Hey there! Yes, I'm writing a bit of everything at the moment. Sorry. "It still snows" will be updated either later today or tomorrow, so if you are reading that, too, don't worry.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, nor it's characters, I only do this for the sake of the fandom and for my entertainment.

One thing that was sure and had been so all the years he had been living; he hadn't felt the need to prove himself. Not once. Not a single time had it occurred to him that maybe that special someone would want someone else than him, someone that was... someone that was what? Stronger? Impossible. Sweeter? Impossible. More confident? … Definitely possible. Because if there was one thing he wasn't, it was confident. He looked like it, indeed he did, and he acted like it, most certainly, but he was also a great actor. If he wanted to appear confident and self-secure, then he did so.

But he had never exactly wanted it.

It had never been on purpose, this mask, this play. It had never been his intention to come off as reckless or careless, like he didn't care about others, but that was just how he had come to be. It was an easy role to fit into and he played it with bravura. No one had ever questioned him, except for that devilish women who seemed to have a fetish for whacking him with objects that should only be swung in the kitchen.

She had been the only to question his attitude and his behaviour. Only she had asked if there was something more to him, something he didn't show the others. Something he tried to hide. Something that could explain where he was all the time.

Having been in his role for centuries, it wasn't hard to think of a comeback. He simply answered with the trademark grin he was always wearing and a wave of the hand to show it was an idiotic question. A cackle to show she was being stupid and to show no such thing was true.

"Pish posh," he remembered having said when he turned his back on her to go home and check how his little bro was doing.

And little bro was doing great. As always, little bro waved him off with "I don't have time for you right now, go play with someone else." As always, he pretended to be annoyed. He rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically before taking the stairs down two steps at a time. It was nothing new, it shouldn't really get to him. Little bro was just acting as he always did. Waving him off. Dismissing him. Declaring him unimportant. Annoying. Troublesome. Bothersome.

And really. Wasn't that true? Wasn't that exactly what he was? Always seeking fun and seeking to be entertained, seeking excitement and adrenaline-pumping activities? But that didn't equal bothersome to him. To him, troublesome wasn't equal with 'I want to have the time of my life'. And so, annoying didn't equal 'I just want to have a beer' to him, either.

He didn't agree. Or, his mask didn't agree. The mask he carried, hid himself beneath, growled at their comments and their shouts when he did something reckless and risky. When he did something others would classify as 'Top idiotic' the mask simply laughed in their faces while hands were put on his hips, setting up an appearance all too clear saying 'Whatcha gonna do 'bout it, losers?'.

That wasn't him. Or, at some point it was. At some point, it wasn't. Because he did want to have fun and he did want to do exciting things. He did want to grab a beer every once in a while, especially if he was with his friends. Only these friends understood him.

But they didn't.

Not once had they asked him about his true self. Not once had they dared to inquire after his true nature. Not once had they opened their mouths to ask how he was really doing.

He didn't care about that. It was just stupidity, it was just them that didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable. They just didn't want him to feel like a criminal under grilling by the police. They didn't want him to feel stupid in their company.

Yet now, when he sat on his soft and resilient bed with the white sheets and black duvet and pillows, the countless cushions scattered around, he couldn't help but think otherwise. As if the cozy and comfortable surroundings got him to reshape those thoughts. Down here, when no one could see him and no one could surprise him, he could let himself think what he wanted and he could behave like he wished.

Sinking down and ending up lying flat against the pillows and cushions and duvet and sheets, he stared at the ceiling, feeling his mind begin to race once more, full speed ahead like a horse in a race.

They didn't ask because they didn't care. They didn't care shit about him after he had been dissolved and he was practically nothing more than a human. He would die eventually and they knew it. That was why they didn't ask. They didn't bother getting to know about him because he was as good as human. There was no reason at all for them to even look at him with the smallest hint of interest in their eyes.

