Story contents/warnings:

Heavier mentions of death, military violence, and very loose basings off a historical event.

Human AU which takes place in the 1980s. Character designs are based off the SU pilot.

1989.

You would never forget that year.

June 4th.

You will never forget the day where you were asked to come home early from work for the very first time, receiving a call from your mother, wanting you to go to her house.

Upon arriving at her home, you saw your mother sitting on the couch, staring solemnly at the TV, phone in her lap, looking horribly pale. "Sadie...please sit down, honey," she had spoken in an eerily soft tone, eyes not glancing at you for even a second. What she was watching seemed to be captivating her in the worst sense of the word, in that she had no choice but to watch.

Wondering if it was the TV that was bothering your mother, you looked and saw photographs taken of the occurring protests in Beijing, the ones your friend had been telling you about since April. The ones he'd been not too involved in, more interested in helping his grandfather, and continuing his student teaching job. You felt your stomach drop as you saw smoke and flames, tanks rushing crowds of people, soldiers carrying guns. You looked at your mother, and your hands began to quiver.

"Lars is in Beijing, Ma..."

"Sadie...", she began, patting the seat beside her.

"I hope he got his grandfather out of there."

"Sadie," she began again, gently placing an arm around you as she sat you down, and you felt an even deeper sense of dread, like her arm would not let you escape.

"I'll have to call him, make sure his grandpa's ok-, that their place didn't get damaged"

"Lars' mother called me Sadie..." she spoke, her voice sounding like something was choking her slowly.

"...if he's hurt, I swear I'm gonna pulverize him, I tell him to be careful and he still gets into stupid shit," you had spoken, as if to deny the possibility of the worst case scenario.

"Sadie...he's...," she sputtered like a bubble had burst inside her, and was causing her to well up with tears.

You both ended up speaking at the same time, the same words, your statement something of disbelief, hers a confirmation,

"He's dead."

You never saw his body at the wake. You would never know if they buried him, cremated him, or if they really did have a body to bury. His parents never told you where he was. The last time you would have seen him was when you gave him a hug goodbye at the airport when he departed for China. He'd been bragging about his new pair of shoes that he'd saved up for, insisting that he would make others jealous, and anyone he met would ask him where he got such great shoes. Of course, he was joking, considering he'd probably get a lot of strange looks for how he appeared to others in that country. He was born there, but bred in Beach City, but had made enough trips in his life there to call it a second home, even amidst the political troubles that hung over the country like a storm. He was proud of his dual citizenship, his heritage, his life.

He had said goodbye to you, and left in his flannel shirt and Doc Martens. Five months later, he returned in a box. At least, his belongings did, which you rifled through in his empty room when his parents weren't looking. His coveted shoes, covered in dust. His clean clothes untouched and still folded. A woolly yarn poncho that you had gifted him as a going-away present that he seemed to have gotten use out of. A white long sleeve and jeans, both stained with dark red, and holes in closely located points, and a blood covered string of beads. You immediately stopped looking.

Your little friend Steven was there, flanked by his three aunts and father, all offering their condolences to the family. You had to give credit to the child, he was taking it well, at least, he seemed to be. His eyes were dry, but clouded with sadness, and he held a handmade card in his hands. His father had obviously bought a sympathy card from Hallmark to express his thoughts to the parents who had just lost their son, the envelope stamped with the recognizable logo.

When the card Steven made had been put down, you looked at it, and saw it was a letter he addressed to your friend. You couldn't remember most of it, but it was a long scribe of platitudes like 'I miss you', and 'I will never forget you'. There was a smudged blotch of ink somewhere in the paper near where Steven had written, 'I hope you're having fun in heaven,' where he had cried. You wish you could have made something like that, to make you feel better, but every time you felt like you could address him, your grief swallowed you whole.

After the wake, you tried to pretend he never existed, but everything seemed to remind you of him further. The sun reminded you of his genuine smiles, the moon of his brightness, the rain of his calm, the wind of his temper. You couldn't go to the grocery without remembering how he loved to cook. The stench of fish from the seafood area reminded you of how cruel he could be. The baked goods of how kind he could be, especially when you were alone together at your job as teenagers, stuck chattering alone together on slow days.

It was no use trying to forget him, he was too memorable.

You remember the first time you'd met was at a middle school dance, 1975. You were wearing your favorite blue and purple spring dress, he was wearing a dress shirt and khakis that he looked anything but comfortable in, his lanky spider limbs spilling out of them. You both agreed it was a stupid event, and took your shoes off, running around the linoleum floor, laughing when one of you slipped, or bumped into somebody. You went out for ice cream afterwards, and he chucked a rock at the principal's car window. That boy was lucky he never got caught, and you made him promise not to do that again.

You remember the first time you visited each other's houses was two weeks later, each having decided you were each other's best friend. He admitted he had no longer had any other friends, and you were quick to admit you had never had a friend before until him. You both promised each other to stay friends no matter what.

