Doubt that the stars are fire,

doubt that the sun doth move,

doubt truth to be a liar,

but never doubt I love.

x.

An eerie silence dominated the atmosphere, the only sounds being faulty engines in the background, as well as stray breezes fluttering past and making the dying trees sway.

The stench of pollution filled his sinuses, the smoke from various locations swarming around the relatively rural location centred within an industrial place. He grass, instead of bright emerald green, was more of a burnt umber, and sparse in supply; he could feel the hard mud beneath his scruffy trainers as opposed to blades of grass brushing against his soles.

A few crinkled leaves broke apart as he stepped over them on his way to his intended destination. None were green. None were alive - they were all orange and brown and dying. Dead.

It was fitting, he thought, as he ascended up the uneven slope. Various stones were scattered over the ground, lacklustre, covered in dirt and graffiti, and the areas around them untamed and empty. He could see no flowers, but instead just the dead, broken leaves fluttering around the place, as if taunting them all. They were like puppets: soulless, unnecessary, and controlled by a higher power like pawns in a game.

Life was like a game, really. People were constantly played with and frequently sacrificed for the greater good. The game took more than a few lifetimes to complete because there were so many dispensible pawns to utilise. There were no knights, bishops, castles, kings or queens. There were only pawns. Useless, worthless, hopeless pawns. Puppets.

And he was no exception.

He slowed to a stop, slightly suddenly, but it was practiced. He had been at the very same place numerous times already. Any remaining grass had long since disappeared as he had almost formed a path to the exact place. It was dark, overshadowed by a large weeping willow tree above it, and always seemed damp even when it didn't rain. It was as if tears were constantly shed here.

He knelt down, uncaring of the cold, wet mud seeping through his jeans, and delicately placed a fragile red rose on the ground. He sat for a long while, simply staring vacantly ahead of him, millions of thoughts whizzing turmultuously through his mind and yet he was unable to grasp any of them. He felt numb. Yes, it was an oxymoron, but there was so much hypocrisy and controversy that he felt it was appropriate. It was, in addition, true. He wasn't very good at being honest and, although he prided himself on being a man of action, it was a lack of it that had resulted in his present state.

He hated himself. He really couldn't stand himself. It was all his fault that his world had fallen apart all around him.

He didn't bother to blink away the sting in his eyes, and carefully withdrew a piece of crumpled paper from his back pocket. He unfolded it slowly, shakily, and tried to read the fading inked words from the parchment, some parts blurred with tears, although he wasn't sure whose - the man who had written it, or he, who had received it.

Beloved sweetheart bastard, he had first written, the first line of a poem by Carol Ann Duffy. It was an oxymoron that displayed more bewilderment and contrast and he wished he knew if he really had been his sweetheart, even if he had hurt him. He knew that the aforementioned poem hadn't ended well, incorporating insanity and death and horrible feelings. It was a very fitting line to open with, if a bit of a kick in the gut.

Please refrain from panicking and wondering if there is a ghost in the room - I made sure that any haunted spirits lurking around my home would depart upon my own exit. I knew you would become hysterical if you believed there to be any occult creatures loitering behind you.

Suspicious and slightly unnerved, he almost did turn around. However, he had read this letter countless times before, and knew that nothing was behind him. He almost blushed in embarrassment, recalling how violently he had reacted upon his first time scanning the paper, but he remained pale faced and impassive, reading on without a reaction, save for the water gathering in his eyes.

I am willing to bet you just glanced behind you. But that is quite all right; you can keep your money as I am not here to receive it. Are you not glad that you no longer have to waste your finances on a worthless old man such as myself? At the very least, you cannot think of me as a cheapskate. I had finally repaid you in 2004, I believe. It is difficult to keep track of everything with my long history. You're right - I really am very old. I am very old and even more tired. I am tired of living. I am tired of being bombarded with countless agonising memories; tired of every date bringing back another onslaught of reminiscing over painful occasions; tired of every little flashback making me want to just stop.

