Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia – Axis Powers.
A/N: I don't know why, but I seem to have a thing for Apocalypses.
Can be considered FrUK or platonic. Take it as you will.
Edit: Fixed mistakes.
The atmosphere was sullen, the sky dark even though it was not very late in the afternoon. Smoke hung over the city in a cloud, a dark gray cloud that did not faze anyone in the slightest. It seemed almost normal in this universe by this point, why, the fires hung over the city in a literal sense. The smoke would soon begin drifted through the streets of the city and between buildings and getting into every little crevice and crack in the scenery, but there wasn't anything that anyone could do in this day and age; why bother, the world will be gone soon, anyway.
"I almost wish it would rain…" a man muttered under his breath, somewhat ironically.
The Englishman sitting by the window mused this silently. There was no light in the room aside from what came from the window, as his face was half covered in shadow, but none of that mattered. The other man, silent as he watched the neutral expression on the others face, seemed almost worried for his friend. Not worried because this was happening to him in his own country—it was happening everywhere, anyway, including the man's own—but because he did not want the end to be inevitable.
At least, not yet.
The other man, who may be noted as a young Frenchman, spoke up, "What do you think will happen?" The question was useless and they both knew it, but they did not care.
"I don't know," he lied; he knew. They both knew already, but dancing around the question seemed like a normal occurrence for the two, almost as if they've been doing it for their entire lives.
Francis sighed, "The end is nigh I suppose."
"I suppose so."
Silence struck once more. Their conversations have been on and off for a couple of hours now.
"I thought that England would be different." Arthur glanced over at the other man in a bit of surprise, "Don't get me wrong. I understand that this is happening all over the world, but… I thought maybe someplace would be safe. I only wish I could have known you longer, Arthur."
Arthur looked back towards the window as he spoke, focusing on nothing in particular, "Yes, it would have been nice, wouldn't it?"
"I would have enjoyed meeting your brother that you talk about constantly. Alfred, was it?"
"Yes. I talked to him the other day; he said that things are the same in America as well. Planes are not allowed to leave, so unfortunately he can't make it here."
"How tragic. From what you've told me, I know that you care about him very much. It must be eating you up inside, so to speak."
The Englishman hung his head, and even though his hair was quite short, it shielded his eyes from Francis' sight. "I guess so." It came out a bit choked, but the man recovered moments later. "I could say the same for you. Matthew is still stuck in Canada, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is," Francis replied solemnly, but he seemed to accept this fact, even though his face looked stone cold. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and took out a package of cigarettes. He took one out, lit it, and then offered them to Arthur. The other man put his hand up in rejection, but then grew slightly confused.
"I didn't know that you smoked." It was more of a statement than a question.
"Why not? It's not like there's anything to lose anymore," Francis said bitterly.
Arthur looked almost sympathetic. "Really now. Haven't we seen enough smoke as of late?"
"Whatever. Not like it matters."
"You're missing my point."
"I can do what I want, Arthur."
"So can I."
"What are you…?"
"You're in my apartment, meaning if I want to snuff out your cigarette I can." Arthur took the cigarette from Francis' mouth, grabbed the small ashtray on the table near the refrigerator, and put it out. Francis lifted an eyebrow curiously.
"Interesting that you keep ashtrays in your house."
He hesitated for a moment. "Whenever Alfred is here he insists on lighting up one of those things. I always make him put them out."
"I don't believe you."
"Believe what you want. It's not my problem."
A pause.
"You've changed, Arthur," he said quietly, toying with his long blond strands of hair almost out of habit. Arthur knows that he only does this when he is unsure of something.
"So have you. We all have, it's these blasted disasters."
"I don't think—"
Suddenly, as if on cue, the two men stumbled to the floor as it shook mercilessly. Not being very far from one another, they met halfway and crawled together under the table and away from the windows. They clutched each others shoulders, closed their eyes, and bowed their heads to protect themselves. It has become a habit since this has started for them, for this is one of the safest places in the apartment that is easily accessible to the two. This earthquake is more powerful and seems to last longer than the others that they have encountered so far, but the two sit in silence and fear (although they would never admit it to one another) until finally the shocks stop.
In the process, things have been knocked over, but many things remain poised on the ground like they were before, because there was no use in picking them up if they would fall over once more. A waste of time, they thought.
Once they were sure that it was over, they crawled out from under the table and stood up as if nothing had happened. Francis, admittedly, did seem to twist his ankle a bit, making it tough for him to stand up. Arthur grabbed him around the shoulders and helped him up wordlessly. After limping to the couch near one of the other few windows of the apartment, Francis sat down gently. Arthur frowned, seeing that his pictures and valuable trinkets had been knocked off the mantelpiece.
Among those things, was a picture frame. He picked it up gingerly and inspected it; it was a photo of him and Alfred, smiling and laughing without a care in the world. The frame was cracked in many ways, making it useless. He chucked it in the garbage without another thought.
"You missed one."
Arthur turned around, only to notice another picture frame on the ground. Once again, he picked it up, and in seeing it, he frowned deeply.
The picture itself was possibly a week old, but the frame was a gift from his mother. The picture was of Arthur and Francis, smiling with one arm slung over each other's shoulder. He held the frame tightly, for it was also cracked beyond repair.
"This one seems useless to keep as well."
"Yes, it does," Francis said sadly.
Silence, once again.
"You were saying something before the earthquake," Arthur started quietly, "about how I have changed."
"…It doesn't matter."
And like that, the picture seemed forgotten.
Nothing lasts forever, anyway.