A/N; Mmkay, so inspiration struck me hard when I heard this song on the radio. Sorry that it's short, and I hope you can understand it – I'm not sure if it's confusing or not. It's bad, anyways.
This is a songfic, to the song 'One Man Army' by 'Our Lady Peace'.
Sorry for how bad it is.
Warnings; No pairings, violence, swearing, repetition, it might confuse you, it's terrible, blah blah blah.
Disclaimer; I do not own Hetalia (sadly), nor do I own 'One Man Army'. They belong to their respective owners.
Take these plastic people,
Read their lips, now let it linger.
Is there anything,
That makes them sound sincere?
Come on, tightly hold your hand.
Take a deep breath, give them the finger.
Are you worried,
That your thoughts are not quite clear?
He remembered that day all too clearly.
The day where he lost everything.
Well, almost everything – the only thing he didn't lose was his appearance, his human name, and his utterly unchangeable personality.
But that day, he lost the two most important things to him.
His brother, whose screams and sobs continued to echo loudly through his mind when he let it drift.
And his name.
The name that struck fear into many a nations' heart. The name that was signed into history forevermore. The name that made him, and defined what he was – who he was.
But it was gone.
Gone in an instant – a simple statement dissolved his being, sending him into a mental limbo as he wrestled with his own mind to hold himself together from falling apart.
He remembered their faces – those little plastic figurines that made up a nation, but were controlled completely by their bosses. He saw their fake masks put into place to hide their horror or whatever other emotion lurked beneath those lies.
He remembered that his hearing had vanished in its entirety when those innocently lethal words dripped like venom from the American nation's lips. He had stared at that mouth, disbelief flashing through his mind as his state of somewhat liberal sanity began to crumble.
He remembered hearing an apology – but distant, oh so distant – but he could not bring himself to believe it. After all, if they were so willing to be the chess pieces for their bosses, why would their apologies be sincere enough for him to retain closure?
He remembered that his hearing had returned to him after the American's mouth had closed in a moment of silence, and he had clenched his hand tightly, knuckles cracking dangerously. Their attention had fully snapped onto him then – even his sobbing brother's.
He remembered forcing his trademark maniacal smirk onto his lips, before lifting his fist and raising his middle finger in a mocking salute to the Allies. He had known that he had to do something in order to keep them from realizing his despair.
Twitch, overlooked, unfit appearance.
I remember falling,
I remember marching,
Like a one man army,
Through the blaze.
I know I'm coughing,
I believe in something.
I don't wanna remember falling,
For your lies.
He remembered that, as his brother was led away from him by France, America and England, that the two of them would make up one entity. Thoughts of his unfit appearance had flashed through his head – he was thin and pale, with silver hair and crimson eyes. His brother was large and well-built, with burning azure eyes and light blonde hair.
His brother was everything he was not.
He remembered being on the battlefield when his brother had fallen and was being attended to.
Unbutton your clothes
Undress your soul,
Show them your vigour.
Are these inhibitions easiest to fear?
Hitler had fallen.
Germany had fallen.
It was as simple as that.
Yet he ploughed on, determination brightening his war-torn eyes.
The eyes that were the same colour as the blood – as the crimson liquid that coated his uniform in a cruel and violent painting of gore and the inner instincts of a war-born monster.
His soul was bared to the world – the soul that had suffered through much, but never cracked nor crumbled.
He held a rifle in one hand, and his flag in the other, as he marched on through the billowing flames, to where his enemies awaited.
He coughed painfully, smoke scratching at his already ragged throat. His step never faltered, however, and soon enough he was before his enemies, his rifle loaded, cocked, and ready to fire. He narrowed his eyes at the oddly stubborn and dangerous glint in the normally silent Canadian's gaze. Canada stepped forward, and gestured vaguely with a hand.
"It's over. Drop your weapon."
No.
No.
He couldn't believe it – no, he wouldn't believe it.
It wasn't over until his enemies lay at his feet, either slain or begging to be destroyed!
He pulled the trigger and fired, but the bullet went astray from his desperation, and – before he knew it – he had been knocked to the ground, and blood trickled in a fine line from the corner of his mouth.
