I don't own Hetalia
His eyelids feel heavy, but not in the way of exhaustion. He supposes it is just the odd weather which has been present these last few days. The bright sunlight coupled with the wind which changes temperature in the blink of an eye. He also assumes his melancholy mood has something to do with it.
The air can't be described as fresh, what with the burning of the village not a mile away, but it is still cleaner that the clogging muck he'd been breathing earlier. The area cannot be described as peaceful, either. The sounds of his men shouting and obeying orders can be heard even from this distance as they clear the village of any remaining lives, and the never-ending chatter of the creatures in the woods fills his senses. Still, it is calmer than anything he had hoped for on this campaign, so he counts his blessings at the momentary interlude.
He doesn't worry that anyone will concern themselves with his missing presence, as he wouldn't just wander off into enemy territory without notifying someone. The serving woman, Giselle, will be sure to tell them if they ask. But he doubts they will. After all, the Prussian army is winning, and they know it. His leadership can be covered for the moment by his king while he loses himself in the wild and finally allows himself to think.
Thinking isn't really an occupation required for a soldier, especially not a military state like him, but it is a pursuit he caters to once in a while. It is... nice, sometimes, to stop with the endless bloodshed, just to sit still. Not that he would relinquish his sword for anything or anyone. He, at heart, is a man who lives and thrives on the battlefield, ankle deep in the lifeblood of both his enemies and his comrades, and, occasionally, his own. Never could he become a passive bystander who watches the violence as it passes by, not willing to join and help wherever possible. Someone who thinks for a living.
Because while Prussia is fond of thinking, he is also fond of beer, and to the words of his ever wise ruler; "that amount can't possibly be good for you!"
The almighty Fritz has spoken.
He gives a soft snort, as even when he is alone, the man can't be evicted from his mind. No, not just when he is alone, when he is avoiding him. He knows the man is growing worried, but he isn't going to make an effort to explain himself. He isn't some sap who can just spew out his feelings - that night so long ago was the exception; it was the beer, damn it - and he isn't about to start now.
Not that he will ever admit to such a thing. Avoiding implies he is frightened of something, and someone as awesome as him isn't afraid of some man who happened to be his leader - and so, so much more - so no, he is not avoiding him.
He just needs time to think.
He leans back further into the bark before sliding down to the dirt under the spruce tree (his head had been into the branches). His uniform prevents him from feeling the rough scrape down his back, and when his bottom finally touches the ground, he wraps his arms around his bent knees. His weapons catch uncomfortably on his clothing, so he pulls them off and lays them to his side for easy access, before returning to his previous position.
The breeze is less apparent from down here, and he finds that while it is dark under the tree on the edge of the forest, he can see reasonably far into the distance - well, at least until the top of the opposite hill, where an empty farmhouse sits. If he looks to the right along the tree line, he can see the thick column of smoke swirling up from over the slight rise in the landscape. To his left, the trees curve around, and then travel down the small incline towards the thin stream which sat in the trough of the small valley.
The lack of company is startling, but good. Slowly, he is washed away by the swell in his mind, submitting to the soothing waves that carry messages of things that aren't anywhere near soothing to the nation. Messages that carry warnings and cautions of future turmoil. Messages he dreads understanding, of acknowledging exactly what they stated.
That he is immortal, and Friedrich is not.
He winces as the throb in his chest turns vicious, aching maliciously. Almost mocking him for daring to do what few nations ever have - falling for a human - punishing him for what most would perceive to be an utterly foolish choice. How he would willingly choose to rip his own heart out over someone who beheld but a fraction of his own lifetime.
But Prussia knows such a thing could only ever be said by a nation who hadn't experienced it themselves. Hadn't felt the absolute wonder of meeting a human who could alter their undying lives so much in such a short space of time. Of living in their company everyday, watching them gain expertise and knowledge, watching as their personality developed and consumed a nation to the point where giving them up is unthinkable.
Prussia knows France has been through this, so long ago, and he knows how much it still affects his sometimes friend. He is even worse than those few other nations, because he had known the consequences, had seen a dear acquaintance go through it first hand. Yet still, he had lapsed in his tight self control and indulged.
