Of Sleep and Dissolution: a Hetalia/Percy Jackson crossover.
On the side of a dark desert highway, a man stands alone, facing a flashy hotel with an electric sign proclaiming it The Lotus Hotel and Casino. Wind ruffles through his platinum hair, and he stares up at the cold, distant stars, relishing the last time he will feel the outside world. Taking a deep breath, he bows his pale head, scuffs the dirt with the toe of his black combat boot, and crosses quickly over the threshold. As he does so, his eyes slip shut, and his mind wanders back to the days before tragedy forced him to leave the real world.
He remembers laughing with people just as obnoxiously loud as he was and proclaiming their awesomeness to the world and all their citizens. He remembers staying up all night with his two closest friends at the clubs they frequented, hitting on men and women and drinking themselves into oblivion. He remembers looking into the wide, admiring blue eyes of a little brother who was still a child and who still believed in the all mighty and all powerful Kingdom of Prussia.
He remembers all the other people he was leaving behind. He remembers sweet Birdie, the one person who was awesome enough for Prussia to fall in love with. He remembers fiery Hungary, who was one of his best friends, no matter how much of an annoying bitch she could be. He remembers stuffy Austria, the man who cared for him a little more than he admitted (and Prussia cared for him just as much, if not more).
And he remembers West: his brother, his blood, and his life. The dear, sweet little thing who Prussia saved from Napoleon. The boy who always looked up to him, who needed him and wanted him, who didn't think he was a burden but a hero. The boy who eventually grew to become a man, grew to become Prussia's equal, grew to even become his master.
To become the man who turned on his kin and voted Prussia away.
Prussia couldn't bring himself to resent Germany for that. It was true, all of it. Prussia was weak now, cut into four and at the mercy of those who used to fear and admire him. He was the reason that Nazi Germany even existed; he raised Germany after all, instilled in him his morals and his habits. The war was all his fault, so he deserved to die. He couldn't blame others for pointing that out; if he were in their situation, he would have done the same.
But it still didn't stop it from hurting. It still felt like someone was tearing a gash in his heart, the heart that he didn't know existed until it came time to say goodbye.
The goodbyes were always the worst. Looking into another person's eyes - someone he cared about, someone he, dare he say it, loved - and telling them that this was it, that just killed him. It killed him to know that never again will he be able to hear their laugh ringing out beside his, or see their face brightened in a smile, or feel their arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. Never.
The second worst was knowing that he will be forgotten. It was knowing that his friends and family and enemies will have to live on for years or decades or centuries or maybe even millennia, without him, and that every second he's not there, their memory of him fades a little. The removal of him from their memory would be like a ball of yarn unrolling down a hill: slowly, then faster, and faster, and faster, until nobody can remember the last time they saw him or heard him or even spoke of him. Soon, he will simply be a name with no face, and then, not even that. There will be a time when no one will even have heard of him, save for students tucked away in musty libraries and fragile books.
That is all that will be left of him, the forgotten name of a failed nation.
When he finally reopens his eyes (How long did he stand there for? A second? A year?), he finds himself in the midst of an overwhelming cacophony of sounds and lights and sensations. If he were a mere human, he would have been drawn in immediately, fed by his constant craving for excitement and fun and pleasure.
But he isn't a mere human. He wouldn't have come here, to this particular hotel on this particular road in this particular country, if he was a mere human. So, instead of drawing him in like a moth to a flame, the music and lights and pretty ladies (and men) only spark a bit of interest in him. Much to his disappointment, the seductive magic of the place, the magic that oozed sloth and gluttony and lust, simply washes over him and pours down around him as if he was standing in a rainstorm under an umbrella, able to catch some drops while remaining dry to some extent.
He sighs deeply; there wouldn't be much distraction in this place, not enough to make him forget his pain and the events that brought it on. Definitely not enough for him to forget who he was, what he was, and why he was here, and definitely not enough for him to be able to succumb to the tempting oblivion and become another nameless fool who was lost forever in the past and his own pleasure.
A man appears at his elbow, a bellhop, judging by the uniform, and brings him back to the present. The man's lips curl into a charming and predatory smile, and he offers the lonely nation (ex-nation, soon) a card that will buy him everything he wants. The offer whispers promises of eternity and blissful ignorance. Prussia takes it without a second thought, already knowing he was immune to the poison, yet yearning for it all the same.
Crimson eyes glancing around the room, he makes his way over to the bar. A shot of pure vodka is poured for him by a gorgeous woman in a form fitting black dress. Prussia gives her a cursory nod, suppressing his longing for soft skin and wavy blond hair and bright violet eyes. When he looks at her again, her eyes have changed from sharp green to a soft blue bordering on purple. They are familiar eyes, and it makes him faintly sick. He downs his fourth shot and stands up to leave.
Now, he wanders over to a table where four men are playing cards. They have everything and nothing to lose, and Prussia feels jealousy rise like bile at the back of his throat. Humans live such short lives, little fireworks exploding in the dark nighttime that is eternity. Human lives are spontaneous and combustible, but they sure burn bright, and such a spark can shift an entire history, affect a nation forever. He cannot stand to see such a carefree attitude, one he held not so long ago, when his life is about to end, so he turns and leaves the area once more.