Oh, God, how he wished he had listened. He had noticed, of course. He had noticed how, every day, the older man's eyes grew darker and emptier. He had noticed that he had gradually become more pale and thin. He noticed that he never wore short sleeves and he always seemed exhausted. He seemed to throw his high regard for hygiene away, not wanting to wash often. And, fuck, he had teased him for it, saying his hair was getting as greasy as that stupid Harry Potter character, and the other man just said, "Severus Snape. He sacrificed himself for the new Chosen One. He died in the end. And, you know, he never experienced love. Not requited, at least. He sacrificed himself and died miserably."

God, he should have listened. He hadn't taken it to heart, thinking the other man had just used his lack of knowledge as an excuse to lecture him. They had argued again. Well, the other had hardly reacted or reciprocated to the argument. It was quite onesided on his part, ironically, and the other just listened silently and walked away when he was done ranting. He did that a lot - saying things he regretted. And he never apologised. Neither did the other, really, but maybe... maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe if he had just once asked, "Are you okay?" or... or said anything truthfully instead of just making smartass remarks or trying to rile him up. But, damn it, he had been scared. He wanted the man to return to normal and rile him up and call him names. He didn't want that broken, fragile shell of him.

But then he realised: he wanted all of him. He didn't just want the 'normal' irritable, stubborn, easily flustered man. He wanted the happy one, with rare fleeting smiles and impromptu hugs and shy compliments. He wanted the sulking one, accompanied by the obvious pouting even when he insisted that he was glaring, the crybaby although he wouldn't admit to sobbing every so often. He wanted the professional one who always concentrated on his work and refused to respond to any annoying jibes but eventually gave in. He wanted the motherly one who made sure he ate well (even if the man's food was utterly horrid, but he always did try hard to please him) and got his work done and got enough sleep. He wanted all of him.

But now... now, he had none.

I apologise. You do not need to hear me moan about how hard I have found life. I know you have had it difficult as well, especially in the 1930s. That was a terrible time, the Great Depression, but you pulled through it despite everything. You were a fool, you know. You still are, but... you kept saying how you had failed the world. You kept saying no one cared about you and you had ruined everything. You idiot. I have always... cared about you. I wish I could show it better. Whenever I tried to display my... affections... for you... I just... I panicked, I suppose. I did not know what to do and I was certain you would just laugh at me.

That, or hate me. And... I could not stand the prospect of the latter. I know you hated me at one point, and it was horrendous. Do you remember when you were still my colony? Prior to 1776. You had loathed me. It was obvious. I pretended to be oblivious. I knew you detested me for how I had raised the taxes. Yes, admittedly, I had... I had taken advantage of you. It was selfish of me, and I know you can never forgive me. I never forgave France for 1066, and he never forgave me for Joan. I apologise for how I used you financially, but... as well as giving into greed, I did it because I realised that eventually you might want to leave me. I wanted to do all in my power to keep you by my side.

But, alas, I failed. I am so very old, and it seems all I have done in my long life is fail. The only thing I accomplished was becoming a British Empire - a dictator, a tyrant, a loathesome monster who deserved death. I had colonies and... I grew to care about all of them... All of you. And I failed all of you as well. You all left. I was so alone. The fairies kept my company. They knew I was terrified of being alone. But I always was so very, very lonely. So very scared. Just like when I was first found - small, insignificant, and used and abused by many. I was all alone. Rome taught me, and so did Germania, slightly. France raised me more than anyone else, and even he... well, you know how bad our relationship was. My brothers... I think they hated me more than anyone else. It seems I was hated by all, and I can blame no one.

But he was the idiot, thinking that he hated him. Everyone thought he was oblivious, but truly, it was the other, for he couldn't see just how much he... he loved him. And, within the undertones of this aging letter, so did he. If he had just said something instead of telling himself not to in fear of rejection or whatever else came to mind, maybe... maybe then, he would still be here and they would both be happy. Maybe. Maybe it at least better than certainly not.

I digress, however. I appear to do that quite a lot, don't you think? No wonder no one likes listening to me. I really do prattle on about senseless things. I suppose it is just to cover up all of my insecurities... Even writing this, I still can't bring myself to admit to everything. I'm aware, however, that you know how insecure I am. You know, I... I always felt that you surpassed me. You are a superpower, and I'm a fallen empire.