He had honestly thought they had been his friends. Honestly did he believe that they would care about him, even after his kingdom fell and was nothing more but a bunch of burning bricks. When his crown was long dull and dusty, the diamonds and rubies covered in grey by time, he had believed his friends would still want to be with him. It has been his genuine conviction that people still wanted to have fun with him, that they would still care about him.

What an idiot he had been.

It was clear now, when he slowly sat up again, eyes flickering to the huge map over his desk, that they had only befriended him in a hope of getting his power. They had gotten close to him to be able to push him off the throne, to squash him under their feet and their thousands of soldiers. Only because of the enormous power he possessed did people want to know him. It was so clear now. He couldn't believe his own idiocy. His own naivety. His own stupidity.

How had he been fooled so easily? How had people so easily gotten so close to him, close enough to be a real danger? How had they managed to get past his defenses? Why did he let them?

Stupid. Naive. Kind.

He had been all of those and more. He had wanted friends, wanted company because he was afraid of being alone. No matter how much he wrote it, no matter how much he said it to himself, no matter what he did, it wouldn't change. Of course, he had never told anyone about this. Of course not. He wasn't a weeping idiot that was afraid of being alone. He was too cool for that, too awesome.

Eyes slid past the wardrobe and to the bookcase next to it. His journals. His many, many journals, every page filled with his own handwriting, complaining about events and things that had happened to him. That woman, little bro, his friends, his bosses. Fritz. Good ol' Fritz. He missed that guy, that guy was cool.

Finding one spot on the shelves empty, a hand automatically dove beneath the bed's sheets and beneath the mattress, fingers soon grasping around a cold and hard object made of soft leather. Pulling the book out of its hide, he made sure to make his bed nice and tidy again. It would be no good if little bro or that sissy aristocrat interrupted him and found the bed in a mess. They would become suspicious.

It was a book completely like the others across the room. But yet, not quite. The cover was made of brown and beautiful leather, yes, and it had 'My awesome diary' and a long series of Roman numeral on the front, indeed. The first page presented a few words as introduction, much like the rest of the books in this unique series, and the next offered a table of content.

But if you wanted to read about 'The astounding encounter between The Awesome Me and The Female Devil' you would be disappointed by turning to page fifty three. You wouldn't find 'A tale for Luddy' on page twenty eight.

It was nothing like that you would find on these pages, no matter what the table of content said. Though nothing fit with the chapters on the second page, he knew them all by heart. Better than most he had written in the others.

He found a pen under the biggest of the pillows, carefully arranging them correctly again. That was something people didn't know about him. He was very neat. Even more than little bro. Why people thought otherwise confused him. But his mask knew why. His mask, his other self, knew why. Because he always made a mess of everything and he never cleaned up while others looked. Because that would be embarrassing.

Pages were turned swiftly and eyes skimmed the words on each of them, feeling the familiar jab in the heart as each and every one of them resounded so clearly in his head. Yes, yes, yes, he knew that and he knew that, especially, and he couldn't argue with them. It was things he had written and things he had felt. All too clearly did he feel and know and remember them.

Despite the speed with which he flicked through the pages, it took him close to twenty seconds before he found an empty one.

The pen was taken into his long and gloved fingers while he stared at the blank paper, letting his hand hover just a few centimetres over it. It wasn't that he didn't know how to start, he always knew that, that was never the problem.

The problem was to acknowledge there was still one. That nothing had helped yet. Would it ever?

After what felt like many shifts between nighttime and daytime, the sharp tip of the pencil finally made contact with the slightly faded white colour of the paper. The mask seemed to fall, an invisible piece of beautiful but distorted clothing falling onto the book and staring up at him, like it had eyes. Eyes that looked at him with an accusatory shine. Like he betrayed it. Betrayed his very being.

'If you read this, please tell me. I won't get mad at you. You can probably help me because I can't.'

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the too well-known shaking creep into his body and his fingers, making the pen quiver ever so lightly as he let the orbs be revealed once more.

He continued writing.