A waiter steps across his view, a tray of sweets in his hand. The man, who has a dazzling smile that fails to interest Prussia, offers him one, mechanically commenting on how sad he looks and maybe a signature lotus flower will make him feel better. Prussia can smell the enchantment on the food from where he stands. He takes two.
The flowers are good, wonderful really, and remind him of Birdie's pancakes, the ones that Birdie makes from scratch and smothers with real maple syrup. For a moment he's in heaven, with Birdie cuddling up beside him on their couch and his friends surrounding him while he enjoys a glass or twenty of quality German beer. Then, all too soon, the illusion is shattered, and Prussia is once again the only one awake in a sea of sleeping zombies, waiting for the pain that signals his dissolution. Well, it was nice while it lasted, he guesses and heads over to the arcade.
The games in the arcade are the most technologically advanced games Prussia has ever seen. There are games of every interest and genre and age group. Puzzle games and strategy games and shooting games are lined up in long and crowded rows, their brights colors and flashing lights and enticing sounds pulling the interest of children and adults alike.
Prussia stands for a moment, considering each of the overwhelming options. He wants something that will take up all of his attention and make him temporarily forget the real world. He meanders down a random aisle, one out of easily a hundred, maybe even more, and goes over to a miraculously empty booth that contains a simple shooting game.
The game is easy enough. It's hardly any match for a person as skilled and experienced in battle as Prussia, but it still does its job and sucks up every last bit of his attention. It allows Prussia to believe, for a few blissful rounds, that he is simply a character in the game with no worries but surviving and reaching the next objective.
Time slips by, and Prussia is abruptly pulled out of the game by a sudden pain in his left arm. Fear sends a cold steel spike through his gut, and he fervently hopes that his hypothesis will hold true and that he won't die here, in a wasteland where no one will care if he dies, where no one will even notice if he dies. If the magic that lures victims to the hotel doesn't work on him, then there is a very real possibility that the magic that keeps the inhabitants young forever might not work on him either.
The pain is spreading; it goes from his left arm to his shoulder before crawling up his neck and seeping into his chest. A deep numbness chases the pain, a terrifying lack of feeling so strong that it hurts worse that the pain. Dropping the game controller, he pays no attention as his character is shot and killed. Instead, he stumbles over to the elevator and takes it up to the eleventh floor. The doors aren't even open the whole way, and Prussia is running down the hall to the last door on the right. He jams the card into the slot on the door several times until the lock accepts his card and he is let into his room.
Prussia barely has time to stagger to the massive bathroom before his legs give out. The numbness is deafening, and Prussia tears at his arms, scratching and gouging, trying to feel something, anything. His vision is tinted black at the edges, and his hearing fades until all he hears is the slow beating of his heart. A few moments later, and he isn't even able to hear that, his pulse slowing and his eyes open but unseeing.
An unfamiliar voice creeps into his head, whispering words he doesn't want to hear. He hears America and England and Russia and France (his heart breaks even more to hear his best friend's laugh among the voices) talking and yelling and teasing each other as if they weren't about to end the life of a nation. He feels the scratch of their pens as they sign their signatures on the pretty little lines underneath the earth-shattering words, feels them like parasites chewing at the underneath of his skin.
And then all numbness leaves him as an agony, a fire he's never felt before, engulfs his soul as his heart is torn to shreds. Prussia, now Poland and Germany and Russia, feels a scream rip from his throat, and he curls in on himself, nails scraping over the floor as he struggles to ground himself.
How long he stays there, he doesn't know. When the darkness finally lifts to dawn, and pain has faded to a barely manageable throb, he takes the first breath he has taken in days, maybe years. Lifting his head, he slowly gets to his feet and stares at the figure he sees in the mirror.
It is still him, Prussia, but his eyes are flat and empty. His arms have deep scratches gouged in them, some scarred over and some still bleeding. He is gaunt, every bone sticking out of his ghostly pale skin. He looks like a creature that shouldn't be alive.
Well, that's what he is, but he kind of wishes that he looked a little better. At least he feels a little better, regardless of his atrocious appearance. Prussia allows himself a small triumphant grin. He might still be hurting, and he might look like shit, but he is alive. Nothing can kill the awesome Prussia. After sending a quick prayer of thanks to Greece and his strange gods, Prussia decides to go downstairs for a celebratory drink.
Groaning, he stands up and ignores the painful protesting of his legs. After his drink, a couple of laps around the hotel seemed pretty promising. As he takes the first step, however, he changes his mind about those couple of laps; he might not even make it to the elevator, not with the white hot knives stabbing his joints with every step he takes. For a moment he imagines that he feels the way the Grimm Brothers' Little Mermaid must have felt when she walked on land for the first time, but he quickly disposes of the thought. While the Little Mermaid was pretty awesome, he is too awesome to die a death like hers. In fact, he is too awesome to die at all.
