HERE WE GOOOOOO
alright
this was a gift for a friend, and it's still not done, but whatever. -shrug-
Minor mentions of alcohol?
It had been nearly a week since his brother had passed, but he still couldn't bring himself to leave the conformity of his home and show his reddened eyes to the public. They'll take me as a fool, he convinced himself, staring into the half-empty bottle that sat before him tauntingly, they'll think I'm too weak to stand up to this. There's no way I'm walking out that door. No.
He breathed a shaking sigh and leaned forward on his chair, shifting his gaze to the dark, haunting space that was his dining room. The memories and nostalgia washed over him with the fury of a monsoon... the once warm house seemed sickeningly quiet and empty without Gilbert's bright presence to fill it, and even though he had been a bit of a nuisance at times, Ludwig knew that no one would ever replace him. Not that I have anyone left, anyway. He chuckled dryly and rested his chin on his forearm. As usual. As expected. No one likes Germany. Germany's the villain, Of course. Germany started it all. It's his fault.
He sighed plainly, almost lifelessly.
He felt it rising in his chest, slowly, at first, but it grew with each quickening, staggered heartbeat until he couldn't bear it anymore; the familiar tempest of pure fury and heartbreak that wretched his mouth into a terrible grimace. He narrowed his eyes and glared blindly into the darkness. The compulsive urge to just... throw something flooded his mind, and he turned to the beer sitting next to him. He couldn't remember if it was his third or fourth. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The only thing that ever truly mattered was Gilbert, and he had been stolen away by the hands of those he thought he could trust.
Trusting people was a bad thing. He learned this that day.
"Verdammt!" he hissed, lethal venom dripping with each syllable. The fury that was subtly there before blazed as strong as a wildfire within him. He needed to do something. Now.
He stood, turned to the fragile glass bottle, and viciously swung it across the room at the opposite wall. The piercing sound of glass against wood resounded throughout the empty house, and a portion of the weight that had been dragging him down seemed to fall away from him at this. He watched silently, carelessly, when the dark liquid bled into the fresh white curtains and splattered across the wall and carpet like blood. It didn't concern him. Nothing would, at this point.
He felt empty. And useless. Like a paper bag; a paper bag that could blow away into the ocean one day, and no one would even care. "Oh look," they would say, "look at that piece of junk floating out to sea. Look at how pitiful it looks there. Weak. Look at how much I care," and move along with their lives without sparing another glance, or ever thinking about it again. That was what he felt like. It wasn't a good feeling, but it was a familiar one.
Ludwig knew he should pull himself together and wal outside and move along with his life too, but something held him back from doing so. He felt that if he left the room he would somehow abandon his brother. So instead, he exhaled and settled back down into his stool like a deflating balloon. He suddenly realized the burning sensation behind his eyes and the wet, salty trails running down over his cheekbones. He frowned.
"Gil," he muttered to no one, "Gil... where did you go?"
Eh.