'I was downtown today. Met a sweet old lady who couldn't reach a jar of jam in the supermarket. I helped her get it and she kissed my cheek as a thanks. Sending her a friendly smile, I continued to the sweets before realizing I had forgotten to buy some tea. When I got back, I saw the same old lady try to reach for the same tea I appreciate. She nearly fell. I caught her and got her a box of the tea. She chuckled a bit. It was a very nice sound. We shopped together after that, talking and laughing. We also like the same kind of chocolate. I asked if she should eat chocolate in her age and she said that she wouldn't stop eating chocolate just because those rotten doctors said so. I laughed again and she chuckled. Heck, they don't know anything, she said as she put her articles onto the band. They study for all those years to say 'Yes, you've caught a cold, Sir' to a man who is coughing and sneezing a lot and has a red nose!She was a very nice lady. I kind of miss her.'

The pen stopped scratching against the white paper. Another deep breath. Her eyes had been playful and mischievous. Like she wasn't old at all, but simply dressed up like it. Green. Bright and clear. And she had been right.

'Today, the doctors were as clueless as ever. They can't explain my loss of weight. My hair is a mystery to them, they still can't figure out why it's turning grey. It looks like it's withering, one of them said. I said nothing, just sat with my head bowed and eyes fixed on the floor. Until they tipped my head up and brought out that flashlight-thing to light into my eyes. I hate it. It's so sharp. Your eyes still look dead, one of them said. I still said nothing. I know that. It has been like that for a long time. My eyes lose more shine for every day that passes by. My body grows weaker. My muscles disappear. My hair grows thinner. I lose weight without even trying to.'

The pen was once more stopped. Fingers clad in soft and tight black leather curled tighter around the tree between them. He could still make it creak. He hadn't grown that weak yet. But he knew it was only a question about time. And time went by quickly.

'When they were done, I put on my clothes, my wig and contact lenses again and left. The psychologist could help about as much. We talked again and she feigned worry and anxiety when I took everything off again. Seeing my collarbones through my shirt and the bones in the my fingers she pretended to be shocked. When she felt my back and could touch every vertebra she asked what I was doing to myself. I shrugged and said Nothing. She didn't believe me and she started attacked me with her words again. I will try and give you an example of our conversation:'

He found another pencil, a thicker one under yet another pillow.

'Her: How have you been doing lately?

Me: (shrug) Fine, I guess.

Her: You know that is not true. What have you been feeling?

That was a hard one. To feel what I'm feeling. Not to believe my mind and what that tells me I'm feeling, but instead ask my heart. It's hard to make out the differences. I'm not sure if there even is such a thing. It took a long time for me to answer. I looked at the floor the whole time.

Me: Empty. I can't distinguish day and night anymore. It's flowing together. Day eats night and night eats day as I lay in my bed, talk with my friends, write in my diary, party, cry. I can't tell the days apart. Monday could as well be Wednesday and Friday and Tuesday are becoming the same. My memory is hazy. I can't remember what I was doing just two days ago even if I know I thought I had fun. I feel forgotten. Unloved. I feel worthless.

Her: (takes notes) Are you still unknowing of the reason?

Me: (nods)

Her: (takes notes) Are you absolutely sure?

Me: (silent for a long time)'

It always took a lot to get him to talk about these kinds of things but this woman had always had the ability to make him. She was good at her job. The pen stopped for the third time and his eyes moved to the door. Had he remembered to lock it? Yes, yes, he had. He could remember that much, he had done that. He bowed his head again and continued writing.

'Me: (silent for a long time) I don't know. I can't find reason to live. I'm empty, I said that already. I have nothing to do here anymore. Nobody wants me around, nobody likes me and everybody would be better off if I simply left and never came back. But wherever I would go, I would still be a nuisance to my surroundings. I can't do anything right. I was given the task to raise my little brother. I did so. I failed. I didn't raise a nice man, I raised a cold and deadly man. A man able to kill what he wishes to kill.'