You remember the first time you told him you liked him was when you were sixteen. It had been a slow day at your job, with the shift you two shared, you had been trying to style your hair with the spray you bought, wanting to experiment. He'd already gone down the route of getting a mohawk, done with his 'hippie' hair, but his dark inky curls created quite a strange hairstyle. Strangely, he seemed to like it. You told him you thought he was cute. He had turned a brighter red than his curls that time he'd dyed them red.

You remember the first time you went out was three weeks later. You had both gone to see the new movie, Apocalypse Now. He'd really gotten into all the action scenes and explosions, but grew frustrated at the scene where the characters gunned down a civilian boat, and the main character, the hero, shot a young girl dead. He'd blurted out, "Why the fuck did he do that?" several seconds after the entire scene had changed. He grew even more frustrated at your comment of it being just a movie, and he retorted that 'this shit actually happened though, and they're making him look like a good guy for it!' You realized how fiery this boy was, how passionate he was for things he cared about. He had family in these countries, he cared about them. He saw people like them get gunned down in films about heroes, and he couldn't stand it. He calmed down throughout the rest of the movie, and never spoke up about his outburst again, concluding that film was kick-ass.

You remember the first time you told him you loved him was three days after graduating high school. He didn't say it back, he just squeezed your hands. You both ditched the grad party you were at, and high tailed it to a midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, stealing feather boas, glasses, and hats from your old school's drama department while you had the chance.

You remember the first actual fight you two had was two days later, when he had told you that he had no intent on going to college, that he was content to stay in Beach City, working at the bakery, and playing Atari. He didn't understand why you were going to university that fall, and was ready to threaten you with an ultimatum, either him or school. The second you started crying, he immediately began to apologize, that he didn't mean it, he was just really frustrated. You didn't forgive him until a week later, when he offered to visit your campus with you. He never threatened you with that ultimatum ever again.

You remember the first time you'd slept together, two years into college, you were on summer break, and you both decided to go to a drive in for dinner, and then to a disco to see if you two could haggle for free drinks. That failed immensely, and you were both kicked out promptly. You were about to say goodnight to him at your apartment door when he kissed you, admitted he'd missed you, and in a split second without thought, you invited him in. It was incredibly unexpected, and admittedly incredibly awkward, but neither of you had regrets, not even in the morning, when he was cooking you what was probably the best omelette you'd ever had.

You remember when you two broke up, a year later, deciding you needed to focus on your own lives. You both remained friends, and you still got together on Saturdays to play on his Atari, and he'd tease you about potential boyfriends.

You remembered all this during the wake, and decided to shut yourself off there, not wanting to exhaust yourself on these memories.

Going to work was painful the following week, because everyone in this town knew everyone. And your co-workers knew about him. And they knew about you two.

You had almost slapped one of your co-workers, an older man with a Ronald Reagan coffee mug, when he had offered generic sympathies to you, only to then add 'He shoulda been careful, people are animals over there.' You wanted to slap him, because you know that boy would have slapped him too for speaking so ill of his people.

Steven had brought you donuts, but you weren't hungry. They just reminded you of him, of your shared teenage job.

You still remembered the day he'd gotten his ears pierced, and you had shrieked like a banshee, asking him why he had done that to his ears, that they were big enough as it was. He insisted they would get him chicks, and you told him you didn't even like them.

Exactly a year after that, after you had finished a year at college, he had spoken to you with a clear, calm voice, telling you he wanted to be a teacher. You almost laughed, thinking he was joking, but then he grew serious, telling you he wanted to do something with his life, and that he had always felt bad that he was living off the kindnesses of others. You were still convinced he was high on weed again, until he finally admitted that he had been talking with his grandfather over the phone, and he had told him that he had not had schooling since he was a young boy, having been working in the factories for decades.

You knew he loved his grandfather almost more than his own parents. His own parents were often too busy to pay much attention to him, he told you. This man had greatly influenced the boy, and he wanted to return the favor for his love and kindness by becoming a teacher, so he could help people get an education.

He told you he was saving up money to move back to Beijing, to live with his grandparents, and to become a schoolteacher over there. He got snippy at you and Steven when you both teased him about his ears and punk hair, and how he'd have to be called 'Mister Lars'. You weren't mean enough to point out he had only average grades in high school. He called you both bozos, and almost left work early. You apologized, and insisted you gave him full support. That you'd help him with his student teaching jobs and internships until he had the funds and abilities to move for long term.

When it came time for him to move, you helped him pack his things, both of you joking and laughing over random things you packed. You had commented that his dyed red hair had grown darker, and he had dramatically cried that he ran out of dye. You both laughed like idiots at that, though it wasn't really that funny. It was probably because you just wanted good things to have memories of, knowing you wouldn't see each other for a long time.

At the airport, you had told him not to be afraid to get his new shoes dirty, and he told you when he got back a year later, he'd buy you dinner if you were still single.

You hated that boy for breaking his promise.

