ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛɪɴᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ⁞×
[can i get that in writing?]
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I don't own Hetalia.
This is drabble number one for the LJ comm hetachallenge's March drabble/doodle challenge.
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It was on the fourth false start of some fucking pointless paper that Gilbert had resigned himself to the fact that this wasn't working. Having already given up on the vocabulary lists and conjugation rules he needed to memorise for a different course, he had thought that he'd attempt a hook for his essay, some fan-fucking-tastic paragraph or two that was supposed to make someone want to read through five pages of whatever the hell it was he should have been writing about, just to see how it ends.
His headache was pleading on behalf of his brain from a reprieve from the exceptionally mind-numbing task. Okay, he'd give—but there was just so much work he needed done by tomorrow and it was already nearing eleven at night.
Idly tapping his fingers on his laptop keys, the student let his mind go to see where it would take him. Words appeared on the page, one after another, stringing a beginning together.
He accepted the proffered weapon, but his skills demanded sharper...
Gilbert leaned forward the slightest bit, his eyes widening when Gilbert Beilschmidt, a soldier in the Prussian army, took out two opponents in one fell swoop. His leg stopped vibrating.
He was a warrior; he was a hero. Like his grandfather and ancestors before him, he served the great country of Prussia. He exuded confidence and power and none could stand in his way. He was a fucking legend. He—
—looked up to find the digits on his computer taskbar changing to midnight.
Gilbert Beilschmidt was a poor university student trying to get a crappy paper done. Right.
(But that night he dreamed horses and gunpowder and exhilaration like nothing he'd ever felt before and it was awesome.)
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