He had destroyed his little bro. This sweet, young and innocent boy, with those playful and glistening blue eyes, thick and soft blond hair, chubby cheeks. He had destroyed all of that. He had failed.

He remembered when his little bro used to get scared of thunderstorms and lightnings and asked to sleep in his bed. Little bro was always holding a big teddy bear under the left arm and the eyes were always frightened whenever the question was asked. But little bro was always allowed in his bed. He would always try to make little bro feel safe and comfortable.

But he had failed. He had destroyed that little boy, ruined the chances of getting friends, getting social, ruined the chances of getting a partner. He had destroyed the mind of that little boy, twisted it in a way others saw as sick and wrong. Rumours floated around about them and their sick tendencies now. What sick fantasies they both had and what sick fetishes neither could deny having.

'Her: (takes notes) And why would you think people think like that?'

That was how their conversations went most of the time. Her asking questions and him answering them after a little bit of coaxing. He hated answering. He felt so weak. But then again, he was weak. He had always been. He would always be. It didn't matter what others said, he would always be weak.

Or as long as this pathetic, miserable play of his life continued.

'It has been too many years. I can't remember when or how it started. I can't remember why. I can't remember if it was summer or if it was winter. I can only remember this feeling. Feeling empty and drained. I have no energy. I can't eat. I don't want to. There is no reason to eat when I'm not hungry. The others look at me with surprise when I say I haven't got an appetite. I don't think they believe me. I can't feel the beer anymore. It doesn't have an affect. No taste. I pretend it does to not become suspicious. I don't want Luddy or Denny to find out. They don't need to know. It's not their problem and shouldn't become theirs, either. If they find out, other people will blame them. I don't want that for them.'

He turned a page after having written the date on the top of the paper.

'I feel exhausted. I'm spent all the time even if I don't do anything. Everything is starting to blur together. I can't figure out why Luddy looks at me differently. His eyes have changed, somehow. I can't figure out if it's because of worry or if it's because of annoyance. If it's even any of those. It can be anything, really. I don't know what he's feeling about me anymore. I don't know about me. I only see darkness wherever I look. There is no hope for me. Happiness is a luxury long forgotten.'

He came to a halt once more, looking at the words, watching as the lines began running because of the tears silently hitting the letters. He did nothing to try and stop them. He knew better. If the first tear fell, the rest wouldn't stop. Instead he continued writing. That was what he had always done; continue forward. Don't stop, don't look weak, don't look back.

'People are still nice and polite when they talk to me. They ask me how I'm doing, if I've been doing anything interesting lately. I always answer the same. Yes, I'm fine. Nah, everything's the same.Nothing interesting is happening to me lately. I only go out of the house when I have to. To shop. To visit the doctors and the psychologist. To walk the dogs.'

As if on cue, two of the dogs began to scratch on the door. They whined when he didn't open in a few minutes, scratched harder and more insisting. Then he finally got up and dragged himself over to the door and unlocked it. The big German Shepherd rushed inside along with the Hovawart, both of them barking loudly and their tails wagging wildly as they looked up at him. They wanted to play.

He smiled sadly. He didn't have that kind of energy anymore. There was nothing left in his body. He was sure this time. This didn't go on much longer. He dropped his hands to let the dogs lick them, covering his gloved fingers in sticky saliva. A weak smile came across his face as he watched them.

"Hey, guys," he whispered and sat down on the bed. The dogs followed him and even jumped onto the bed, tails wagging wild enough to brush some of the cushions onto the floor. He only rarely allowed the dogs there but this time he didn't mind and he didn't have the strength to get them down, anyway. So he let them be as he picked up the book and pens again. He settled himself between the headboard and the wall, the dogs pooling around his feet and looking at him with their deep brown and glistening eyes.

