AN: Okay, so I have NO IDEA how the heck I ended up writing this. The song "Jar of Hearts" was stuck in my head all day and apparently the only way to get it out is to write a FanFiction on it. Fair warning, this is very crack-ish and random, but whatever. Enjoy :)
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA, ITS CHARACTERS, OR JAR OF HEARTS.
Russia's Jars of Hearts
"Brother! Come over here!" Ukraine called to her younger brother. Russia sighed and pushed back his chair, half-grateful to be away from the mess of paperwork in front of him. He walked over to where his sister sat, smiling with a huge set of headphones clamped around her head.
"Da? What do you need?" he asked, cocking his head quizzically as strands of silvery-blond hair flopped over his violet eyes.
Ukraine looked up at her brother, then to the available seat on the couch next to her. Grinning broadly, she patted the cushion to indicate that Russia should sit down beside her. He did as she nonverbally requested. Without a word, Ukraine slid off her headphones and placed them on Russia. At first he tensed at the strange accessory, but began to relax at the soft music flowing out of them. Faintly, he could hear Ukraine says something like, "Listen to this. I love this song," however her voice was drowned out by the music as a woman began to sing a slow and sad song that Russia could not help but get caught up in.
"And who do you think you are? Runnin' round leavin' scars. Collecting your jar of hearts. And tearing love apart. You're gonna catch a cold, from the ice inside your soul. So don't come back for me. Who do you think you are?"
"I just…just can't…believe it," Britain gasped in between sobs. "Even if I did hate that wanker, he didn't deserve to…to…"
"Dude," America said softly, patting the Brit's head, "don't worry. We'll find whoever is doing this. Trust me, I'm the hero."
Britain was a wreck. He threw himself into America's outstretched arms, pressing his crying eyes into the taller man's chest. He felt America's arms tighten around his body and Britain relaxed for the first time since he had gotten the news. "I'm scared," he mumbled into America's chest. "Every time, it's happened at night. Awful scars on the bodies' chests. What if we're next?"
America ran his fingers comfortingly through Britain's messy blond hair. "Don't worry. I can come over tonight if you want. Every time they were found alone. Maybe if we're together, we'll be safe."
"None of us are safe!" Britain cried, pushing away from America. "Even the strongest ones showed no sign of struggle or fighting. They were just found dead on the floor. And we're next. Just two more names added onto the growing list; Italy, Germany, Japan, China…and France."
"Britain," America sighed, gripping the other man's shoulder. "Everything is going to be fine. Just wait here okay? I need to stop home real fast and pick up something and let Canada know where I'll be. But I'll be right back, you won't even know I'm gone. Will you be okay until then?"
Britain didn't respond immediately. Instead, he wiped tears from his emerald green eyes and turned from America. Speaking so softly it was barely audible, he whispered, "Fine."
"Britain! Dude, Britain, I'm back!" America called into his friend's mansion. But there was no response. "Britain! Britain!" he shouted, his voice growing louder and louder and more and more panicked as he frantically began to search for his friend. "BRITAIN!"
America scrambled up the stairs to get to Britain's room, stumbling over his own feet clumsily in his desperate dash upstairs. "Britain," he panted, throwing open the door.
And he froze in his tracks. Mouth half-open, mid-step, he stopped. Splayed out in front of him was his best friend, blood seeping through his clothes, limbs haphazardly strewn around him, and eyes coldly dull. Britain was dead.
Slowly, like a zombie, America plodded over to the body. Cautiously, he knelt down and gingerly placed his fingers on the exposed pale white skin on Britain's neck. No pulse; just an icy feeling that coursed through America's body. Britain was most certainly dead.
The world seemed to freeze. Time stopped. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. America stood up. His heart did not seem to beat. The room was completely silent.
America didn't know how long he stood there, frozen, standing over the bloodied cadaver of his best friend. All he knew was that it was his fault; Britain's death had happened because America had to leave, to grab his gun from his house, and to tell Canada where he would be. But none of that mattered now, except for one thing. His gun…
Empty and emotionless, America felt his hand move, it felt inside of his jacket until he found what he had been searching for. Uncaringly, he withdrew the small handgun. Slowly, he moved his feet, preparing himself to turn around. Just one chance at this.
America whipped around, holding up his gun at the advancing intruder. In his silent wallowing, he had heard the soft footsteps pattering across the floor; now it was his chance to kill the guy who did this to Britain and all the others.
"You don't want to do that, da?" Russia stated calmly, unfazed by the fact that a loaded gun was mere inches away from his chest. Instead, he slowly held up the object in his hand for America to see. A jar. It was a jar with a single object resting inside of it. The dark red object sat slumped against the transparent glass.
"A…A heart?" America asked confusedly. Then the pieces began to fall into place. "Britain's heart," he declared. "You're the one who has been murdering all these people. Who do you think you are? Some kind of god or something? What gives you the right to do such an inhumane thing?" he hissed out furiously, gesturing to the blood-spattered corpse. Then he lowered the gun as he ran back to Britain's body. He just had to be positive. If it wasn't Britain's heart then maybe he could shoot and kill Russia, but he couldn't risk hitting his best friend's heart. America needed to be positive.
He ripped open Britain's green military jacket and saw that the body was covered in grotesque scars, the deepest ones being where his heart would have been, where it should have been. So it was true. Russia was murdering all those people and stealing their hearts. And now he had Britain's.
America gripped the gun tightly in his right hand and turned back to face Russia. But the murderer was gone. Somehow he had disappeared. "Russia!" America screamed in pure rage. "I'm going to kill you! Show yourself! RUSS—"
America's screams were cut off as the knife dug itself farther into his back. With a strangled choke, he collapsed to the ground, unable to move. The feeling in his limbs started to slip away as he saw the slivery blond man walk forward from the shadows, hair hanging slightly over his shining violet eyes. Russia leaned down and removed the blade from America's back, rolling his body over so that America was now lying on his back. As America struggled to fight off the white haze that was crowding his vision, he heard Russia whisper to him, "You're going to catch a cold from the ice inside your soul, da?" That was the last thing America heard as his world faded to nothing as soon as Russia began cutting into his chest, humming a sad tune.
"Brotherrrr," the creepy voice called through the thick wooden door. Russia could hear the awful sound of fingernails scraping the wood. "Open the doorrrr."
Thankful for the invention of locks, Russia ignored Belarus's demands and proceeded to withdraw his two trophies from his thick, tan jacket. In calm and careful writing, he wrote out labels, "Britain" and "America", and placed them on the appropriate jars, the blood-red object inside jostling only slightly as he lifted them both and placed them on the shelf next to his other trophies. "Well, I'm up to seven now," he smiled to himself. The scratching on the door was becoming unbearable, so Russia decided to drown it out with his favorite song. From another pocket of his jacket, he withdrew Ukraine's i-pod and a small set of earbuds. Just as he unlocked the i-pod, the door burst open, allowing Belarus to come inside. "What are you doing in here?" Russia almost shouted. He made sure it was clear to everyone in his home that this room was off-limits.
"Brother," Belarus sighed, glancing at Russia's trophy shelf. "It's beautiful."
Russia smirked. "Here," he said, offering her his headphones as he played a certain song for her. Once it was over Belarus had a different look on her face, an even more twisted and maniacal, yet calm one, if that was even possible. "You would like to help me collect my jars of hearts, da?"
AN: I warned you it was random. Hope you liked it. READ AND REVIEW please...? Maybe...? Or else I'll get Russia and Belarus to come cut out your heart. Grrr!