Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
The moon was alive that night, a large full round ball of gentle white light. A man sat in the midst of its glow on the dividing wall of the abandoned mansion, thoughtfully plucking grass from the ground.
Arthur was always fighting with that blasted American. Alfred, what a stupid name, he thought as he lounged on the crumbling brick wall and looked up at the night sky, at the shivering fields of wheat that stretched out below him. The wind was pleasant as it stroked his face, and his orange hair blew and cloaked his worried eyes. Wearing only a dress shirt and his vest, he was chilled in the unusually cold spring.
He saw how the Briton paced the length of his bedroom at night, muttering about failed parenting and idiotic blond blokes, and grieving over a past with a certain Frenchman that the man assumed he'd rather forget. He would sit in his armchair with a bottle of gin and drink the whole thing down in an hour, and then hobble off to bed with a false sense of peace. These nights were getting more and more frequent of late. Alfred was destroying the Englishman from the inside out, and he sat back, unseen, and was forced to watch it.
He was done watching.
The next night the man crept like a creature emerged from the plain of dreams into a poster-covered bedroom in America, its floors littered with piles of dirty clothes, wearing his favorite pink vest for the occasion. That was what he was, really; just a dream to all their eyes, something that went away with the gentle light of morning and was forgotten in the course of the day. He felt like laughing aloud at the ludicrous thought, but remained quiet as he stood over the bed, the figure below twisted in the sheets underneath the covers still but for the rhythmic rise and fall of its chest. Aside from the rush of cars outside in the street, everything was quiet.
Arthur saw him in his own dreams, and that was a place where they were friends, sitting side by side in a enormous library drinking tea and talking all his troubles away. Arthur never questioned why they looked so alike, because dreams weren't something you usually questioned. They were just distractions, the minds way of playing with itself. His strange counterpart had disturbed the Briton at first; and the man had observed him writing that very thing in his journal. They were so alike, he had written, yet this other him, this double, had given him a malicious feeling at first, with that strange cunning smile and the strange darkly coloured tea he liked to drink, but he had opted to ignore it. After all, this was the only real friend he had ever had, even if it was only in his dreams, just a product of pure imagination. He wasn't going to reject that gift.
The man loved Arthur, loved the other half of himself he had discovered. The smooth accent, the slow way he tasted his tea, savoring it, and the clothes he wore, all were mirror images of himself, backwards and yet oh so perfect for each other. Darkness and light, they came together like puzzle pieces inside them. To him, this love was cold, and how he yearned to embrace it, to let it freeze and encase him in ice.
People do horrific things for the ones they love.
He raised the dagger and tested its sharpness on his fingertip. A bead of blood welled up, and he wiped it away on his vest. He raised the dagger high, eyeing the silver sheen it made in the darkness. Alfred's eyes remained closed and unaware. The blade plunged through the air, and buried itself deep in Alfred's chest with a sickening squishing sound.
The blond American woke with a rasping sound, and his eyes moved down to his chest, where the hilt of the dagger was raised to the ceiling. He coughed, and a river of red came flowing from his mouth, staining the white sheets.
The other man laughed, and placed his palm on the bloody patch, satisfied when it came away covered. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Alfred's hair, humming softly to himself. The song was one he knew by heart, a children's lullaby he had once heard Arthur sing, when he thought he was completely alone. It made him sad to hear it, the tale of lost sunshine passing through his lips.
"Don't worry, you're going to a place where everything is beautiful. Do you think there will be music there? I've heard that one before."
Alfred scowled, his lips painted with blood, and the other rose from the bed and gave a faraway smile in return. "Everything's beautiful there... don't you want to see the fields of wildflowers? They're supposed to be endless, you know."
Alfred had ceased to give any obvious response. He lay mute and still, that red stain spreading like spilled paint from a bucket. His face was paling, and the other new it would soon be cold as marble. His eyes were open, shiny sky blue orbs focused on nothing. The other man felt his neck, and where the skin rose and fell and the vein pulsed, there was nothing. Death had halted the music, just as it halted everything else.
He started for the door, preparing to leave. He was late, and Arthur was waiting for him in his dreams tonight.
And that was a little exert from the twisted mind of the author. I'm not sure if anyone got the hidden meaning behind 2p! Arthur's last words to Alfred. I meant to make it vague but the idea was that he beilieves that Alfred is going to paradise, amd he's sad because he doesn't he'll ever get to see it.
I hope you all enjoyed it. Sorry I killed off Alfred... *sprinkles magic dust on his body* Revive!
Alfred: *gasps for air* What the hell!?
Me: Arthur did it. *whispers* sort of...
Press that special review button if you feel the need, and constructive critisism is super. Flying Mint Bunny shall visit you if you do... ok, maybe not. Wait, is there a 2p! Flying Mint Bunny!?