Prussia ignores all of the stares he is probably receiving as he rolls into the lobby, too weak to stand up. He takes a break for a moment to catch his breath, and then he continues rolling toward the bar. Not even his malfunctioning legs will keep him from his beer, he thinks as weaves in and out of the other guests' legs, not even-
Oof! A small body trips over Prussia's prone body and lands full on Prussia's chest. All of the air is forced out of Prussia's lungs, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. He lays there, winded and hoping that he didn't survive his dissolution just to be killed by a little kid, because that would be plain unawesome.
But his body is durable and finally regains its memory. Air rushes back into his lungs and he sits up, scrutinizing the kid, who has rolled off his chest to sit across from him, and estimating him to be around twelve.
He's pretty cute, Prussia has to give him that, and Canada would probably like him. He has soft olive skin and a head of dark, messy brown hair. His eyes are a brown so dark they might as well be black, and they carry a strange depth to them. Currently, said eyes are attached to a spot just above his head.
An amused bubble of laughter spills from the boy's lips, and Prussia frowns in confusion. The ex-nation lifts a pale hand up to feel his head, thinking the boy was laughing at his messy hair. Instead of feeling his familiar silvery blond hair, however, his fingers touch soft feathers. Fragile feet clamp onto his index finger, and, as Prussia pulls his hand away from his head and holds it out in front of his face, a tiny yellow bird comes into view.
Red eyes meet black eyes as Prussia stares at the creature for at least ten seconds, the little boy watching both of them intently. All at once, something clicks in the older man's mind, and he yelps and flings the bird as far away from him as possible. Clutching his stomach, the dark haired boy rolls on the floor and howls with laughter.
Prussia stands up, scraping together the last shreds of his dignity, and rushes over to where the poor little bird lays. Hopping up, the bird looks curiously at Prussia, then at the boy who followed him over, before fluttering onto Prussia's head. The boy shyly reaches up and pets the bird.
Prussia smiles at him and introduces himself as the Awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt. The boy smiles back, giving his name as Nico di Angelo, who has an older sister named Bianca and owns a bomber jacket that is not unlike America's and likes to play a card game named Mythomagic.
Prussia blinks at the talkative boy, so full of life and potential, yet trapped in this poisonous web. Nico is one of Veneziano's; it isn't hard to tell at all, nevermind that Prussia possessed that instinct every nation had.
You look like you could belong in my game, Nico says excitedly, pointing to Prussia's snow white hair and blood red eyes.
Prussia laughs - really, truly laughs - for the first time in days (years?). Yes, he agrees, I am the all powerful Gilbert Beilschmidt, god of awesomeness and beer. Nico laughs too, and they sit and talk and play Mythomagic together until Bianca comes to put Nico to bed.
Prussia says goodbye to the energetic boy ruffling his hair and shaking his sister's hand. Nico turns and tackles Prussia in a bear hug, causing him to stumble back a bit while holding an armful of Italian. The scene is heartbreakingly familiar, and once more Prussia feels a tug in his chest telling him to leave this prison and go home. But also in that moment, Prussia realizes that goodbye don't have to be sad. They can be happy things, marking the beginning of something fresh.
Prussia leaves the two Italian siblings and heads for the door. Along the way, he grabs enough lotus flowers to fill the complementary backpack and tote bag he received during his stay.
Someday, when he's feeling down, maybe these will help. Even if he's walking out of an artificial paradise and into an ugly concrete wall with a glittering barbed wire crown, at least he knows it's real. Even if he's stepping from a land of plenty into a world of pain and hunger, at least his friends will be there to ease his suffering. Even if he's sacrificing a blissful eternity for a damned future, at least he will have died a true death.
It isn't until he's stepped out into the red light of the dying sun and felt the dry desert air, hot from the black of the highway pavement, on his face that he realizes that his legs and heart hurt no more.
Fin.
A/N:
I kind of used Artemis Fowl logic for this story, if the hotel was the equivalent of the time stops. Actually, I never really understood the logic behind Artemis' escape from certain death while within the time stops. If anyone knows and cares to explain, I'd love that. But Artemis survived, so Prussia had to as well, because... he's awesome like that.
I apologize if Prussia might have seemed a little OOC, but in my headcanon, Prussia is really sentimental; he just keeps it bottled inside. I mean, he has a whole library of diaries. Doesn't that scream sentimental freak to you? It's okay, though; I still love Prussia, and I actually am a sentimental freak. Oh well. Anyway, don't you just love angsty!Prussia and pre-Percy! Nico?
Oh, and the paper that America, England (representing the UK), Russia (representing the Soviet Union), and France were signing was Law No. 46 of the Allied Control Council, which formally dissolved the state of Prussia. It was done as a symbol of overcoming the Nazis, as it was decided that Prussia was at the root of Nazism, never mind all the things Prussia did against Nazism too. Surprisingly, the dissolution of Prussia didn't gain a lot of news coverage.
So thanks for reading the first complete story I've posted! Yay! Reviews are more than welcome.