This little piece was written for the brand-spankin'-new creative writing club that a friend of mine started at my school. We meet every Thursday and pick a writing theme/challenge, write it over the course of the week, and then share them at the next meeting. Our first theme was simply 'purple.' There are only so many connections I have to the color purple, so I started brainstorming immediately. I knew it was the color of royalty, of grapes, one of the colors of Mardi Gras... and then I remembered Russia's purple aura. So I thought maybe I'd go for a Hetalia fic.
It was THEN that I thought of one other thing that's purple. But I won't give away what that thing is; you'll have to read to the end. c:
So, yeah, this angsty one-shot happened, and I really like it. It's about the collapse of the alliance between the USSR and Communist China, and it's from China's POV. Well, it's in the 2nd person, and 'you' are China.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia in any way, shape, or form. Hidekaz Himaruya does.
He is very tall. Taller than usual, standing rock-stiff to keep himself from shaking. A volcano trying so hard not to erupt. Electrocuted, poisoned with a power you know he would give up without ever thinking twice. Perhaps it is your imagination, but he seems to radiate it, glowing disturbingly against the engulfing white of the snow.
Purple.
Once, you may have pitied the violet man with his sad, manic violet eyes. You can only be disgusted now. Whether you are right or wrong to be, you know not. If you did, it wouldn't make any difference.
Once, you may have found him beautiful, emanating unbridled power and commanding all in his path. You may have envied him. There is nothing to envy now. He is corrupted, fermented to toxicity and impossible to touch without being instantly burned.
Yes, the violet man is a loathsome sight - and a fearful one. You fear him because you know all too well that he can still harm you devastatingly if he so chooses, if he has even the most fleeting desire to. You fear him because you know there is still a chance that he is exactly what you will become.
As he shudders with pain, choking on a sudden sob, you realize that no fate could be worse. If you could only die tomorrow and spare yourself of that unfathomable future.
Finally, you force speech. "Is it so unbearable that I should make my own decisions?" You curse yourself for sounding so afraid through your defiance.
The violet man doesn't want a conversation. His eyes are squeezed shut, and when his answer comes, it wavers in and out unstably. "You're leaving," he states with that characteristic childish simplicity of his. "And when you do, I'll be alone again."
"So will I," you counter. It will be painful; you know this. But you must remain under your own control. With him as your master, you will truly have nothing left.
You would say all this aloud, but he's already failed to understand so many times. Why waste the effort?
"So come back," he pleads, staring at you now. Those eyes try to compel you, but they do not affect you the way they once did, and this realization allows you a pang of relief, of hope. One step closer to freedom.
"No," you reply with a wonderful determination. You feel strong, for the first time in so long. Perhaps you'll make it. Perhaps you'll be alright.
The man's expression sours suddenly, and you find yourself scoffing. Why so angry? He knew that would be your answer.
You are prepared for a reply, perhaps a very loud one, but it never arrives. Instead, you see a flash of sudden movement, and then you are in pain. A lot of pain. It takes a moment to dawn on you: he's punched you.
Your left cheek is numb, but somehow still hurts, and all you can do is reach up and just barely touch it, doe-eyed and slow-moving. As the shock begins to melt away, so does the confidence. No, you decide; you're not going to be alright.
When you next look up, he is gone, fading with a brisk pace into the frigid white air, his unforgiving home. There is no reason for you to stay. So you don't.
The walk back is drenched in resentful tears.
You probably could have used a handful of snow instead, you realize as you hold an ice pack to your face in the warm room, but it's a bit late now. The cold has left you stiff and feeble, and the desire to melt it away is overwhelming. Resolving to take a hot bath, you drift hazily into the bathroom.
For a few moments, you simply stand in front of the sink with your temporarily arthritic hands under the hot running water, drinking in the warmth like an addict. It doesn't kill the pain, but it is a small comfort, the antidote to the frost he always leaves in you.
Your cheek still hurts; it will for some time. In what you expect to be a dismissive glance, you draw your eyes up to the mirror, but find your gaze locked there.
The new injury adorns your face, an unhealthy splotch - a mark of shame. It is the repulsive tinge of blunt force, of a broken blood vessel, an internal leak. And your stomach lurches at the hue.
Purple.