Disclaimer: I don't own Metal Fight Beyblade.
WARNING: If you were looking for Valentine fluff, this is not it.
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At night, floating along the wind, an old newspaper lands in a dark, empty alleyway.
The newspaper's headline, written in heavy black ink, reads Britain and France Declares War on Germany.
Less than a year later, on June 10th of 1940, Italy declares war on Britain and France.
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War is brutal.
Even though he is fighting for his country (killing, his mind numbly supplies), it does not hide the fact that war is brutal and vicious and stained with the blood of millions, reeks with the legacy of destruction.
Julian is not exempt from the legacy. In one ravaged field of decay and dead bodies, he lays, bleeding to death slowly from two bullets lodged in his stomach. It hurts so much (the adrenalin of the battle long since faded) that he can't move, can't do anything except wait. Wait until it all ends.
He has no more strength to fight back anymore.
Around him, there are three more soldiers.
The four of them are the sole survivors. Both sides of the battle sustained massive losses, retreated to regroup and wait for backup. He had long since resigned himself to the fact that there would be no help coming.
It's ironic, he thinks tiredly. He once had been an average citizen of Italy, with a college degree and a bright future in medicine, but the war took it away and now he's nothing more than a simple foot soldier to be counted among the list of casualties.
"Damn," one of the others curse, two meters across from him, panting for breath. The ginger haired man's (boy, he realizes, barely eighteen just like him) right arm and left leg are blown clean off, probably by a stray grenade. Despite the fact that two of his four limbs are bloody stumps that continue to gush a river of crimson, the boy continues to struggle to get up, left arm pushing uselessly against the ground, blue eyes flashing in defiance.
Julian quietly admires him for it, until he notices the red-spattered uniform. British.
An enemy.
For a second, he automatically reaches for his gun, but then he remembers there has already been enough deceased (more than enough for a thousand lifetimes), and his hand retreats. The both of them are going to die anyways, and ultimately, the two of them are both just humans unfortunate enough to be caught up in the tangle of warfare.
"This is a lovely predicament we're in," another voice says, pained but echoing with sarcasm and the barest hints of amusement. To his immediate right, a large German soldier grins weakly at him. Shrapnel and burns cover more than half of his body, imbedded in his face, splashing over his chest. His dark green uniform is glued to his body with congealed blood.
"I knew I shouldn't have volunteered to transfer," the last soldier groans, wearing a similar uniform to the ginger-haired boy. It takes a split second for Julian to realize that the voice is a bit too soft and melodious to be a man. It takes another split second for him to remember that Britain forbids women to join combative units, and finally one last split second to realize that it really doesn't matter.
There's a piece of an iron pole (or what was left of one) stuck just under her ribcage, going through her body on one end and protruding on the other end.
Julian feels a random laugh start bubbling out of nowhere. Out of all four, he probably has it best, and he's the one with two in his stomach that's slowly killing him. The rest of them cast him strange glances, but chooses not to comment.
Then, there is silence for a couple of seconds.
"...I'm Klaus, by the way," the German soldier offers, lifting his arm (dead skin is falling off in patches) and sticks his thumb in his direction. He's lying face-up, towards the sky and the stars, and Julian feels envy because he himself is stuck face down to die, facing the cold earth.
But that's not too bad, either, he muses. The earth gave birth to him, and it's claiming him back.
"We're doing that now?" The woman asks, blood dribbling down her chin. She coughs weakly. "Fine. My name is Anders."
"Oh come on!" The British soldier with the ginger-hair complains, waving around his arm stump dramatically. "We all know you're a girl! Can't you give us your name?"
"Ha ha," she says sarcastically, shifting a little. There's an awful squelching noise as the iron pole moves inside her body. "So funny. I'm really called Sophie. Happy now?"
"Very. I'm William, but friends call me Wales. How about you, blondie? You've been quiet all this time; don't tell me you're already dead."
"Wales!" Sophie gasps, scandalized.
Julian remembers that the Brit said only friends call him that.
"It's fine," he says honestly. He attempts a shrug as best as he can, but ends up coughing blood. "My name is Julian," he manages to finish a couple seconds later, chest burning.
"You know, I'd buy you a beer if you were a German." Julian supposes Klaus means him. "You're exactly the image of Fuhrer Hitler's super human."
"Hitler is a fascist son of a-"
Sophie glares at Wales, who breaks off abruptly, almost sheepishly. "-gun."
Julian wants to laugh. Klaus makes a mock glare, but sighs a second later. "I completely agree. Hitler is a son of a bitch."
"Then why are you fighting for him?" All the amusement leaves the situation. "Same with you, Blondie. Why are you fighting for your dictator, Mussolini?"
"Draft," he answers without thinking. Klaus nods. "Same here. You don't know what it's like in our countries right now. Anybody who tries to go against the common 'goals' gets-"
"-Killed," the Italian finishes.
"That's sad," Wales says weakly, frowning. "I was fully prepared to hate the both of you, but instead I feel bloody sorry. Literally."
"Just goes to show how much we really don't know about each other," Sophie whispers.
"...How about we start now? Knowing each other?" Julian says.
"Are you serious? We only have around five minutes-"
"Better than nothing."
So they do. In the few precious minutes they have left, the four of them pour their entire life stories to each other, sharing secrets and crushes and hopes and dreams. Klaus's eyes soften when he talks about his four brothers and their mischievous ways. Sophie tells them about aspiring to be like her mother, a volunteer nurse in the first Great War who died on the field. Wales scoffs a little, but finally reveals his impoverished upbringing on the streets of London, how he joined the army to prove all those people who told him he'd never amount to anything wrong.
Julian talks about the Italy he knew before Mussolini and the Great Wars, the distant memory of beautiful paintings and happy citizens and his laughing parents.
"I wish we didn't have this war," Klaus says in a quiet, small voice, eyes transfixed on the stars glittering above him. "It's all so pointless. I mean, look at us! Four soldiers from two sides of the war, and we're talking and all and not trying to kill each other."
He's grinning as his body slowly relaxes.
"I think... I think I had a pretty good run..." the German rasps. "Just... Could have been better..."
His chest stops rising and falling.
The remaining three of them don't say anything. They know what he means.
Despite the fact that they were enemies (but shouldn't have been, none of them should have been in this war), the British soldier quietly murmurs prayer.
There's another silence for them to drink in the fact that Klaus was dead and they would be dead soon. None of them panics.
"Heh..." It's Sophie, her voice barely more than a whisper and fading fast. "Guess what, Wales? I'm actually French."
"So that's why you didn't tell Klaus off when he swore!" He gasps in over exaggeration. "Damn cowards and hypocrites..." Wales's voice trails off, but there's no real insulting tone to it. "Leaving us to fight Germany all by ourselves."
"At least we didn't lose an important colony," she playfully jibes back.
"At least I'm not going to die before one of my rivals," he retorts back. "I refuse to lose this competition."
"Then we'll draw, won't we?"
They smile at each other, blue eyes against green. Hands touch briefly.
Then, the lights behind their eyes fades simultaneously, turns glossy as they go limp.
Julian is suddenly acutely aware of how dizzy everything is, how black spots are swarming his entire vision. He's lost too much blood.
He coughs, but there's no pain in it.
Strangely enough, there's no pain to anything anymore.
The black spots start to overtake everything. Despite the relief that everything would be over soon, there's a strange tug of regret.
Perhaps... In another life... We could have been friends...
The battlefield falls completely still and silent.
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"Ladies and gentlemen, the time you've all been waiting for! Representing the European Union..."
"...Team Excalibur!"
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A/N
In honor of all the soldiers who died in the World Wars... Rest in peace.