"Au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot. Prête-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot."

His voice, quiet at the best of times, was nearly inaudible despite the silence of the night. Matthew breathed deeply, each breath an exhillerating yet painful experience as he lay there in the freshly fallen snow, tears frozen on his cheeks as he painted the ground red with the blood from his wrists. He stared up at the full moon with something akin to bitterness in his heart. How dare it be so beautiful, on the night he had chosen to die? How dare the beauty of the heavens mock him so eloquently?

Winter wasn't such a bad season. You didn't even notice the cold much after awhile. Sure, it was painful for the first while, as you lay there, a mockery of a snow angel. His button down shirt, the same shade of the snow, was thoroughly beyond soaked by now. It was, in fact, frozen solid. His hair like fine gold lay as a halo around him, as his skin turned a lovely shade of alabaster white. "Thank god," He thought to himself dimly, "The shivering has finally stopped."

The worst part of his death would be that no one would care. No one would even notice. Not even his own family. Maybe during the holidays, France would notice that he was hugging one less person. Maybe his bear would notice that he wasn't being fed anymore. Russia might notice his chairs were a lot more comfortable. England might have his hands full with America more often. And America...

Matthew was surprised to find that he still had the vitality left to cry. Softly, as soft as snowflakes, tears rolled down his cheeks. Maybe it was better this way. He had never felt so alone but... maybe it was better this way. Better alone, where he couldn't back out. Better alone. He could remember a time, as brief as it was, when it wasn't like this. When it was all Alfred could do to keep his brother as close as possible, fearing the "Communist taint" that still lay in Alaska. Or when he'd decided he wanted to stay with his baby brother forever, in 1812. He could remember a time when Arthur and Francis fought over more than just crumpets and croissants. Sure, the discord between his French and English colonies had been painful at best, enough to keep him in bed for days, weeks, months at a time but... he hadn't minded then. Not really. It was hard to mind the pain when it meant someone loved you enough to fight for you.

It wasn't like that now. Even Prussia, who wasn't even a goddamn nation anymore, received more acknowledgement than Canada. So much for all that hard work during the first and second world war. If it weren't for the Tulips he recieved every year, he didn't think anyone would remember he was even involved in that.

Come to think of it, he didn't think anyone remembered anyways.

"Netherlands will have to send the tulips to my boss, instead of me." Matthew whispered sadly, speaking up to the twinkling eyes of the stars and big sister moon. A soft breathy sigh left his blue lips, eyes looking around him lazily while he continued to lay in his bleeding angel. "By the light of the silvery moon... this is where I meet my doom." He sang softly, closing his eyes. It wasn't so bad, he decided, dying like this. Beautiful, poetic even. There wasn't anyone for miles, he knew, and the snow always looked so beautiful on the trees. He was okay with the moon and the stars watching over him gently as he slept. He didn't hurt anymore.

"Matvey."

What a beautiful voice.

"Matvey, open your eyes. Wake up. You're not dying yet."

Why did he sound so sad?

Matthew heard a sigh. "If you insist on being difficult..."

Suddenly, he was no longer in the snow. Instead, he was in the warm embrace of somebody whom he couldn't see. A whine left his lips. "Non." He murmured, "Je veux mourir. S'il vous plaît laissez-moi en paix." Instead of being placed back down, however, he was pulled closer to the heat of the large body and, despite his better judgement, he instinctively snuggled closer. Whoever he was, he smelled good. Like musk. And pine. And vodka.

"Nyet, Matvey. You may not die. Not tonight." Lips brushed his forehead, his cheek, his no-longer bleeding wrists. Still, Matthew refused to open his eyes.

"You're not alone anymore."

Lavender eyes met violet, and then he started to cry.

... Well... that was quite a bit darker than what I usually do. I'm sorry. The uhm, translations are:

Au clair de la lune...: By the light of the moon, My friend Pierrot, Lend me your pen, to write a word. It's an old french folk song, often sung as a lullaby or taught in music class to teach easy music, written in the 18th century. I don't know whether you guys already know this or not but... yeah.

Onto darker translations...

Je veux mourir: I want to die
S'il vous plait, laissez-moi en paix: Please, leave me in peace.

Depressing oneshot is depressing. But at least it's semi happy at the end?

~Luna