Author's note This is a re-upload of Imaginary Warmth from my other account. This is still the same username, but I re-uploaded and restarted for personal reasons. The previous author's note ran thus:
I haven't written a sad fanfic in eons. So I decided, why not torture the poor hearts of my German boys. Here's a fanfic featuring Germany (Ludwig) and Prussia (Gilbert) from yours truly.
Suggested b/g music: In The Shallows and Youth by Daughter and/or I Will Follow You Into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie, because I was listening to those songs while writing this.
Disclaimer Hetalia does not belong to me.
Imaginary Warmth
Sometimes in the cold, grey mornings, Ludwig would imagine the darkness snatching the imaginary warmth beside him.
He looked at the imaginary warmth: he had pale hair, pale skin, pale lips, pale everything. Pale like a ghost. Brother dear, you are pale, he would think. Pale pale pale.
Sometimes in the cold, grey mornings, he would embrace the imaginary warmth beside him, and then listen to the imaginary heartbeat that never ceased. Then the imaginary warmth next to him would stir and wrap his arms around him. Like a corpse that reanimated back to life.
Sometimes in the cold, grey mornings, Ludwig imagined what would happen if the darkness did take the imaginary warmth beside him and replace it with cold emptiness. So he would plant a kiss on the imaginary warmth beside him, and another, and another until he could swear he felt like crying, just to make sure the imaginary warmth wouldn't fade into emptiness.
The imaginary warmth beside him would wake, then stroke his hair and soothe his back, like he used to when Ludwig was still a child, and then very quietly tell him to go back to sleep.
Sometimes in the cold, grey mornings, Ludwig would feel like he was saving his brother, that imaginary warmth, from an abysmal pit with only a very thin and very fragile cord connecting them. A thin cord that would snap should Death pull his brother closer. He would embrace his brother tighter and take what he can before Death pulls him harder than Ludwig does.
Then his brother would wake again, smile sadly at Ludwig and ask him what was wrong.
Ludwig could never reply but oh how he wished he could. How he wished he could tell his brother about Death and pits and fragile cords that would snap with a single tug.
Then his brother would look at him, staring at him pitifully with the only thing about him that didn't look pale: his crimson eyes, those striking blood irises. Ludwig could swear that those irises were not made of muscle and fibrous tissue but with actual blood, and actual fury and love and lust and passion.
And then he would very slowly mutter: 'I'm not dead, Ludwig.'
And that was exactly what Ludwig wanted to hear, except it was a blatant lie.
Ludwig would never respond verbally but the tears that rolled down his eyes spoke for him. Then his brother, that imaginary warmth, would dry those tears with his cold cold imaginary fingers and kiss him on the cheek, all the while staring at him with those blood irises that seemed to have a life of their own.
"Come on, Ludwig. Don't cry," his brother would tell him, speaking like he used to, using the same words as he did when Ludwig was still a child. "Don't cry," he would say, again and again, as Ludwig's tears rolled down his cheeks until he grew tired of crying.
Sometimes in the cold, grey mornings, Ludwig would stop crying and fall asleep, trusting that his brother would shake off Death when it tried to pull at him, and that he would hoist himself out of the pit, out of the darkness that pulled at him so strongly, away from Death.
Then his brother would very quietly murmur: 'I love you, brother', in their own tongue:
Ich hab dich lieb, bruder.
And Ludwig would reply with a sleepy 'I love you too,' before he fell asleep.
Then the pit would disappear from underneath his brother and then they would walk through the streets of some city in Germany-somewhere, like they used to. They would watch the sunset and it would paint the sky with robust colours. They would watch movies that never seemed to end, and immerse themselves in the crowds around them. They would watch the moon rise and the stars dot the inky sky. They would stare at shops with clear windows, and they would stop by cafés and sip coffee and talk to each other and feel alive.
Brother dear, you are pale. Pale pale pale, Ludwig would think, mouthing the words in front of his imaginary brother.
Sometimes in the cold, grey mornings, Ludwig imagined what it would be like if he had his brother back and if he wasn't just some imagined warmth, some emptiness beside him that the darkness had already taken. He would imagine what it would be like to see those blood irises again. He would imagine what it would be like to hear his brother tell him, 'I love you, brother', once more.
He would imagine his brother next to him, alive, breathing, no longer pale, but with blood flowing in his veins. He would be out of the pit, out of the darkness.
But Death had already tugged too hard on his brother.
The cord had long snapped.