Why?
That was the only question haunting the brunette man's mind as he sat at his piano, the air around him seeming still and heavy with the silence that hung inside his house like a deadly fog. Normally, he would simply play the piano, filling the silence with harmonic melodies filled to the brim with his deepest feelings and desires. But he could not bring himself to play. He felt nothing, and desired only that this silence be broken by familiar voices that now only haunt his mind, something that he knew not even a miracle could achieve.
This silence. It drove him insane.
And without the willpower to rise from where he was seated, he had nothing to distract his mind from his thoughts, and soon became enveloped in them.
He remembered a small blonde haired boy from long ago, with piercing blue eyes, who he watched fall in love and then be marched off to war without even attempting to stop him. He remembered watching him talk with a young Feliciano, watching them kiss and cry as they spoke their goodbyes and made a promise. He remembered when the news broke that the boy died in the war, he remembered the way that Feliciano cried for days because of his death, because of his broken promise, at one point blaming him.
Slamming his hands down on the piano, creating a unmelodious mixture of notes that normally would have pained the musician to hear, he let out a quiet sob. He could have stopped him. He should have, somehow! He knew that, but he was too afraid to get off his sorry, aristocratic ass and do something about it.
As soon as those thoughts crossed his mind, as soon as those words ran through his brain, a face emerged from his memories.
Memories of a German man with bright, almost white hair, and red-purple eyes that he could get lost in for hours on end, seeming to lead to a mystical world of their own. Memories of a voice that he had heard on the battlefield once a long time ago, a voice that seemed to follow him everywhere, a voice that haunted his dreams at night, every night. Memories of a man who annoyed him to no end, but who he loved so dearly that not even melodies played on his most wonderful collection of instruments could even begin to express. Memories of a man who loved him back just as much, if not more.
'I love you, Roderich. Remember that. Always remember that.'
Tears welled up in his eyes at the sound of the hushed voice echoing in his ears.
A voice he would never hear again.
"Gilbert..." his voice cracked and the tears spilled over, landing on the piano keys with soft 'plunks'.
And more memories emerged.
Gilbert was going to die. And he knew it. That was more than just a common cold, it wasn't going away and it wasn't getting better, but he had lied. Lied to both himself and the only person he ever had and ever could truly love. He knew it wasn't going to be okay, but he said it anyway.
He began pulling out his brunette locks just thinking about it, more tears emerging and running down his cheeks.
And Gilbert... Sweet, annoying, loving, cocky Gilbert, The Awesome Gilbert, in the German's own words, was gone. Just like that.
Asleep and breathing one night.
Asleep but not breathing the next morning.
Wiping the tears away angrily, a pointless effort as more salty droplets instantly replaced the last ones, Roderich looked up, his eye catching a splash of purple paint on the walls.
"Edwin..."
The name came out in a hoarse whisper and another sob sounded from the Austrian's throat.
He and Gilbert had adopted Edwin, but it was almost as if he was their child. He looked a little alike the two of them, with his long, bright, almost-white hair and his deep violet eyes. Hell, he even seemed to share some of their personality traits.
But it didn't take long for the two of them to notice it.
Edwin was sickly and slowly dying.
When the child realized that his guardians had found out, he explained that it was the reason why he painted.
'Everything is art,' he said. 'And I want to show people that before I go.'
He fell into his eternal sleep only a week after Gilbert. At the time, he was the brunette's anchor, the only thing keeping him sane after his love's death.
Once he went, it tore Roderich apart.
The funeral was art. It truly was. Edwin had once described his idea of heaven to Roderich, and the Austrian had done his best to re-create his paradise for him, as a memory and a tribute to the boy who had turned his and his love's life upside-down in the greatest of ways.
Why?
That was the only question haunting the brunette man's mind as he sat at his piano, the air around him seeming still and heavy with the silence that hung inside his house like a deadly fog. Normally, he would simply play the piano, filling the silence with harmonic melodies filled to the brim with his deepest feelings and desires. But he could not bring himself to play. He felt nothing, and desired only that this silence be broken by familiar voices that now only haunt his mind, something that he knew not even a miracle could achieve.
He missed watching the blue-eyed boy and Feliciano's love unfold, the awkwardness of their relationship as it began, their games of chase through his house, them feeding each other meals at midnight.
He missed hearing Gilbert, the love of his life, playing his German death metal way too loudly, walking in on Roderich practising on the piano just to say hello for the tenth time that day, him kissing the Austrian in the rain, him driving the brunette fucking nuts with those eyes and his hair and the sex and his love and just everything that made Gilbert.
He missed Edwin painting his piano, painting the walls, painting the carpet, curling up in bed with him and Gilbert, his smile when Roderich gave him a hug, the sparkle in his violet eyes when the brunette took him to the many art galleries they visited together, the way he twirled his braids around and sometimes got paint on them while he was creating art.
The silence around him. It was driving him insane.
But it was finally broken as Roderich wailed loudly and cried into his hands, still sitting at his piano, the keys covered in his tears as he cried and mourned for everything he had lost.
Everything that had been.
Everything that was his.
Everything that was his no more.