Okay, this is way way WAY different than what I normally write. So depressing, but I had to get it out of my head. I kind of got the inspiration from another fic I read and the piano in my front hall :/ Anyway, I hope you enjoy, I don't own Hetalia. Also, to really feel the tone of this story, I suggest listening to Any Other Name by Thomas Newman. It was suggested in a story by hoshiko2kokoro, and it's where I got my inspiration for this story. Thank you hoshiko2kokoro *bows*
Tears roll ceaselessly down flushed cheeks as he slowly stumbles along. He can't forget that sight.
That horrid sight.
The one he loved most, the one he still loves, lying there so motionless. He could never have been so motionless. He is too full of life, too stubborn and unyielding, resolute in manner and incredibly strong when he has to be. That can't have been his blood surrounding him, can't have been his breath that ceased to exist.
It cannot have been him.
When he returns to the house, he'll open the door and the sweet sound of the piano will drift to his ears, as it always does. He'll round the hallway corner and see him gently playing, graceful fingers ghosting over the keys, sounding majestic melodies and deep tones. The playing will cease momentarily and he'll look over his shoulder and smile his beautiful smile at him, and he'll walk carelessly over to the piano and kiss him shamelessly as he always does.
Yes, none of this could be real.
He'll still be full of life and as sassy and stubborn as ever. They will still fall asleep together and wake up in a tangle of sheets, disheveled thoroughly of passion. He'll still be there, and he'll still love him.
He'll always love him.
He weakly smiles, thinking back to their childhood days when he would chase the other man- then still a boy- across their lands, yelling halfhearted threats and playful insults at him. They would run and run, before finally falling, panting heavily, in a grassy field or a forest or by a river. And they would lay there, backs against the cool ground, sometimes even daring to clasp their hands together, and point up at the sky and the clouds and laugh and imagine. Imagining anything and everything. Stories, creatures, lands, countries, weapons.
They imagined their future, together.
More often than anything, that was what they imagined. Envisioned. They would talk with wonder and sincerity about what the future would hold for them, and how, no matter what, they would always be together. They talked about how they could face anything together, and that they would forever be at the other's side. Even as they grew up, and the former had taken to constantly taunting and antagonizing the other, they both knew that it was purely to tease, and, despite the constant threat of their female companion's skillet, there passed not a single day where the two did not renew their promise to the other.
They would always be together.
Through hard times and easy ones, through good and bad, droughts and famine, floods and freezing, they would always be together. That was what they had promised each other, every night. Their childhood held not a single day when that promise had not been sincerely repeated and upheld. They had always promised, and always would.
Yet that promise has not been upheld today.
He knows it, as soon as he turns the heavy brass knob and opens the door, just an inch. He opens the door further and still there are no welcoming arms around him or eager lips upon his own, none of the clear, familiar notes of the mahogany grand piano floating down the hallway to greet him. He turns to walk down the hallway, just as he has done every day for the past hundreds of years. He peers around the corner of the smooth, cream-coloured wall, hoping, praying vainly within him that he'll see that familiar dark-auburn hair, that beautiful smile and those shining violet eyes, and feel those soft lips, those lips that always tasted like tea and like…him.
He hopes in vain.
He feels an unfamiliar tightness in his chest as he slowly steps out from around the corner. It is a heavy, longing feeling that he has never felt but desperately wishes he never had to feel. It is sadness, deeper than any before, crushing him, slowly killing him and making it hard for him to breathe. His breath is slow, fragile and brief as he feels new waves of warm tears flow down his face. They travel in constant streams, abrading his flushed skin and leaving small, red trails before falling to the carpeted floor below, dampening the well-trodden fabrics. He silently curses his own inner weakness, burying his face in his hands as his breath begins to come in quiet sobs. He lets his knees meet with the floor as he removes his hands from his face and folds them and begins to pray. His words are whispered, a flurry of his native language, of their native language, and he has not forgotten his Catholic roots. He ignores the tears flowing in multitudes down his face, praying for this to all end, for his pain to be over, for something to tell him that this is all a dream, a terrible dream.
He prays to see him again.
Stronger than anything, he prays to once again see him, to see the one he loves more than anything, anyone, in this world. The one he loves and values more than his own life. His life means nothing if the one he loves is not there. He has put himself in danger countless times to protect him, after each time getting severely lectured by the other man, before he would smile apologetically and kiss him fiercely once again. He manages a weak smile at that fond recollection.
And there is something more he remembers.
His eyes are widened fractionally as he recalls something that the other man had once told to him. It was something that, though his pride would never allow him to do it in the same house as the other man, he always used it. It was one of the many things he always did for him, being the obliging person that he is.
The piano.
He pushes himself weakly to his feet, forcing himself to cross the room. His shaky steps carry him to the beautiful mahogany of the grand piano that has always been in the center of the room. As he comes to stand beside the magnificent instrument, he clearly remembers his lover giving him that one piece of advice. It was something he, himself did. Whenever you are angry or you feel that your emotions will overrun you, Roderich had said, play the piano. Sit down and just let yourself play whatever it is you feel.
So he sits.
As Gilbert slides gently onto the polished, lacquered wooden seat, he feels yet another swell of emotion rise within him. He positions his fingers over the keys. And, as his hands rest upon the smooth instrument, he feels yet more tears roll down his face, culminating to fall with a softly audible plink upon the lovely ivory keys.
And he begins to play for the last time.