Here, have some angst with a deceptively happy title! Yeah, I'm feeling kinda sad today. Originally, I was gonna write an adorable little horror/love story but I'll get started on that after I finish this! Kay? Kay! I do not own Hetalia, enjoy!
TO THE GROOM (TO THE GROOM) TO THE BRIDE (TO THE BRIDE) TO YOUR UNION (TO THE REVOLUTION) AND THE HOPE IT MAY PROVIDE
Alfred was never much one for dramatics. At least, not in terms of death. He figured that, when he went, he wanted it to go one of two ways. He either wanted to die in war, a gun in his hand, protecting those he loved or… he wanted to go peacefully. He never wanted to burn to death because of a nuclear attack. He didn't wanted to be murdered. He would rather sign up for his death. Or have his people bring it about themselves.
However, never in his life, had he thought he would do it himself. He never wanted to, either. The very thought of it disgusted him. It had always seemed so selfish! Alfred was many things, selfish is not one of them. To willingly bring it upon himself, he never would've himself to be the type. But as he lay there, in his favourite place in his country, he actually considered it.
This place was one he had taken care of for years, decades, centuries. It was a clearing in the middle of the Virginia woods. The ground was blanketed with soft, lush, bright green grass dotted with wildflowers. At one end, a small brook flowed clear water over and by the roots of an apple tree, in the other corner was a headstone. Alfred didn't think of the headstone often, choosing to focus instead on the apple tree and the little Robin's nest that was returned to spring after spring. The air stank strongly of apples, and he often went home-or to an emergency meeting-with a few weaved into his hair. The others never said anything, preferring to laugh slightly and steal them from his hair. Giving them to those they cared about or just wearing them around themselves. It seemed to have become somewhat of a tradition.
Alfred was happy. So, it was inexplicable that he should wish to die. At least, to him it was. His family and he had been working on being more… civil with each other. He was even getting along with Ivan, someone he thought he would never be friends with again. It was so strange, that Alfred couldn't help but let out a laugh. Here, in his little alcove, he was content with his thoughts.
He thought about Feliciano and Lovino. Sweet little Feliciano whom would cling onto his arm and demand that Alfred swing him around, purely because of the fact that he knew Alfred could do it and would do it. And then Lovino, with his foul temper and even more so mouth. He cursed and yelled, but would join his brother with enough puppy dog looks. He'd end up enjoying himself, even though he'd demand that Alfred take them out for lunch after.
He thought about Matthew. Shy little Matthew whom was actually taller than Alfred by a few inches, older by a few years, and a bigger country by a few hundred miles. Matthew would always go to Alfred and complain about people bullying him, thinking he was Alfred. Alfred would laugh it off, telling Matthew that they were just teasing and to man up. But he would always corner those who were unfortunate enough to have their names mentioned. They would never mistake Matthew for Alfred again, much less bully him because of it.
He thought of Arthur. Angry little Arthur whom was actually a lot older than Alfred and sweeter than he liked to admit. Arthur would often rant and rave about what an annoyance Alfred was. But who would hold him and comfort him if Alfred showed up at his house in the middle of the night, high as fuck and sobbing about how nobody loved him anymore. Alfred would laugh it off the next day, saying it never happened should Arthur ask about it. But if a tin of Arthur's favourite tea sat at his seat the next meeting, no one mentioned it.
He thought Francis. Slightly perverted little Francis whom is also a lot older than Alfred. Francis who would show up at Alfred's house, looking for a quick fuck and wake up the next morning to French Toast and hot cocoa and Alfred smiling and looking happy. Francis would always raise his eyebrows, but wrap his arms around Alfred's waist and act as if they were an actual couple for the day. They would go around town and hold hands. And at the end of the day Alfred would drop Francis off at the airport and kiss his cheek and Francis would break down in tears and hug Alfred and kiss both his cheeks and thank him for not making him feel like he was a whore. Alfred would hug him and send him off, waving happily. Only to repeat the process a few weeks later.
But then he thinks about how Feliciano and Romano's lives would keep going if he died. He thinks about how it took Matthew three hours to list all of the things he hated about Alfred. While Alfred would only need one second to say what he hated about his brother; nothing. He thinks about how much Arthur complains about him when he's not there, and not in the concerned, endearing way he does when Alfred's there. He thinks about how Francis would go to anyone else for those kinds of days, god knows there are plenty of people willing. But, most importantly, he thinks about the gun he carries in his pocket.
He thinks about how he's always loved how red and green clash together. How beautiful scarlet would look scattered across the jade expanse in this little area. He thinks about how the crimson would look against the grey headstone, or the brown bark of the apple tree and flowing down that oh-so-clear brook. He wonders if, when the apples bloomed in the next spring, would there be a coppery tang? Left over from the blood splattered across the roots.
He knows it won't do any good. He'll return, maybe he'll be bit different than before. Maybe he'll be quieter. Maybe he won't be as rude, and unlovable. So he pulls the trigger out and thinks to himself.
Suicide is man's way of saying to God, "You can't fire me- I quite!"
The next meeting, no one says anything. If they notice that Alfred's hair is a bit redder than before. If they notice his eyes seem just a little bit sadder, a little more dull. If they notice his skin is as golden as if he were kissed by the sun, much different from the sallow sort of tan he had before. If they notice that he smells of chrysanthemums and apples, they don't say anything. They don't say anything as the world descends into the chaos of the Great War, and then another after that. They don't notice as they scream and falsely blame him and his little alien friend in a manor that they never should have entered. In fact, it takes three thirteen year olds and a teacher to make them notice that Alfred, isn't quite… Alfred.
So… this is sort of a connected one shot to my HP+APH series. Though it's set nearly a century before, there are hints of it. If you were wondering, the gravestone belongs to Davie. Yeah. I drug those memories up. The manor that I mentioned in the last paragraph was, of course, a reference to Hetaoni. Yeah. Brought those up, too. Anyway! A lot of this is based off of my headcanons.
This Is ID saying; That's All Folks!