So I've been writing. However, I haven't been writing anything all that quality filled, or lengthy enough to be considered a one-shot. Thus, I have decided to smush all of my work into a series of drabbles.
The prompt for this piece was 'Write about fear."
I don't own Hetalia.
And he played his music.
Pale hands rested on pale keys, fingers drumming along to his rhythm, drumming along to his heartbeat, drumming along to the existence of life itself. Questioning, questioning.
Seeking answers yet only finding inquiries.
The music sped up as his fingers moved; faster and faster in a flurry of movement. He rocked back and forth, immersed in his thoughts, immersed in the music that was his thoughts. Was his every action and word and sound. Was.
Faster and faster, quicker and quicker, fingers now jumping from key to key, pressing harder, movements now a blur. He played and played and played and he frowned and bit his lip and his eyebrows furrowed and his muscles tensed and-
He hit the wrong note, and froze.
Opening his eyes and blinking he was pulled from his mind, pulled from his delusions and dreams and escapes and he was brought back to the here and now and he knew.
He knew because it had been what he was running so far away from. Why he played so much, with so much passion, with so much hope for a way out. Why the time spent away from those ivory keys was filled with trauma and despair and disappointment.
He knew that he was dying.
And Roderich Edelstein was afraid.