Title: Life Starts Now

Fandom: Axis Powers: Hetalia

Author: Me, I should hope.

Genre: fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

Pairing: PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

Rating: T

Warnings: Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

Chapter Summary: Life sucks and Gilbert takes up a hobby.

A/N: OH MY GOD. I AM ALIVE. Updated as of 16/June/11. Notes at end.

Chapter 1: World So Cold

"'Ere, I hear Arthur's been arrested again."

"Yes. Francis as well."

"You're jokin', right?"

"I do not joke."

"Yeah, I know." Gilbert Beilschmidt yawned loudly and stretched, cracking his laced fingers above his head and arching his back. "Is the town on lock-down 'cause of it? I wanted to go out to the lake and get away for a bit."

"The far eastern edge of town is, by the woods. Matthew Williams was murdered last night."

"Matt? As in; Alfred's twin, Matthew Williams?"

Ludwig nodded idly, immersed in his coffee and the morning's newspaper, not giving his cousin a verbal answer. It gave Gilbert a few spare moments to study him. They were vastly different, but Gilbert supposed that was par for the course. He's been without parents for the greater part of his life, his uncle a poor substitute, and it showed. Where Gilbert was all vapid grins, Ludwig was all serious frowns. Where Gilbert had sass, Ludwig had respect. Where Gilbert was cool, Ludwig was school. The elder of the cousins wore the blacks and reds and other rock-music colours to suit his colouring and his eyes, let it fall into the tatty disrepair of rebels the world over, pierced his ears and left his colourless hair a mess. The younger, in stark contrast, was always impeccable, a paragon of German militarism; fitted shirts and pressed trousers, muted colours to blend into the crowd, neat hair and the towering presence that may or may not have had something to do with the two inches of height he had on Gilbert.

They didn't know who Lukas was going to take after yet; in looks, he had Ludwig's classic Germanic colouring, and his brother's social ineptitude, but his brashness and war-mongering defiance were all Gilbert's.

A moment passed between them then, a dead stillness that made Gilbert's skin crawl and wonder what was going through his cousin's head; whether he remembered what had happened to Alise and to Mina and whether he was remembering his own Accident on the Autobahn when Gilbert ran away.

But all he said was; "I think it's going to be bright today. Make sure you wear long sleeves if you've any clean."

And the moment passed, making Gilbert snort with indignant laughter and flounce off to his bedroom, throwing a sarcastic, "Yes, mother," over his shoulder as he went.

He managed to fish a black hooded zip-through sweatshirt out of the bottom of his wardrobe that was at least half-way clean – it smelt of beer, and had some grass-stains on the elbows, but he'd worn worse – and it seemed fitting. The day might have been bright, reflecting off of windows and vehicles and the streets, but the mood was sombre, quiet, dark. He felt almost guilty, shouldering his bag and sauntering through those sunlit boulevards, for not knowing all that much about Matthew Williams, because it seemed, to him at least, that everybody else did.

Unfortunately, his main sources of information – Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefrois – were currently locked up, so there was no way he was learning anything anytime soon. He could ask Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, he supposed, but the Spaniard was as vapid as they came, and Feliciano Vargas wasn't much better, though his attention was always on some project or another and he had no time for anything that wasn't Ludwig.

There was always Peter, Arthur's younger brother, if that bloody Swede would let him anywhere near him. He could always bribe the kid with sweets in exchange for information, but that could – and probably would – be classed as kiddy-snatching, and Gilbert had enough problems without that too.

"Balls," he sighed, flopping onto a bench and sighing again, elbow on knees and chin in hand. "Might as well just google him."

"Oi, what's your problem?"

Gilbert glanced across to find Peter Kirkland sat on the bench next to him, his little legs swinging and eyes forwards, watching their tiny little world pass them by. Gauging the kid and what his reaction might be, Gilbert pondered the merits of asking him what he knew about the dead kid, and then decided to ask anyway.

"What do you know about Matthew Williams?"

"Alfred's bro?" He shrugged. "Not a lot. You should ask Liet."

Gilbert snorted. "Like he'd talk to me. A wedgie and a few names a lifetime ago and he still thinks I want to flush his head down the toilet." He thought about it, and then added, "Well, I do, but that's not the point."

Peter chuckled, but it was a short, abortive little laugh and soon he was frowning again. "I can't think of no one else. If you talked to the cops real nice, like, they might let you near Al. Not a lot of people knew Matt all that well, so they're all snotty and weepy about it and shit."

"Language," Gilbert chided idly, because Arthur always punched him if he didn't. "You're not."

"I'm twelve."

"Touché."

"You could try Katie," Peter mused after a little while's thought. "She'd burst into tears the moment you brought Matt up, like, but she might be able to tell you something about him. They were pretty close, best I get."

Gilbert frowned. "Ekaterina, really? How the hell did they meet?"

"Matt used to play hockey with Ivan. It's only Alfred he doesn't like."

Involuntarily, his blood ran cold at the name and his heart shuddered in his chest. A quick shake and a hard blink were enough to get his brain back into focus, but the chill in him remained, and would probably remain for the rest of the day. "Alright, thanks, Pete."

