.
.
.
Dying Is Such A Petty Thing
it just seems so much more important when you're with me
.
.
.
He usually catches himself counting every beat of his heart, as if it will stop at any given moment.
The sound of a door opening and closing wakes him up. He is in a state of half-consciousness when he hears heavy boots clunk against the hardwood floor, followed by the tapping of feet. The rhythm of this sound almost lulls him back to sleep. That is, until the sound stops and the presence of another being lingers over him. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know who it is. A cool hand pushes against his forehead. He doesn't mean to, but a sharp gasp retreats past his lips in surprise. He shudders. The coolness feels so good against his burning flesh, but at the same time, it's too much for him. The owner of the hand seems to realize this and instantly the hand is gone.
A voice mutters something, and suddenly the blankets engulfing his body are secured around him even tighter than before. The heat they produce is almost unbearable. You just have to sweat it out, he used to tell his brother whenever he was running a fever. He had actually believed it worked, too. He used to call it reasonable. Now he just calls it bullshit.
The figure above him is moving around, either talking to himself or to the sweating mass on the couch, he can't tell which. He realizes some of the words being said are in Russian. He doesn't know Russian; he must not be talking to him. Even if he was talking to him, it wouldn't be enough to stop him from falling asleep.
.
.
He must have slept for several hours. He doesn't even have to open his eyes to realize that he is not on the couch anymore, wrapped in a ridiculous amount of blankets. Wait, scratch that, he still is wrapped in a ridiculous amount of blankets, just minus the couch. Instead, he had been placed on a bed large enough to fit at least three people and still have some room left. Three. The number makes him think of Francis and Antonio. Together, there are three of them. That number will shrink to two soon enough.
The sound of a door creaking open gives him a start. He doesn't move. He doesn't open his eyes. The door squeaks shut. Gentle yet frightening footsteps drift across the floor. He waits for the presence in the room to speak, open a window, or even pull the blankets away from his body. He waits for the farewell buzz of a fly as it falls to the hardwood floor, dead. None of the above happens. He waits some more.
When the cool hand is pressed against his forehead, he lets out an unpleasant groan and opens his eyes unintentionally. And he sees Ivan. He needs to close his eyes again. When his eyes are closed, everything is so surreal that he can pretend that Ivan is nothing more than a figment of his imagination. When his eyes are closed, Ivan is nothing more than a bad dream or a creeping mass. When his eyes are closed, that Wall does not exist and he is with his brother and not this bastard.
Ivan smiles down at him. He has the urge to puke.
"How are you feeling?" Ivan's voice is bubbly and sweet, but he knows better. He wants to tear that seemingly innocent exterior from him, so everyone can see what exactly Ivan Braginski is made out of. Lies, weeds, ice, and-
"Shit," he practically spits out.
"Lovely."
Ivan pats him on the head and, still smiling, pulls his cocoon of blankets down just enough to expose his chest. The shadow that is casts onto his body is petrifying; he feels like he is going to be sucked up by it. Ivan presses his forehead down on the smaller one's bony chest as if he is listening for something. He figures it is his heart that Ivan is listening for. He is probably waiting for it to stop beating. Oh, how he would love that.
"How does it feel?"
Living with you? Fucking fantastic.
"How does what feel?"
He starts wiggling around slightly, as a sort of warning for the larger man to get off of him. Plus, the blankets restrict him of doing much more of anything. Ivan being this close to him is unbearable. His hair is in his face, disturbingly soft and light in color. He can smell sunflowers.
"Dying."
If Ivan has been waiting for his heart to stop after all, then this is the moment. His fine hairs on his arms stand straight. His skin is crawling. His eyes are bulging, staring at the bit of ceiling that isn't obscured by Ivan's head.
He hates this man so much. A thousand threats fill his head, urging to shoot out of his mouth and cause as much damage as possible. But he stops himself. Ivan is a no-good bastard, but at the very least, he is telling the truth. Ivan is right. The great empire that Prussia once was is gone now. Gilbert can not stand being called Prussia any longer; the very thought of it is both laughable and pathetic. Gilbert know that he is a shadow of his former self. A shadow that can disappear any day.
Ivan is right, he is as good as dead.
Tears leak from his eyes, and he doesn't even care that Ivan sees him crying. He might as well see him in very shade and every color while he is still around.
"It feels awful," he sobs.
Gilbert feels himself being forced to sit up. His mind is barely able to comprehend the feeling of Ivan's arms closing in around him and holding him and oh God how could something so terrible feel this good? before he is walking out of the door. Gilbert stares at him in awe as he taps on the doorknob, staring beyond the open door.
"Dying is such a petty thing."
Gilbert does not know whether he is talking to him or himself, but that doesn't seem to matter. Ivan walks out of the room and shuts the door behind him before anything else can be said.
He doesn't know how long he sits there, just staring at the walls. He thinks about how much he wants to tear down every wall in his path, including the one separating him and his brother. He thinks about his small group of friends, both in which he may never see again. And he thinks about Ivan and what he said.
Still, he catches himself counting every beat of his heart.
.
.
.
FANFICTION DELETED THIS STORY. I DON'T KNOW WHY AND IT PISSES ME OFF. ARRGGGG.
Well, it's back again. I guess that's all that matters. I think my previous author notes went something like this:
This is the first story I have written on this site in two years. And I find it... Jeez, I don't even know. The last story I wrote was for Bleach and now suddenly (because two years is definitely sudden) I'm writing fanfiction for Hetalia. Oh, the places I'll go.
While writing the rough draft for this, Russia wasn't in this story at all. I wanted this to be a little ficlet between Prussia and his brother, Germany, but some time during the beginning I took Germany out and threw Russia in there. I don't even know why, but I guess it works.
Hopefully I'll continue to write and post more stuff on here. I'm not making any promises, though. This might be the last thing I publish for another two years, it might not. Who knows?