I don't really know why I wrote this. I don't like how I write and I don't like writing angst, but something inside me just made me do this. It's not a surprise it's so short. Ah well. Enjoy?
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia in any way.
It was July first and all Alfred thought about was how wrong it all seemed. There he sat, staring intently at the fireplace, alone, in the almost darkness. He watched the flames dance somberly and elegantly over the logs. The anguished feel the atmosphere threatened to choke him, but as all heroes do, he stood strong.
Hero. Ha. He was no hero. He should have been able to save him. It was his duty to do so, but he failed.
What happened that night was a blur to him as if it were a horrible nightmare. A phone call in the middle of the night; Matthew's frantic voice begging him to come over as quickly as possible; the journey over to his brother's house (which seemed three times as longer that usual); the murderous cold— he especially remembered the piercing cold. And then, a pair of blue eyes, wide open in fear, yet distant, frozen, glazed, dead.
Upon seeing his brother's cadaver sprawled on the kitchen floor, drenched in a lake of crimson blood, Alfred's knees went weak. He slowly inched his way over to the corpse, refusing to accept what he saw. This was an illusion. This wasn't real.
"M-Matthew…?" Alfred raised his hand to brush away some hair from his brother's face. His glasses were nowhere to be found; spots of blood stained the Canadian's pure face. "Matty?" Alfred was surprised to hear such composure in his voice. "Mat…Matty, what happened? Why… Why couldn't I save you?"
Alfred shivered as he came back to his present company of the flames in the fireplace. It had been six months since the incident. No clues had been found concerning the mysterious assassination and it frustrated Alfred to a great extent. Every day he continued his world-wide investigation trying to find something, anything, that would help. And although his keenness on not giving up was enviable, he was very slowly, but surely losing hope. Who would want to hurt Matthew? No one even remembered who he was! It made absolutely no sense. It wasn't fair! Matt didn't deserve to die.
"And I don't deserve to live." Alfred muttered as he clutched a small picture frame containing a happy, smiling Canada and his pet bear. He unknowingly ran his fingers across the picture. "What kind of hero doesn't get there in time?" His grip tightened. "I am so sorry, Matty…"
And he scolded himself for even thinking the phrase.
Happy birthday, Matthew.
Yes, it gets very depressive. Seems somewhat out of character too. But hey, I think he'd be depressed if this actually happened. :
Thanks for taking a moment to read this.
