle, he knocks on the door, two quick but loud taps that reverberate down what is presumably a foyer (he won't acknowledge the decorated doorbell off to his left, which he catches sight of only after he knocks, he won't, he's too awesome for doorbells). The door opens just a few seconds afterwards, swinging inward with a creak that only comes with age and non-use; Gilbert steps in and tries to catch sight of the doorman, dim lighting of what is indeed a foyer straining his eyes in the transition between the iridescent gleam of summer and the omnipresent dusk of America's interior home. There doesn't appear to be anyone there to greet him, and so he takes another step forward before the resounding bang of the door slamming shut behind him stops him in his tracks.

With reflexes he hadn't used in decades (maybe a century, not that he wasn't awesome enough to still have his skills), he spins around and manages to snag a particularly prominent hat off a hook on the wall and sling it threateningly at the small, obscure form left in the wake of the sealed entryway. It lands atop the crest of a perfectly rounded dome, and with a curse is torn off and thrown back at Prussia, who ducks, only to find it isn't aimed at him at all but behind, where the hook it was previously hung upon sits.

With a clap, the light in the foyer comes on (and isn't it just like America to install something as gimmicky as clap-on lights?), gently filtered through the tines and panes of a small chandelier. In the sudden upheaval, Gilbert distinguishes his opponent as perhaps the very epitome of all American-crack-idea UFO sightings, a diminutive grey creature with a large, ovoid head and sudden, tapering chin. Its red eyes, held in contrast to the sleek, silver of its skin, regard him with the kind of animosity reserved only for the most unpleasant of objects, almost as if saying he doesn't deserve to be within its mere presence. It's really sort of awesome, is all he can speculate before the alien begins to speak.

"Fucking kraut," it grouses, eyes seeming to narrow just the slightest bit to indicate its disdain, "Who fucking said you could just walk in."

"Uh, you opened the door," he says, and if possible, the way the alien cants his head indicates an even higher level of disdain.

"I opened the door to tell you to get the fuck out, not for you to come in and throw shit like a fucking moron."

"Hmph. Well, get over it, little man. The awesome me has come to pay America a visit, and grace him with my amazing presence," and damn if it doesn't feel good to say as such. There had been far too few opportunities as of late to say such necessary words, and as such, it is almost as if a tension within himself has lifted, leaving a euphoric feeling of triumph behind. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

The alien scrutinizes him for a few seconds, and Prussia wonders if maybe it has something like a laser-gun hidden in some trans-dimensional pocket of space to be pulled out and used when especially persistent, visiting nations are around. At last it turns around, a mutter of 'Fucking kraut,' falling from its unseen lips, before turning the deadbolt in the door and walking past the once-nation like a cool breeze. Gilbert feels as though something incredibly important has just occurred, but he can't quite figure out what it is.

Gilbird, for her part, takes this moment to awaken, stirring herself from the confines of the nation's hair with a shiver and a shake. She had needed quite the excuse from Prussia to get past Customs, and had been sleeping since the cab-ride over to America's house from the airport. With a cheep, she flops out of his hair and onto his shoulder, taking in her surroundings with beady eyes before hoisting herself up on tiny legs. With another cheep, she goes airborne and flutters after the retreating form of the alien.

This almost seems like too much trouble, is all he can think as he follows the others into the gloam of the house. Before he steps out of the foyer, though, he turns around and does a quick clap, pleased as the lights dim the world into a fading afterglow.

Wut? What are these shenanigans? I dunno. Hello, the DayDreaming here, making a decidedly unpleasant entrance into the Hetalia fandom, on the coattails of writer's block for the other two fandoms I'm writing for. What an excuse! Anyways, yeah. Don't know what I'm doing, and I feel awfully self-conscious when pitted against all of the other incredibly good authors in this fandom. I'm sorry to bombard you guys with crap, please forgive me!

And yeah, not gonna reveal the pairing quite yet. I'll let you guys (if anyone decides to read this load of shit) flounder for a bit; but it's fairly obvious. Some one-sided romantic feelings will abound, though.

And for anyone who can guess which Emily Dickinson poem I got the title from, I'll write you a one-shot. How's that sound for a deal? :D Ahaha, look at that triple-entendre at the end there! Only I get it, but I still feel like pointing it out!