Please, just... I know you are a very good person with some wonderful morals, and so... be amiable with Prussia. It is... It is horrible to fall with no one to catch you or pull you back up. It's cold, dark, and lonely. You don't want to be alive. You feel as if you don't deserve anything. You feel like you're already dead.

Was this how he felt? The man had always been so proud and stubborn and, although he wasn't as obviously egoistic as he himself was, he still seemed gratified with his country. Really, he seemed to be holding in all the revulsion and displeasure whilst slowly allowing his will to break apart and fall away. It wasn't as if they were never there for each other - they always tried to help one another in their own eccentric ways, but they never seemed to get to the heart of the issue and always drifted away from it. Drifted away from each other.

I don't want that to happen to you. I want you to be obnoxious, annoying, silly, happy, and just you forever. Every part of you, even if some things you do hurt, are things I... things I love. And, bloody hell, I hate how you make me love you so much. Yes, I said it. I'm sorry I don't say it anymore. I'm sorry we never said it to each other after the revolution. That word kills me. It hurts to say it and it hurts even more to remember it. I can still feel the chilling rain on my skin and that damn fucking musket in my grasp and... You must have seen me shaking, right? I knew right from the start that I couldn't kill you. I had convinced myself I could, but once I saw you, although my anger was flaring, I suddenly remembered just how much I loved you. I suddenly realised that I never wanted to hurt you.

God knows why. Or, perhaps not. Perhaps even He cannot comprehend the complexity of our feelings. I know I don't, and nor do professionals the field of psychiatry, or scientists examining brains, because feelings are so emotional in their own right. Feelings have feelings. Sadness isn't just sadness. There is melancholy and anguish and grief, and then there's hopelessness and losing your will.

I know why I couldn't do anything to you, however. I wonder if you have ever figured it out. I wonder if you've ever noticed how much I've longed for you to be near me. I wonder if you've ever realised how I always glance in your direction. Probably not, since you never seem to look at me. You're always preoccupied with helping everyone. I am proud of the man you turned out to be, you know. I wish I could have told you that.

And he had noticed how the word 'man' was beside the crossed out word 'boy'. He had finally accepted him as a man - as an equal. And, damn it, he had only once noticed the man looking at him. He stared at him too when he wasn't. He had always only wanted to be beside the other man. He had gained independence and strived to improve because he felt as if he wasn't good enough for him.

He thought all he had ever wanted was for the other to accept him as an equal. But he was wrong. He wanted so much more than acceptance. He wanted friendship, a bond. He wanted love.

"I wish you could be here to tell me that now."

I'm sorry.

It was as if the letter responded to his dialogue. It was as if he was replying to what he said in spoken words as opposed to written. And that single I'm sorry was smudged, both the blotched ink and the shakey letters and the tears dotting it and making it blur, just like their feelings for each other.

I could write so much about you and yet I can scarcely write anything to you. With all our history, all our words, and all our feelings and time spent together, I find myself crying over a piece of parchment covered in words that will never reflect anything I truly feel for you.

Maybe I should take a leaf out of your book and just say it.

I should just tell you how I've felt for you for so long.

How I will always feel.

I love you, Alfred, and I'm sorry I never said it.

Love,

a foolish villain and the man who loves you.

"If you loved me so much," Alfred whispered, tears falling silently onto the grave before him. "Why did you leave me?"

He didn't receive an answer.

He knew he never would.

But, as he did every time he came to visit, he stayed at the grave until the morning turned to afternoon, the afternoon transformed into evening, and the saturated sunset evolving into a polluted dusk. He watched as more dying leaves fell from the trees and fluttered aimlessly across the ground and listened as the breeze manipulated the trees into swaying. He imagined a voice being contained within the wind and repeating the words in the letter.

I love you, the wind said to him. I'm sorry I never said it.

He stared listlessly at the stone before him and couldn't even bring himself to fake a smile. "Me too," he said, breathless, congested and so very hopeless. "Me too, Arthur."

x.

Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

Sorry for lack of updates. Life has not been that great lately and, although I've written a lot, I haven't finished chapters or anything. But today inspired me to write this. It's lacklustre and disappointing. It was meant to be full of feeling but, reading over it, it seems impassive to me.

But I was trying to get a message across.

I hope it did.

It probably didn't.

Hope you like it nonetheless.