I do not own Hetalia.

T for language


August 1st-9nth

1.

They say the dead cannot hear our words. But can they feel them? I think writing goes beyond just "hearing" and transcends into "understanding". Don't you think? Well, it's worth a shot anyway.

Since you're so far away I thought I should start writing, and that was how I justified my decision. So, here I am. I'm living, breathing, working, sweating, my heart's pumping, neurones are firing off in my brain, and the world continues to spin. I think it does, at least. Wouldn't it be a trifle mystifying if it had stopped spinning and we were all trapped in a pocket of time? Dangling there, in the air, waiting for something to push our pendulum again, or pop our bubble?

It feels like that a lot nowadays.

2.

"You're so far away".

Did I really write that?

I think I forgets sometimes just where you are. Maybe in my head I made up this faraway land just to cope, you know? Just to set you aside, tuck you into a blanket, and to know you're somewhere: just not here.

It's silly, forgive me.

3.

You gave me a book before everything happened. It was a week after I gave you one of my favourite books, In Search of Lost Time. You took it, the English version, and commented on how much you had grown to begrudgingly appreciate my collection of French literature. I liked the angry look on your face, with your thick eyebrows downturned and angry. Your eyebrows were a sore subject, weren't they? And now, looking back, you probably think that was the silliest thing to get worried about. Not that you can look back. Can ghosts reflect? Is that all they do?

Do they drift through the cold castle hallways, thinking of their life, mourning their losses, counting their blessings? Do they still feel the pains of famine? Do plague victims' ghosts still feel sick? I'm still making conjectures, pulling them out of the air.

I like to think you're a ghost, sometimes. I like to think your wispy, bluish figure hovers by my side day and night, brushing past me, reaching for me, loving me, or maybe nudging certain obstacles away. Or, knowing you, you would watch and occasionally help - but only when I really needed it.

Now, that's not what I meant to talk about, is it? What I meant to discuss was the book. Yes, the book called Cards. It's interesting, thank you for giving it to me. I like the character whose hair is always tangled and her eyes are always wild. I like strange people like that.

Maybe that's why I liked you so much. I liked your strangeness. I liked how angry you got at small things. I liked how you would debate any subject to the very end, even when your opponent would hastily say they needed more tea. You would continue battering your point in until I was sure the sofa was about to swallow them whole. Even dusty professors stood no chance against your intellect. I liked how you would walk into the kitchen, merry, and walk out with a dark look like an oncoming storm. You would point your thumb back and I would have to go in.

"I'm sick of cooking! I'll never do it again!"

I'd tell you that I would cook for you any day, my sweet.

"Go fuck yourself."

And I knew you didn't mean it. Most people didn't, however, and they would get so mad at you for not knowing. And… And…

4.

I had to stop writing yesterday because my pen shook so much. Mostly from the tears. But you won't hear of tears, now will you? You hardly ever cried. I think I only saw you cry once or twice in your lifetime.

And I, oh, always so faint of heart!

And I'm not even that old yet.

5.

I don't have much time to write tonight, my love. Today was a very busy day. I'll tell you what happens when the time clears up.

I love you.

6.

I managed to come home from the publishing house earlier today, my dear, to write to you what I did yesterday that swallowed up my time like a black hole. I went for a walk that morning, seeing as it was the perfect point between drizzly and gloomy, as you know I like it. You know how I like the wet, cool air drifting towards my cheeks, brushing my hair back, and how I like the quiet, and the smell of rain just about to fall.

Well, I put on my hoodie, tucked headphones in under my jacket so they wouldn't get wet, and started to walk. As I walked, I wanted to visit you, but I was cut off. A young woman who was sipping tea at a café stopped me, brandishing her notebook and a grin.

"I know you!" she said. "You're the manager of T_ Publishing Company!"

I couldn't say I wasn't and shrug her off like a rowdy teenager, so I gave her a stiff smile. "Do you have a story you want to share with me, then?"

I knew their types. Years of experience had built it on me. They would see me, know my face or know my suit, or have seen me in the office while they got their twentieth rejection note that month, and lodge me into their brains. They wanted so bad to become known. What could I do?

