Hetalia is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya, this fanfiction is owned by me.
One year.
At exactly four twenty-two in the afternoon, on the twelfth of October last year, Antonio had been pronounced dead.
It's four o'clock now. Exactly one year ago, Arthur had been in the hospital, holding Antonio's hand. He remembers it like it happened yesterday. He covers his ears, and squeezes his eyes shut as Antonio's death day comes back to him.
The stench of disinfectant permeated the room on that day, mingling with the sickly sweet smell of the carnations, sat in the vase on Antonio's bedside table. Antonio's chest moved, but only slightly, up, down, then up, and down again. His body was visible through a hospital gown that was way too big for him, revealing the sharp crests and valleys of his ribcage. A doctor stood by, watching, waiting.
Arthur looks up at the clock again. It's five minutes past four.
Antonio had been diagnosed with cancer two years ago. They'd told him that it was treatable; with enough chemo, he'd be fine. Arthur was stupid enough to believe the oncologist when he said that Antonio would be ok.
It's now ten minutes past four.
Arthur has spent most of the day sitting by Antonio's grave. He talked to him as if he was still there; playfully teasing him, flirting with him, in the hopes that maybe, he'd hear Antonio laugh and tease him back. Arthur never heard him. All he got in return was silence. So he told Antonio how he felt about him instead. He said, I'm sorry, you're beautiful, I miss you. I'd give anything, if it meant that that I could hold you one last time.
And then he left carnations. He must've bought the flower shop out of all of their red carnations, to lay on Antonio's grave. He choked on the sickly sweet smell. He got into his car and sped away.
Fifteen minutes past four.
Arthur looks at what's on the table. He's attempted to make all of foods that Antonio liked, setting out two plates, one for himself, and one for Antonio. The food is terrible. The rice of the paella is undercooked. The garlic soup has way too much salt in it. The churros are burnt, and the chocolate sauce has split.
Twenty minutes past four.
Arthur thinks about the doctor who watched over them as Antonio died. She was remarkably pretty; a slight woman, with cornsilk hair. She was like a real angel, come to steal Antonio away up to heaven. She watched with cold, stone eyes as Antonio's chest fell for the last time. She waited. And then she said, "I'm sorry," as she switched off the machines.
It's twenty-two minutes past four.
Arthur goes and sits on the sofa. Once upon a time, he'd have sat there, watching some crap soap opera, with Antonio snuggled up next to him. They'd make fun of how ridiculous it was, and they'd laugh together.
Now, it was exactly one year since Antonio had been taken from him. No more laughter. No more of Antonio's cooking. No more sweet nothings, and stolen kisses, and promises of a big white wedding in Seville.
For the first time that day, Arthur allows himself to cry.