He has had a taste of the forbidden, and now he's addicted. Not that he would ever want to quit.
He could never quit Fritz.
He shudders, refusing to even contemplate what the wet lines on his cheeks were. He doesn't cry like some poorly infant who longs for his mother. He is a soldier, and damn it why isn't he acting like it?
A frustrated huff seeps through clenched teeth as all his muscles clench in unison. This isn't him, not at all, but no matter how many times he tells himself this, it still isn't completely out of the question that Fritz could make him this way. The man defies nature regularly, and shame on Prussia for considering the possibility he might be different.
It happened about two months ago. He had been sprawled across his king's bed as he was wont to do, watching as the man fitted his new military uniform, as the previous one had been ripped on their last expedition. He had been teasing the man for getting fatter, while Fritz had thrown his few gluttonous habits back in his face with a grin they both shared. He had turned around, and Prussia had frozen in his laughter as a grim realisation hit him.
Fritz had looked smart and handsome as he usually did, a look which usually made Prussia proud and very slightly enchanted. But this time, instead of the sight of his lover's strong body, he only saw the faint lines on either side of the man's eyes.
Fritz was growing old.
He was going to die, and he was going to leave Prussia behind, alone. To grow centuries older, without a single wrinkle to show for it.
It stung. As much as the confusion on his king's face when he had ran from the room. As much as his face every time Prussia ignored him apart from receiving issued orders. But Prussia knows without a doubt he won't be able to face him without breaking down like a weakling, and above all, showing weakness in front of Fritz was unacceptable.
Showing any kind of weakness in front of him just seems wrong. While he loves Fritz and knows he would never judge him, it is the principle of the entire thing. This is the man who built him up from almost nothing, made the name of Prussia once again a name to be feared. A determined man who inspired him to be greater than he was, to be confident in his power and to wield it wisely. And so, despite Fritz being his lover, and - Prussia could admit - the one person he had ever loved, he could never show him how low the thought of his death brought him.
Above all Prussia was a creature of pride, and for someone to see him stripped of it...
He would suffer and collapse in solitude, damn the consequences.
A sob shakes his chest, and shamefaced, he buries his face in his arms.
He loves that man so much it hurts, and he almost wishes that when God finally takes him, that he would be taken as well. Because although he would miss life and everything in it, he didn't think he could live in a world without that devilishly clever and calculating man.
He would follow that man anywhere; he would follow him into the dark, without looking back.
That's why - in defiance of all of his many efforts over the past months, in defiance of his many failed attempts at reasserting his relentless arrogance - when familiar gloved hands push his forehead up and cup his cheeks, and aged blue eyes shining with questions and empathy gaze into his watery crimson ones, he does nothing but lean into the comforting embrace, and return the gentle kiss that could be the caress of a rose's petal.
He doesn't rebuke the man, and he doesn't try to push him away; because for all of his boasting and his conviction, in front of his stands the only man who could chip at his walls and piece by piece, bring them down. The only weakness the Prussian nation had - the only chink in his armour he allowed to remain in existence.
Fritz demands nothing, but Prussia knows without any prompting he deserves an explanation. And an apology, if he is honest. The last thing he had wanted to do was upset him, but it seems he has done just that.
Something else to be rectified.
Prussia blinks, and sucks in a deep breath through his raw throat. He can still feel the preemptive grief running through mind.
The harsh, excruciating burn that he doesn't think will ever go away.
And if it is the only thing he will have left of Fritz in the years to come; he doesn't want it to.
Inspired by loads of images and Death Cab for Cutie - Follow You Into The Dark (sad song...)
Hmmm... It's probably just me, but I feel there's something missing... I hope it's just me...
No, it's not. I don't like this. I'll probably end up doing a rewrite, but I'll post it anyway.
I love this pairing. It's just so adorable, and while I do ship Prussia with other countries, this just has so much potential... ANGST! \O/
Opinions, peeps! (did I really just type that...?)
Please review, x