If I still stunk of cigarettes and wine, maybe she would have backed away. Or not. She looked resilient.

"Yes, yes I do." She said, holding the notebook up. A rain was about to start. I imagined the ink running down the page like tears.

"You certainly do." I repeated lamely.

"Well…?"

"Well what, young lady?" I didn't mean to sound sharp, but I was still hazy, sleepy, and I suddenly had a craving for a smoke. But I quit. We both quit at the same time, Arthur love.

She was unfazed by my tone. "Can you at least, oh dear god please, read the first few words?" Her French had an Italian accent.

I thought, well, I have a long day ahead of me. So I decided to read it.

This is the part where I should say: By God! What a prodigy! Why had she been rejected? The poor girl had untapped talent! I must invest immediately.

But I won't lie.

It was bad. Maybe I was just surly from the day, or maybe I was just rude, or maybe she really did suffer dyslexia, but it was bad. The writing was crooked and difficult to read. The grammar was faulty in many places. Some words I couldn't read at all. And the story was so painfully cliched and obvious the first word gave away the ending.

It was about some girl, from what I could tell, who discovered magic, and wanted to go out and explore. A male character is introduced. And an uncreative mind ensues.

Of course, I don't tell her this. I direct her to a fantasy/sci-fi agency that could be a better suit for her writing. Let them reject her.

"What do you publish then?" She asked tartly.

"Art."

And I walked away.

Maybe I've picked up rudeness from you?

7.

I ran into your brother today.

Or, I should say, he found me. He walked into the office. I could smell him a mile off. He always smokes the same cigarettes. I saw his red head bobbing in the distance and sighed. I walked over to him. He stared at me glumly. He always looks glum, even when he's happy. Doesn't he?

He says that he's sorry about what happened and he hopes you forgive him, wherever you are in your faraway place.

"I'll tell him," I said.

He looked at me like I'm a crazy, grief-stricken widow. He never really did appreciate the fact that you ran off with a French boy on a slim black motorcycle and an unused medical degree (though that came later).

"Thanks," he said, tipping his head, and walked out.

Amazing how a man could go so many steps for forgiveness.

Do you grant it to him? Or does forgiveness mean nothing to you at this point? I hope it has some sort of significance in your heart.

8.

It's been an entire month, huh? Feels like longer.

9.

Some days, like today, the pain of your departure becomes unbearable. I feel like I'm suffocating. Other days I can handle it. It's there, dragging behind me like a heavy, dark, lump of a shadow. When I was up and I reach over, but you're not there, my heart constricts in my throat.

Sometimes, when I walk in crowds, I think I see your face or your hair or your favourite green jacket. I come closer, but it fades away. It's like I'm in a desert and you're the oasis I seek so desperately that you appear in a mirage. Then you trickle away with the sands of time and I'm left alone again. I have to continue scouring the desert, on my hands in knees, my face sun scorched and my mouth parched.

I would wait a thousand years if only I'd knew you'd come back.

But you won't.

You can't.

I miss you so much.

Marie told me to man-up. I lived seventeen years without you, I could live a couple more. That made me lose it. I snapped at her. "What the fuck do you know about love?" I shouted.

"More than you do." She said coldly.

"What makes you say that?" I wanted to smack her, call her a slut, but I was trembly with tears.

Her face softened.

"My love was real." And she left it at that. I knew what she meant.

How could feelings this intense be fake? Simulated? Artificial? I could have drowned her in the toilet.

But anger is not the answer. Even you at your grouchiest would drift back to earth with agreement. I like to think I'm strong with that, but I'm just tired and lonely.

I can't write much more tonight. I promise I won't relapse, or hurt myself, or anything. I made that agreement to you so long ago, when we sat in the bathroom, fingers locked, cigarettes crushed and in the trash. We said we wouldn't hurt ourselves. We were two youth who had clung to love as a beacon of hope. Fitful seas were no match to our sturdy boats, with oars of passion and bows of trust.

Good night, my love.