Steven's aunt Pearl, the slender, gorgeous dancer, had approached you during your break three weeks following the wake, when you were crying and inconsolable. She offered you comfort, and told you she had relatives and old friends she had lost during that time too, and you had to wonder why she never spoke up about it, or never cried. You didn't dare ask her, but you didn't tell her that her words made you feel better, because they really didn't. At all.

You just wanted to know why this had happened. He had never given you a single hint that his life was in danger, or that there was the chance he was never going to come back. You wanted to know who the bastards were who shot him while he tried to get his grandfather out of the danger of crossfire, and to safety. You wondered if he'd been a part of the protest at any point, or if he just gave silent support, and kept on with his business. You wanted to know if his grandfather had made it out alive, if he knew that his grandson was an unfortunate victim who bled out before he could even give a breath for help. You wondered if he suffered when he died, if he spent his last moments in fear, cursing out his shooter, or if he accepted at the very last instance that it was all over, that he was going to die where he was born. You wondered if he thought of you.

You missed him.

You met Ronaldo a month later. He was a taller one, a bit chubby, eyes containing a certain spark of madness to them that you found endearing. He was fixated on his local newspaper, writing articles on the paranormal, something you had an interest in. You both had a connection that you hadn't felt in a while.

You managed to stop thinking so strongly about that boy for only a little while. Until you saw his childhood picture in Ronaldo's office.

"You knew Lars?", you had asked.

"We were childhood friends. Things fell apart though."

"He died."

"I know."

"I really miss him."

Ronaldo had no answer, aside from a curt nod. All you could really do was say that you missed him, and leave it at that. Somehow, you didn't feel like hanging out with Ronaldo anymore.

That night, you had a dream of that boy. He was walking out of the airport terminal, looking groggy from his flight, face scratchy with stubble from lack of shaving, his hair a mess, but he was there, smiling at you. You hugged him tight, and his long arms pressed you tight against his flat chest, squeezing until your eyes burned with tears.

"You're back."

"I'm back."

You had woken up crying, and chucked your pillow across the room, damning him for having left you like this. You wanted to burn everything he had given you, and then rip your heart right up out of your body through your aching throat. You tore your hair out in frustration, tears soaking the tangled, frayed ends when they brushed your cheek.

You had retreated to your closet to find things to burn, and had found an unopened box from him, one you had forgotten to open when he sent it months before. You ripped it open, and saw the note on top.

"Hey Sadie, forgot that I had these from our California trip in college! I can't take my record player on the plane, so I guess you gotta have these. Just don't use them as coasters ok? Love you, girl!- Lars ;) "

Inside was nestled a huge stack of vinyls, finely packaged and good as new of all of your favorite bands, live concerts, and comedy albums. You had completely forgotten you had bought these. You both had loved these songs. He had given them to you out of love.

You called Steven, his aunts, Ronaldo, and whoever else you knew would care, and you all sat and listened to those records. You retold the stories behind your favorite shared songs, and these left everyone in either laughter or tears. Ronaldo had cried first, which shocked you, and he admitted he regretted not repairing his friendship. Steven's aunts had not cried, but Pearl was seen wiping away tears as you recalled how the boy called you on a weekly basis from a pay-phone, and your conversations. Steven had cried when he recalled your job as teenagers and the misadventures you would have. You missed those days.

Once all the records were played through, you shed your own tears. These were tears of relief. These were the songs you had shared together, the songs you sang along to, laughed to, cried to, made love to, and packed away belongings to. These would be the songs you would fall asleep to tonight, thinking of him, and how he had given you these out of love.

At the bottom of the box was a tape that had your name on it, and you turned on your cassette to play it. His awkward stuttering start of words made your face crinkle in warmth of reminiscence as he spoke.

"So uh...Sadie, when you listen to this, I'm probably already gonna be gone. But I just wanted to tell you...I really am going to miss you. It's going to be so weird getting up in the morning and knowing I won't be seeing you for a while. You've really helped me these last few years, and I don't think I would have kept on this path of being a teacher if you hadn't supported me. It wasn't just my grandfather who inspired me to help people...you did...and I hope you keep helping people while I'm away...and that you help people when I come back. I'll talk to you again soon...Love you."

You would play that tape again every year on the anniversary of his death, and keep it safe. It was a message of healing, you found out, as the years passed, you still missed him, but the pain went away. You would go to Atari tournaments in memory of your friend, watch Rocky Horror and remember all the jokes he made for it, and you would smile when your future children would tell you they wanted to be a teacher when they grew up.

You loved that boy, and he loved you back.

Historical Notes: The Tiananmen Square Protests were student-led demonstrations in Beijing, spring 1989. The overall goal was democracy, the protesters included university students, factory workers, intellectuals, city residents, religious figures, and pro-democracy activists. These demonstrations included sit-ins, hunger strikes, and occupation of the public square. On June 3rd and 4th, People's Liberation Army soldiers and members of the Armed Police inflicted casualties on several hundred unarmed civilians with weapons such as assault rifles, and tanks.

I'm kind of a sucker for history, granted, I was in the Hetalia fandom a while back, haha...