"Do you know – uh – that is – " Peter frowned at his knees, and Gilbert eyed him.

"What is it?"

"D'you know when they'll be done searching the house? I left a lot of stuff there that I need, but they won't let me in."

"What're you asking me for, kid? I don't know." But he found himself thinking it through as logically as he could when the boy's face crumpled. "Twenty-four hours, probably. That's how long they can hold Artie for before they have to charge him. Then they'll come back and do another sweep if they find anything that suggests Arthur did it. But I doubt they will. Artie might be a punk, but he wouldn't kill anyone. Not Freddie's bro, at any rate."

It was complete guesswork, but it did its job of placating Peter, who hopped off the bench, bid his farewells, and disappeared.

Why was he – Gilbert – so interested in this kid? He'd been vaguely aware of Matthew's existence for a few years, since Romulus Vargas hauled him back to Saint Hetalia by his ear when he ignored his uncle's warnings, but he'd never met him. He had a vague image of styled blond waves – shorter than Francis's but not too dissimilar – and blue eyes, glasses and the Canadian maple leaf red, a polar bear and a sad little smile. He remembered, caught up in his music and his photography and his car, wondering what could make such a pretty little thing so sad, what could make him disappear like that.

But there was no reason to have such a desperation to find out who a dead guy was. He didn't know him, and people he'd vaguely known of – people who'd been close to people he'd been close to – had died before, and he'd never batted an eyelid. What was it about Matthew that drew him in? Was it because of that smile, or because he was Alfred's twin brother, or because there was only eighteen months between them, if that? Was it because something had come along and torn his world down again, destroyed everything he'd fought to save?

He'd been murdered, Ludwig said. Someone had killed him, and Gilbert had a vague – although likely accurate – idea of who that was.

The eastern end of town was closed off; that meant Francis' club and the lake. He could, of course, go into the Academy and do something resembling work, but the atmosphere would be worse in there, cloying and dragging him back into the world of the depressed and the scared. He'd lived in that world before, and had been pulled back into it twice, despite his best attempts to flee.

There would be no sanctuary for him at the moment; home was not an option, and his favourite hiding spots were out of reach for the moment. He could always go to the Leaning Tower of Pizza, which was always alright, so long as Romano Vargas wasn't on shift, and Antonio always gave him a free coffee, and they had wi-fi. He could hide in the corner and do some research into this kid.

It was the best plan he'd had thus far, so it was to the centre of town he headed, to the little Mediterranean café he liked to call a home away from home.

The atmosphere was dull in here, too, but at least it was still cheery. Feliciano Vargas was sat on the counter, sketching in a notebook that Gilbert was at least ninety-per-cent certain was meant to be used for his Academy work. Honey gold eyes glanced up when the door jingled, and Gilbert found himself with an armful of tiny Italian energy.

"Did you hear about Matthew?" Feliciano asked Gilbert's ribs, and Gilbert could only guess what he'd asked.

"I think everyone's heard about it, kid," Gilbert replied, peeling the smaller boy away from him. And then, because there wasn't any harm in it, he asked, "Did you know him?"

"Not very well," he admitted, hopping back up onto the counter and swinging over it. He made a fantastic coffee and talked as he rattled the machine and the cups and the spoons. "But he helped me out once, when I was struggling to get my art work up the stairs. He was nice and friendly, but I didn't see him again." He frowned and pushed the coffee at Gilbert.

"Thanks," the paler man acknowledged, retreating the back corner table.

He booted up his netbook, sipped at the coffee and revelling in the tang of cinnamon and honey in there, and tapped his password in. The internet booted itself up automatically, and Gilbert headed for the Academy's website, searching for anything with Matthew's name in it.

By the time he'd finished his coffee, he'd learnt absolutely nothing about him. There was no mention of him on any newsletter, in any announcement, even his grades weren't up on the showing-off-page.

"Who are you?" Gilbert whispered to the picture that came with the search; a tall boy with rectangular glasses in a baggy hooded sweatshirt with the Canadian flag stitched on one side, his blond hair a barely-straightened mess, one curl defiantly looping away from its neighbours, a long, strongly-jawed face, fierce, quiet lavender eyes, and that sad little smile on his lips. "Who are you really?"

Later that night, when Gilbert was curled up in bed watching the TV and not caring the least that Lothar had shouted at him to turn it off twice already – he'd turned it down when Ludwig asked though, because he said please – the police issued a report following the autopsy of Matthew William's body.

"His body was found in the lake by an unknown source late last night, and initial autopsy reveals the cause of death to be asphyxiation. The police are currently conducting an investigation into the murder, and ask anyone with any information to step forwards, and remind the public that the murderer may still be out there, so please, don't go anywhere alone."

But Gilbert was already jamming on his shoes and snagging his wallet, keys and camera, leaving the room and the house in a flurry of silent movement, his television still left on in the background.

In the morning, he conceded defeat and trekked back home, not having met said murderer, or even found out anything interesting from the drunk night-lifers that had littered the streets at closing time.

