Black, White and Red
Disclaimer : I do not own Hetalia
Background: Sometime during WWII. An attack on Poland.
It seemed as though someone had carelessly spilled red paint all over the room. The paint was splashed on the walls, on the floor, nothing seemed to escape it. Except, Lithuania thought, red was a nice colour, it was the colour of apples and of the sunset, and sometimes the blush that betrayed his thoughts. This red, however, struck fear into his heart. It was a deep shade of crimson, the colour, he thought, the colour of blood.
Although the red paint tainted nearly every corner, it seemed to collect on a small object in the middle of the room. The absence of sunlight in the place made Lithuania squint in order to distinguish that the figure was in fact a person hunched over on the floor. Lithuania gagged and covered his mouth as the smell of blood drifted across the room. He edged closer, cautious and frightened of what he might see. The man was shuddering violently, pain sending spasms through his body. He slowly, reluctantly, lifted his head up, his eyes darting nervously around the room. His usually golden hair was dull and bloodstained, and hung limply around his shoulders. A deep purple bruise pulsated on his cheek and blood trickled from his nose. A lone tear slid silently down his cheek, sending his body into another spasm. He opened his mouth, finally acknowledging Lithuania's presence and whispered heavily,
'Help me, please.'
Poland let out a small yelp as the pain racked his body yet again. Lithuania inhaled sharply, taken aback by his lifeless eyes in contrast to his usual sparkling green ones. A wave of nausea rushed over Lithuania and he swayed, unsteady on his feet. He felt so weak, so powerless, and yet he couldn't just stand by and watch as his friend suffered. Unsure of what to say, Lithuania knelt before him. Blinking back tears, he gently reached out and took Poland's hands in his own, wincing as he saw the angry red welts lingering from when Poland had clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails had cut into his skin. Poland, who had been staring impassively at the floor, lifted his head at his touch. The two gazed at each other for a moment, eyes locked, and Lithuania noticed a small flicker of hope in his eyes. Lithuania pulled him closer in a gentle embrace. He held him protectively, and began to rock him back and forth, as though he was a small child in need of comfort.
'It's okay Feliks', Lithuania whispered reassuringly, 'I'm here now.'
Lithuania felt Poland breathe deeply, his breath shuddering against his thin frame. His hand which was clenched around Lithuania's shirt, begging him to stay, loosened its grip and his whole body slumped as he could finally relax. Both countries were crying now, their tears splashing onto the floor and mingling with the blood. Lithuania shut his eyes, sharing his friend's pain, willing himself as a sacrifice instead. The two remained in silence, comforted by the others presence. Lithuania opened his eyes and surveyed the room through his tearful vision. All the colours seemed to have washed away, leaving only the red behind to dominate his vision. He held Poland close, their hearts beating together in a steady rhythm, and gazed out at a world of black, white and red.