Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia
Beta: starglow13
Oh look a drabble. It's better than my latest oneshot, in my opinion. I'd actually written this a day or two before that, though.
Prompt: Many times, after the death of Person A, Person B was found at the dead hour of a winter night sitting beside Person A's grave, almsot frozen in the snow.
Person A is Fritz. Person B is Prussia. We see Russia finding him, and they have a moment. ||
Looking over the massive, white expanse of the graveyard, a simple, passing glance would fail to give sight to the huddled form squatting snugly against the frigid, stone walls of the church. The wind whipped violently between the gravestones, almost seeming to carry with it the despondant moans of the dead. The form huddled upon the cold stone shrunk down further, seeming to cringe against the macabre sounds. He seemed himself a specter, almost at home among the dead, with his gossamer hair becoming nigh invisible in the white blizzard of the night, his skin so translucent that it seemed he was formed from ice.
But his eyes...they snapped wide, detecting movement in his peripheral vision. Blood red orbs sucked straight from the blade of his sword - this being was no specter of the graveyard, but seemed more like a demon.
Truly, though, he was neither of these things. He wasn't a man, but he wasn't a demon, either.
He blinked quickly, and if those wet spots were tears in his eyes, the person approaching wouldn't be able to tell but for the pink puffiness around them. He could thank the dark shadows of the night for obscuring the break in his usual facade. Snow clung to his eyelashes, and he blinked a bit more rapidly than before in an attempt to clear his field of vision.
"Prussiya."
Gilbert's jaw clenched up tightly upon hearing the Russian accent, a mangled version of his name in that snake-like voice setting his teeth on edge. He bit his chapped bottom lip, already crusted with dried blood from this bad habit of his. He could almost hear his King's voice, chiding him for damaging himself in such a way when enough injuries to begin with were dealt in battle...
Pale, white eyelids scrunched tightly shut, as though that would block out the recollection of softer lips pressed firmly against his own. But then they were open again, pupils blown wide against a backdrop of bright red fire - alert and warily regarding the Russian.
"Why did you come here again?" It came out as harsh, rude even, but it was an honest question from the Prussian. He felt vulnerable, and tiptoeing politely around a topic had never been his strong suit.
They were alone, nothing but the yowling wind as a mediator, and he honestly had no idea why the Russian had to be here again...and at Fritz's grave of all places. Unless, of course, Ivan wanted to fight. But even for someone as sadistic as the man in front of Gilbert, actually seeking out a fight, starting a war, was not - had never been - in his nature.
Gilbert didn't like things that weren't straightforward.
The albino curled in on himself further, clearly not in the mood for the unwelcome company standing before him. Frankly, he hadn't been willing to present himself to any company since his lover had died, and, given the circumstances, he deemed that perfectly acceptable.
"I keep finding you here..." After a moment, Ivan sat down next to him. He obviously hadn't picked up on the message Gilbert attempted to send all of the other times he'd decided to appear while the albino mourned.
"It isn't good for you to be out in such inclement weather like this..." A soft sigh could be heard, barely audible over the roaring wind. Gilbert grit his teeth, turning his face away. "Perhaps you were alright in the late summer, even early fall, but no more."
"Keh." Gilbert spat. If he could put all of his anger, all of his bitterness, all of his hatred and bile into words...
If only...
Ivan sighed again, remaining silent this time. They sat together until the wind stopped howling and the moon peaked shyly out from behind the clouds. Gilbert was uncomfortable, to say the least. He still wasn't sure what Ivan's angle was. He was positive it was political, since he'd been hanging around for the past few months. The Russian probably wanted Gilbert to get his head back in the game for the sake of diplomatic relations... what little there was of that in those times, at least.
"You know..." He found himself say, licking his dried and cracked lips, "they didn't even bury him the way he wanted..." He allowed a shuddering sigh to escape him, tiredly letting his head fall back against the stone wall of the church. "He hated his father." He finished, almost too quietly to hear.
Ivan looked at him, violet eyes staring deeply into his own red ones for what seemed like eternity. There was no menace in the expression, no aggression nor hostility, or even pity. But the albino nearly jumped out of his skin when Ivan reached over, laying his large, gloved hand on Gilbert's stark white, nearly frozen one. He gave it a squeeze and kept it there without a word, and Gilbert found he couldn't say anything. He didn't know what to say.
He only knew Fritz was gone; he wasn't coming back, and his heart felt like it was devouring itself alive in his chest. But it was his fault, too, wasn't it?
"For falling in love with a mortal... This is the pain we must bear. And we will never forget how much we loved them, because as long as we are still extant, so too will be our love..."
Gilbert shook himself out of a daze of pain to stare at Ivan, his words slowly sinking in, each stabbing at his heart in a different way than theprevious. The Russian peered at him out of the corner of his eye, and Gilbert saw something then, something he'd never seen before: a flash of real, genuine emotion. But somehow, he wasn't surprised. He would think back to it in later years, pondering what exactly he'd seen, andhe'd decided that if it had been compassion or sympathy, he would have been shocked. But no. This was somehow natural...after all of those fake smiles, all of those cheery tones and soft giggles that never quite reached his haunted and empty eyes...this was raw, open pain.
Gilbert's eyes stung. He told himself the wind was picking up again, the wetness on his cheeks resurfacing. His thoughts were halted when Ivan wrapped half of his scarf around Gilbert's thin, pale neck.
He doesn't know why the Russian never spoke of those strange, dark nights. But he thinks he's grateful for it.
I'd be very grateful for some reviews!