Sharp pain swiftly erupted in the back of his skull, and just before he blacked out, he saw their faces again – those damnable plastic faces of the well-played mannequins.
When had they become the pawns of their leaders? When had they lost the ability to fight for themselves?
When had they given up the independence some had fought so hard to gain?
He snapped his gaze up to focus on the Russian man before him, who merely smiled with a child-like innocence.
Too bad his violet eyes had easily spoken of the insanity that lurked beneath.
He relapsed back into his thoughts as he remembered that fateful day once more, tuning out the sounds of the Russian.
"Prussia is no longer a country. The nation shall be dissolved…"
He stopped listening, allowing their words to linger in his thoughts longer than he should have – their poison began to affect him, as pain clutched at his heart.
"You are now East Germany. And as such, you are under the control of one Ivan Braginsky. Please go with him."
His brother howled, trying to claw his way out of the grasp of the two nations who struggled to hold him back.
"I'll be fine, West. You take care, now, you hear me?"
"Br-Bruder!"
"Let's go, da? I promise I'll take good care of you~"
"Sure, whatever, bastard," he replied, trudging after the tall nation with a farewell wave to his brother.
"P-Please! Don't leave!" The blonde called out, but he received no response.
He followed behind the Russian, dread filling him as those violet eyes turned to look over a broad shoulder, a maniacal glint appearing within their depths.
He remembered the day the wall had gone up, blocking him from his beloved brother.
His memory retained the fury he had felt, and the amount of scars he had on his back from the lashings he received after trying to escape multiple times.
He was forced to snap back to the present, however, as he needed to remember to the conversation that had just taken place with the Russian.
He snorted as the words came to mind; "You remember the sunflowers I left for you, da? Don't let them die."
He faintly remembered those haunting, purple orbs scrutinizing him for a moment, before their owner turned and left the room in the company of the nameless nation and the bouquet of sunflowers on the bed.
He stared at the door, before a wide smirk curled his lips, and a glimmer of his former self returned to his scarlet eyes.
C'mon, take this gasoline tin,
Head up high, walk like a winner.
Let the bare feet be the last sounds
That they hear.
He held his head high and marched towards where he had hidden the two objects that the Russian had overlooked.
He would always remember the feeling as his hands lifted the box of matches, as well as the tin of gasoline he had stolen from the Russian.
He would always treasure the delight as the flammable liquid was poured over the sunflowers, leaving their slowly dulling yellow petals glistening in the dim light that streamed in the small window.
He would always remember – with some satisfaction – that the stench of gasoline had filled the air, and, as he struck the match, he could hear footsteps reverberating down the hallway.
Chastising voices filled the air, before one comment about the odd smell wafting around caused the footsteps to quicken into a run towards his location.
He could feel that the smirk had split his face nearly in half as he threw the burning match onto the sunflowers, setting them alight just in time for the Allied forces to barge in the door.
He would never forget how they had all stared in fascinated horror at the burning bouquet, and the look on the Russian's face had been one of his seemingly permanent innocence. However, his eyes had reflected the flames, and utter hatred for the ruby-eyed male – which only fuelled his will to rebel even more.
Twitch, overlooked, unfit appearance.
I remember falling,
I remember marching,
Like a one man army,
Through the blaze.
I know I'm coughing,
I believe in something.
I don't wanna remember falling,
For your lies.
He merely let out a broken, maniacal laugh, and turned. He would always remember the sound of his bare feet being loud on the stone floor of his cell as he moved to stare the Russian right in the eye.
Their gazes met, and sparks flew.
Falling.
I remember falling.
I remember marching.
Like a one man army,
Through the blaze.
I know I'm coughing,
I believe in something,
I don't wanna remember falling.
I remember crawling,
Through the wayside,
I know I'm falling…
His voice rang out in a rebellious fashion, and his mind would forever keep the memory of the fact that his determination had shaken the Allies to the cores of their beings.
I remember marching.
I don't wanna remember falling.
I don't wanna remember falling.
For your lies…
"Fuck you and your sunflowers back to the hole you crawled out of, you lying son-of-a-bitch! I will only make sure that one thing won't die – me! Gilbert Beilschmidt will never die – and never bow to the likes of you! I'm a one man army, and I shall not fall!"