Warning: Character death. Proceed at your own feel's risk.
(Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia, it would be straight up gay porn.)
Gilbert is numb with cold. His heavy breath appears in snowy white clouds and dissipates into the chilling air, and Gilbert clings to the only warmth he has left, a hand, a hand of someone he loves and adores: Roedrich's hand. The pair of them lay huddled in a crumbling church, I final and waning haven, solitary and silent in a sick contrast to the gunfire and screams of the outside. They have laid here for minutes, hours, days, their grasp on life slipping as they fall in and out of consciousness. Gilbert knows that this is the end, and he allows a rasping and strangled sigh to escape his lips in protest. The once grand and intricate ceiling of the church has long since fallen, forgotten in times of war, and only sparse scaffolding remains intact. Cold winds and flurries of soft, beautiful snow drift through decaying wooden beams and cover the cathedral floor, twinkling in spotless perfection, and Gilbert, had he enough breath, would have laughed at the incredible juxtaposition. He reaches his arm toward the glistening blanket, as if to defile it with his bloodied finger tips, but he is too weak to move so far, and he slumps into the brick wall defeatedly. He glances to his companion, hoping to find him awake, hoping to find him alive, and miraculously, the Austrian's eyelids flutter open, revealing deep violet irises. He stares at Gilbert, his eyes clouded and remorseful, and Gilbert feels a stab of pain, of guilt. He should not have forced a musician to enroll as a soldier out of selfishness. And now he remembers, he remembers sun-bathed afternoons sitting on a piano bench, listening to the soft, lulling song of black and white keys. He thinks of winters spent inside, warm and safe, protected from the world and talking and quarreling playfully over meaningless things. He recalls feathery chestnut hair that smelled of parchment and roses, and smooth, pale skin that held no imperfection, save for an adorable spot below the lip. His mind fills with memories of moments lost and wasted, moments that he could have spent with his musician but instead chose to spend in combat.
He had been a fool. He now holds back tears that threaten to spill from his alarming red eyes. Roedrich extended a trembling hand to caress Gilbert's icy cheek, pulling the white-haired man closer to himself. Whether this is a display of affection or a desperate attempt to stay warm, Gilbert does not know, not that it matters. He nuzzles into Roedrich's soft chestnut hair, squeezing his eyes tightly for a moment, savoring his last happiness. The Austrian coughs quietly and turns his head toward Gilbert, looking up at him with those enchanting violet eyes. "Gilbert, do you remember that song we used to sing to Ludwig?"
Gilbert nods, and a lump begins to form in his throat at the thought of his noble little brother, his little brother who had been the first to join at the dawn of war, when Gilbert had stayed at bay, drinking and smoking and accomplishing nothing while his own brother took a bullet to the gut by Russian hands. And now Gilbert had put another of his loved ones on the line. Once again he had gambled and lost, and it rips at his chest painfully.
Roedrich plays pale, slim fingers along Gilbert's neck, pulling him from his guilt ridden past and back into his equally guilt ridden present. Roedrich smiles weakly, singing in a quiet and rasping voice that is still beautiful to his red eyed lover,
"Alle Vögel sind schon da, alle Vögel, alle Welch ein Singen, Musiziern, Pfiefen, Zwitschern, Tileliern Frühling will nun einmarschiern, kommt mit Sang und Schalle. Wie sie alle lustig sind, flink und froh sich regen Amsel, Drossel, Fink und Star..."
A fit of coughing interrupts Roedrich's hushed song, and the Austrian's grip on Gilbert's shirt tightens as he doubles over. Specks of crimson stain the flawless white blanket beneath the pair of intertwined soldiers, along with tears from both of them, tears of an impending loss, the loss of love, life, and hope. As Roedrich's fit dwindles, he lifts a weak hand once again, running it through unusual hair that parallels the snow, whispering sweet nothings and last goodbyes. As his last breath swells in his lungs, he pierces Gilbert's soul with translucent violet eyes, breathing a final 'I love you' before closing his eyes. Long eyelashes brush the once rosy cheeks that have long since turned pale, slender fingers that spun such lovely melodies on white and black keys now fall limp into powdery snow, and bewitching violet irises are shielded forever.
And Gilbert is left to weep and die alone.
A/N: I need to stop writing tragedy seriously. It's damaging my happiness.
Song- All the birds are already here,
All the birds, all!
What singing, music playing,
Whistling, chirping, trills!
Spring wants to arrive now,
It comes with song and sounds.
How cheerful they all are,
They move, nimble and gay!
Blackbird, thrush, chaffinch and starling,
The sentence structure of this story is all out of whack, so I'll just call it a long, free form poem.
Hope I didn't hit your feels too hard.