Warning: Character death.
(Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, have some common sense.)
Alfred stood at the window of a small bedroom, drawing the gray curtains back and allowing pools of golden sunlight to stream into the dark room and onto the wooden floor. He clutched a leather pilot's jacket lined with dusty black ermine fur in his left hand, and running a thumb over the worn yellow star that had been sown into the rough material so long ago, he turned away from the window to face the sad green eyes of the Englishman sitting on the edge of a linen draped bed. They exchanged a meaningful and knowing glance before averting their gazes, and Alfred returned to fondling his war jacket sentimentally, looking anywhere but to Arthur's pained expression. A cool draft blew into the room through the window, and the curtains billowed around Alfred's slim figure.
But at least the war is over.
The room was unkempt after years of abandonment. It couldn't be helped, as Alfred had been away, fighting for his country, and Arthur, though he had gone nowhere, was rarely in his own room in Alfred's absence. They both knew what had to be done now, but it seemed that neither of them had the courage to initiate it. Alfred allowed his thoughts to become drowned in memories of times lost, of moments shared with the only man he was sure he would ever love. Images of smiles and laughter and bright happiness that had haunted Alfred during his service, that there was no rest from now, swam through his mind uninvited.
He looked once more to Arthur, hoping for the guidance that the older man had once granted him, and caught the reassuring sadness that bordered his lover's eyes. Alfred directed his gaze again to the open window, following a gull as it made its way across a strikingly blue sky.
"I still love you," Alfred said, without his usual enthusiasm or cheer. He now faced Arthur again, hoping to find some reluctance in his face, but Arthur just gave a forlorn smile, avoiding Alfred's eyes.
"I know." He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his closed eyelids, breathing a dejected sigh. Arthur could no longer count the men he had slept with while Alfred was a pilot in Germany. At the time, he had justified it by telling himself that Alfred was probably fooling around too, but it was a disgusting and weak argument.
In all actuality, Alfred hadn't so much as thought about fooling around in the most general sense of the phrase, as he had and always would think of no one but Arthur in that way.
Arthur felt tears well in his eyes, and his throat tightened painfully. He lifted a hand to his cheek, prepared to wipe away his pathetic tears before Alfred had a chance to spot them. When he spoke, his voice was unmistakably strained, like rock scraping across rock, and his sentence was interrupted by choked sobs occasionally. "This is for the best Alfred."
Alfred now too felt a warm tear slide slowly down his face. Alfred was sad now, more so than when he had stood in the blown out shell of a crumbling city, the stench of smoke and blood surrounding him and the cries of civilians ringing in his ears. But then, there was always something to keep on for. He always had the thought of Arthur supporting him, and now, even Arthur was gone. He had nothing to lean back to, nothing to drive him through each day, and it made him want to die.
Despite this, he did not resent his green-eyed Englishman, not in the least. He had been away for so long, too long to expect chastity from his abandoned lover. Neither of them was at fault, but Alfred couldn't bear to touch a body that he knew to have been caressed by so many hands that were not his own, and so they had to be apart. It was that simple.
Arthur spoke, the strain in his voice still evident, "I needed to feel alive, Alfred. What would I be if I wasn't alive?"
Alfred turned to him with a knowing and pitying gaze, his once sparkling blue eyes clouded with sorrow as he slowly stepped onto the terrace outside of the window and leant against the railing. Arthur raised a hand, as if to stop him.
"You would be dead," he said, stealing one final glance of Arthur before he plummeted from the balcony and toward the sprawling city below, still holding his pilot's jacket by a tight grip, falling without regret.
At least the war is over.
A/N: Oh Christ. This was supposed to be angst, but I couldn't resist a tragic suicide at the end, could I?