'The dogs are here. I think they sense something is wrong. I wonder if they can sense I don't have much time left. Because I'm beginning to doubt I can do this much longer. I'm too tired. I'm too empty. I sleep all the time. It's the only thing I want to do. I've abandoned my blog, instead making Denny control it. He's a prankster like I once was, he will know how to continue the good spirit. I just want to lie down, take a good, long, deep nap. I don't want to wake up again. This is all too much. I'm old by now and I should have passed away a long time ago. It's time to go, already. My kingdom fell and so should I have. Everything else is unnatural for us countries, nations, kingdoms, whatever you want to call us.'

The German Shepherd reached out a paw, gently scratching his legs and whining to be pet. He did as wished of him and did it to the Hovawart as well. Just to be fair and all.

Pen connected with paper again.

'Thank you for having read this. Thank you for witnessing the end of me. This is the final goodbye. Whoever you are, take good care of Luddy for me. He's still my little boy.'

The book was carefully closed, the pens put away under their usual places under his pillows. Slowly and without really feeling he could, he forced himself to stand up and went over to the bookcase. The empty place was filled out by the diary and he walked back to the bed, feeling his eyes getting so impossibly heavy. The lids were not any better, and neither were his legs. He was... so tired. It would just be a short nap. Just a few hours.

He set an alarm on his cell phone and put it on the bedside table. The dogs made room for him, whining lowly. They could sense something was off. Something was very wrong with one of their Owners.

"Come on, lay down," he mumbled and lightly pet the area beside him when he was under the duvet and had positioned some pillows and cushions comfortably under his head. Already now he could feel the tiredness and hopeless creep even closer. It was closer than usually.

Rough and wet tongues licked all over his face and he laughed softly. Stupid dogs. They were too adorable like this. They stopped in time and finally settled down beside him, lying close enough so he could the soft fur against his face and his bony fingers. The gloves were thrown to the floor. He didn't care. The wig was off and so were the contact lenses. The only clothes he was wearing were loose satin trousers and a T-shirt he had borrowed from his Nordic friend.

Everything else was on the floor and he wasn't sure if he would wake in time to put it all on. Little bro had a habit of interrupting his sleep sometimes. Even before the alarm went off.

"Bruder, turn off your alarm!"

Nothing happened.

"Bruder! Your alarm, you have to get up!"

Nothing happened.

The German pulled himself up and out of the chair he was seated in and walked towards the basement. The door was closed and something was making soft noises from inside. But the sounds weren't pleasant.

A frown came over his face as he pushed open the door and was met with two of their dogs. They jumped up and down of him, barking and whining, and ran to the bed. But before he went over there and shook him to wake him, the big fingers grabbed the cell phone and turned off the alarm.

"Bruder, get up, your alarm has just been ringing."

Only then did he notice something was wrong. There was no snoring. And he was standing on something. He looked down and the eyes widened when he saw snow white hair. Stepping away, he picked it up and identified the object as a wig.

His heart began to pound when he looked at the bed. Bruder was lying very still. He could see the head. The hair looked... thin. Grey. He walked over to him and grabbed his shoulder. Immediately, he let go again. He had not expected to feel the bones or to grab nothing but them. There was no meat on the bones, only a loose T-shirt that did nothing to hide how thin the shoulders were.

"Ost, get up!" It wasn't an annoyed order anymore. It was instead a fearful plea.

But nothing happened. Not even when Ludwig slowly pulled away the duvet.

His brother lay there, definitely. And Ludwig was clever. He didn't need to touch the throat to feel for a pulse to know what the lack of the rising and sinking chest meant. He didn't need to listen to a heartbeat that didn't exist.

When his fingers shakingly turned the face towards him, he was met with a smile. A sad one. A sad smile in the middle of a face that he only knew as happy. Troublesome, yes, but always happy.

The dogs whined loudly and crept closer to him. They were not as clever as he but they knew when something had happened to a member of the pack. For they saw them all – the other dogs and the two men walking two legs – as a pack, with the men as the leaders.

Now there was only one leader.

This was only supposed to be a check for another of my writing-programs. It ended into... something that was supposed to be sad. Oops.

Translations:

Bruder= Brother(German)

Ost = East (German)