Help me, please.

"What?" he asked, pausing at the entrance of a back-alley – a quick way to get back home, not that anyone would care if he was there or not – and staring down it.

I'm missing something. But I don't know what. Can you help me find it?

"Who's there?"

Please, can you help me? I've lost it.

"Lost what? Are you alright?"

Okay, it was official; Gilbert was freaked out. There was absolutely nobody down the alley, but there was definitely a voice there, talking to him. A young male voice, lilting with an accent, but there was static in there too, as though they were talking over the phone, and the reception was bad. He liked to think he recognised the voice, but he'd be damned if he could place it.

I don't know. I don't remember. I'm scared, really scared. Help me.

"I would, kid, if I knew how. What's your name?"

I don't remember. I think I'm dead.

Something struck him then, a moment of realisation that nearly stole his breath.

"Matthew? Matt Williams?"

I think so. Yes. That's my name. Matthew. There's something here. Something important. But I can't see it. Can you help me? Please, I need help.

"'Course," Gilbert promised. "Anything I can do, you name it."

It crossed his mind that maybe, just a little, he was insane, but as he walked deeper into the alley, following the echo of Matthew's voice that was highly likely to be just in his own mind – but really, was he insane if he knew that he'd lost it? Didn't that make him sane? – he thought that maybe, just maybe, Arthur was onto something.

There's something missing. From me. My head. I don't know. I can't remember. I feel empty. Help me find it. Please.

"Pushy, aren't you?" Gilbert grinned, but he pulled out his phone and turned it into a torch, flashing it down the alley, even as the shadows shortened.

There it was.

"Is that it?"

Yes. That's it. My blood. Thank you. There's something else. If I remember, can I ask you to find it for me?

"Yes, do you know who I am?"

Yes. Gilbert. I know you. You ran away when you were eighteen. You went back to Germany. You got married, but she was dying, and Romulus Vargas had to bring you back here. You didn't want to come back to this place though. You hate it here. You ran away because you were accused of killing Alise Laurinaitis. You still have nightmares about it. It's why you drink, even though the doctors say it could kill you. You want to die.

"You're creeping me out, kid."

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm scared. I'm so scared. I don't understand.

"Yeah? Neither do I. I need to call the police, Matt. They need to know about this. They need to know that there's blood here, that they might be able to find who killed you."

I know what killed me. I can't remember, but I know.

"Well, try and remember for me," Gilbert told the voice, dialling the hotline for the investigation and waiting to be patched through. "I'll try and find out."

There's something missing, Gilbert. Something that was mine but isn't with me, but it should be. Find it for me, please. Help me. I need help.

"I know, Matt, I know. Hi, yeah, uh, I think I've found something. Yeah, there's blood in this back alley by The Louvre. I think it might be Matthew Williams'. Gilbert Beilschmidt. Yes, I'll wait here."

Thank you.

"No problem, I think."

It was as he was left alone to wait for the police, that he realised he'd just spoken to a dead kid. Somebody who'd just been murdered. That in itself wasn't all that odd – he still talked to Mina, as if she was listening to his whining – but Matthew'd just talked back. He'd promised to find whatever it was that Matthew had lost, as if it would help him move on to have that lost item back.

He got the feeling of cold fingers on the back of his neck, even as he stared at the blood pooled at the bottom of the alley, splashed up the wall, fixated at a point roughly in line with Gilbert's stomach, and realised he'd just talked to a Ghost.

++End Chapter++

NOTES::

After spending so long away from the fandom, getting back into it's been really hard. I also haven't seen any of the animations since like, just after we got introduced to Russia's sisters. I'm sure I saw some later than that, but I can't remember them. If there have been any more like, startling developments that completely contradict what I'm writing, let me know. After my exams, I might hunt the clips down and go on a mass watching spree. Maybe. Writing the characters is also really hard, but I'm going off what I interpret their personalities as, and, hopefully, giving them a bit more depth. I don't know, what do you think?

I kind of imagine Gilbert's accent being kind of like Lena Meyer-Landrut's. Just 'cause I write him like a Cockney, and she sounds like a German Lily Allen. To me anyway. Sorry Germans.

There will be an explanation as to why Gilbert is Ludwig's cousin, not brother, don't get your knickers in a twist. Everything will get its explanation, so don't ask. Because I won't tell you. Unless, you know, I've already told you, in which case, I have a bad memory.

Gilbert's uncle is obviously Germania. I know that technically Lothar (pronounce Low-tar) is a later German name, but the Old Germanic form is Chlodochar. I came to the conclusion you might think I was sneezing and made it a bit later. Maybe he did too?

Lukas is HRE. I shamelessly stole the name from a PrUK fic I read ages ago by Elwon on LJ, called the Hooligan and Delinquent series.

I genuinely don't see Feliciano as being ditzy. I see him as being preoccupied. Anybody who knows the slightest about Leonardo da Vinci – or is enough of an Assassin's Creed fan for that matter – will see exactly where I got that idea from.

Remember guys, vague story is vague FOR A REASON.