Please
His hands shook, though it wasn't the drop he was afraid of. Staring off into the rainy London sky, he contemplated this particular end to his existence – if he did it right, he'd be dead the moment he hit the ground. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he looked down at the black-gray street below. Car crawled along the slick road, headlights glowing again the biting rain.
He blinked, and looked at the sky again. Of course, if he landed wrong, there might be enough time for an ambulance to come, for someone to rescue him. If he was going to kill himself, he was going to go out with a bang – shocking the nations, making the headlines, proving that he, the awesome Prussia, was… was…
Was what?
The awesome me is barely anything now, he thought, red eyes narrowed as he scanned the gray cityscape. Would anyone even miss me?
He thought of Germany and Ita-chan, Hungary and Specs. They'd notice he was gone – maybe even attend a funeral or something – but would anyone besides Germany really care? Italy would cry, of course. He always cried when Prussia talked about ending himself, for good. But was crying really caring?
A hot tear burned Prussia's cold face. Hungary and Austria wouldn't care, he thought, remembering all the trouble he'd cause them, the times he'd tried to take over Austria's "vital regions", all the visits that had ended with Hungary coming after him with a frying pan. No, they'd probably be glad he was gone. And the other nations, ha! Prussia doubted they'd even notice.
Leaning out to look over the edge of the building, Prussia closed his eyes and imagined falling. Falling wasn't the problem; he'd finally be at peace. It was the thought of hitting the ground that scared him. There were so many other was he could kill himself besides jumping – he could stand on the train tracks near Germany's house, he could leap in front of a car, he could borrow his brother's gun, he could strangle himself in Austria's drapes… the possibilities were endless.
Opening his eyes again, he thought about the bottle of sleeping pills Germany kept locked away in the medicine cabinet, for fear that Prussia would try to use them in his suicidal plans. I could've gotten them, Prussia thought. Could've taken the easy way out. But something about that way seemed wrong, too simple.
Everyone would think it was accidental, that I just overdosed. He spread his arms, imagining that they were wings, and closed his eyes. I want everyone to know that I killed myself.
He shuffled forward, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge. The cold London wind buffeted him from all sides, making his feel like he was already flying, already falling, already on his way to death. He was going to do it this time.
"Gilbert! No!"
Bundled into a headlock and dragged away from the edge, Prussia struggled against a pair of iron-strong arms. He kicked out, screaming and spewing profanities.
"Let me go, you fucking bastard!"
"Nein!"
"Fuck off!" he howled, sobbing. Freeing one fist, he swung out blindly and connected with his assailment's face. Something crunched, and his hand came away slick with red.
"Damn it!" came the growled response. "Damn it, Gilbert!"
"Fuck off," Prussia repeated raspily, going limp in the arms of iron. He tried to hold in another sob and failed. "Get the hell away from me, West."
The German grip softened a little. Voice stuffy and pained-sounding – Prussia must've broken his nose – he whispered, "I will not let you kill yourself, brother."
"I'm going to die anyway," the red-eyed man said brokenly, slumped again Germany.
"Not for a long time. Not if I can help it."
"You'll outlive me by 1000 years."
"The people won't forget the great Prussia!" Germany said, deep voice breaking. "They will never-!"
"They already are," Prussia interrupted, voice little more than a growl. "In the minds of some, it's as if I don't exist. And remember Rome? Not even memory kept him alive!"
"Stop it, Gilbert. Please. Please!" The German was begging now, voice thick with pain both physical and mental. "Please, for me…"
"I'm going to die soon enough," Prussia responded, whispering. "Nothing can stop that. I'm not a nation anymore, there's nothing I can do – nothing anyone can do!"
"Please, brother…"
Prussia wrenched himself free of Germany and crawled to the edge. The rain had slicked back his white hair and it's cold had drained the scant color from his skin, making him look almost already dead. His brother didn't look much better; broken, sopping wet from blood and rain, face a bloody mess of red. His once proud shoulders were stooped and bent, as if he'd given up on everything.
The wind groaned as Prussia collapsed by the edge to stare at the sky. He could feel his heartbeat deep in his chest, strangely slow and steady.
Thub, thub, thub.
Clouds whirled above him, tumultuous and wonderful, like dancer's in a Russian ballet. His heart kept beating.
Thub, thub, thub.
"Please, brother… Don't do this."
Thub, thub, thub.
He closed his eyes, stretched out one hand to feel along the edge. Cold, rough cement met the tips of his fingers. He opened his eyes again. All it would take was a roll, then he'd be falling. He'd be at peace.
Thub, thub, thub.
He thought of the people he knew. The nation's from Germany's Axis – Italy and Japan. His two best friends – France and Spain, the other part of the Bad Touch Trio. That damn aristocrat, Austria, and his ex-wife, Hungary. England and America, always colliding with personalities and ideas; Russia, who Prussia hated more than almost anything; China, who seemed to know everyone from way back; Greece and Cuba and Turkey and Poland and everybody…
Thub, thub, thub.
"Please, Gilbert…"
Maybe nobody would miss him if he jumped. Maybe Germany would be the only person at his funeral. Maybe Austria would throw a party because his favorite – not – antagonist was finally out of the picture.
Maybe it was Gilbert would miss everyone he'd leave behind.
Sore and stained with blood that was not his own, he crawled back from the edge. Germany watched him with wide blue eyes and for once, he looked like the younger sibling. The thought made Prussia smile.
"Gilbert…?"
"Let's go home, West."