Gosh, I am so sorry for the long period of inactivity. School is relentless.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warnings: Language, blood, violence, death
Happy reading~
Chapter One
Nevermore
"Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them."
—George Eliot
Heated, expectant eyes watched the man slumped forward in his chair on the black and white snowy screen. The brunette wouldn't make eye contact or so much as look up as he was brought in. The group of men in their sharp dark suits and black ties had all made their own judgments of the wearied suspect—some harsh, some rather doubtful—and questioned if one so despondent, one so crestfallen, could have really murdered the love of his life in cold blood. It was painful to watch him enter the interrogation room with his head hung low, dragging his feet like they were two-ton cinderblocks and adorned in filthy clothes stained with dried blood.
"I'm going to ask you some very simple and direct questions," the voice of the other man on the screen came through the aged, crackling speaker, "and I highly suggest that you answer them in the same fashion. It'll make this a hell of a lot easier then we can all go home. Well, I will be anyway. Now, let's begin. What is your name?"
"Antonio. Antonio Carriedo."
"And just how old are you, Mr. Carriedo?"
The man paused, the answer playing at his lips, "…27."
The officer scribbled something down on the large notepad resting beside him on the table. Antonio stared at his lap—at his wrists bound by handcuffs—unseeing but hearing everything that went on around him: the scratching of pen against paper, the officer (annoyingly) chewing on the stick of gum he had popped into his mouth only moments ago, the frantic beating of his own heart. The man in uniform seated before him was Officer Summers—young, determined, sardonic, and all-around aggravating in Antonio's opinion. With hair painted in flames and abysmal blue eyes, he was too arrogant for being just a novice in his field and the way he stared at the handcuffed Spaniard with a Machiavellian smirk made the latter cringe.
"Did you kill Mr. Vargas?"
Antonio gave a low snarl, scorning at the repetitive, accusing question, "No."
"Then where were you the night he was murdered?"
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, refraining the cold silence from settling on their shoulders as the man in question kept quiet and unmoving, his expression blank—a statue. He breathed calmly and gently, fighting for composure… for the emotional stability he desperately coveted. He was so close to breaking again. He was so close to jumping off that cliff. And this time he might not have the strength to pull himself back over the edge.
"Mr. Carriedo?"
Said man looked up finally; hopelessness, exhaustion, and lament darkened the bright gems, giving a crystal clear window into his shattered heart. The officer repeated his previous question, scratching at his light facial stubble and running a hand through his fiery hair.
"I already told your pals out there what I was doing," Antonio rasped and cleared his throat to rid of its neglect and overuse. "I was out having drinks with my friends. They know I didn't do it."
"It's not what you know, it's what you can actually prove in court," Officer Summers chuckled.
"They will vouch for me."
"Sorry buddy, but we're going to need more than a hall pass and a note from mom. So: if you were out having drinks with your friends, as you claim, then why was your car parked in the driveway of your shared home the night he died?"
Antonio's eyes narrowed at the ignorant question, "I did not murder him."
"And how convenient it was that you two had an argument just before you left."
"I did not murder him," Antonio's brow twitched in annoyance, raising his voice and adding more conviction in his words, seeping them in poison.
"Was he having an affair or were you just so greedy that you killed him for his inheritance—?"
"I DID NOT MURDER HIM!" Antonio slammed his fists on the table with a loud bang. The metal cuffs sliced easily into his skin, dripping blood onto the table, but neither man seemed to notice.
The young officer didn't so much as bat an eye but instead only watched as his suspect trembled and lowered his head in grief, taking in shuddering breaths, sniffling once. He let Antonio have his moment of "acting," as he worded it so graciously the previous day to the other investigators at the crime scene when they found the Spaniard in hysterics whilst cradling his lover's ragdoll corpse.
"…home?" came a strangled plea.
"What was that?" Officer Summers leaned forward a bit, lending his ear.
"…can I go home?" Antonio refused to pay any heed to the warm and sticky liquid pooling underneath his wrists and instead stared at his lap—at the dried substance that was once fresh a day ago. The color he so hated… the color red. "If you have nothing holding me accountable for the murder… no evidence… then you have no reason to keep me here."
"What home, Carriedo? What home can you possibly go back to? Your boyfriend is dead—by your own hands, mind you," Summers scooted out of his chair and circled around the table, keeping his glacial eyes on Antonio. "Your parents? Dead. No siblings. No other relatives. I haven't even seen your so-called friends show up yet. You're all alone. Welcome to America."
"You have no evidence saying that I committed murder."
"We know you did it."
"Well it's not what you know, it's what you can prove in court, right?" Antonio said rather coolly.
Summers stood there, a fire smoldering in his usually frigid stare. Folder in hand, the officer threw it in front of Antonio, the pictures spilling out. Time for a different approach.
"Look at these pictures, Carriedo! Look at what you did to him!"
Antonio shook his head, sealing his eyes shut. He didn't need to see that again!
Not again…!
No…
Not again…
The blood.
There was so… much… blood!
He couldn't think of it, especially not at a time like this. He lacked the desire to put back the fallen pieces.
Another man entered the room at that moment with a razor sharp smile and haughty coffee eyes. Antonio trailed his gaze to this man dressed in a black suit identical to the other men that had gathered to watch his interrogation as if it was some kind of spectator sport. With salt-and-pepper hair sleeked neatly back, the authoritative man turned his supercilious grin to the other officer who questioned him.
"I'm afraid he's correct, Mr. Summers. We have no reason to keep him here without evidence of him committing the murder and until we do, he's free to go."
"But Chief, we have firm reason to believe—"
The elder raised his hand, effectively muting the novice, "He has no reason to be detained and you no longer have the privilege of handling this case. I'm handing it off to someone else with more experience. Come now, Mr. Carriedo. Let's get those wrists of yours bandaged up, hm?"
Antonio was led out of the room with no input from the exasperating redheaded officer. The handcuffs were removed from his still bleeding wrists and gauze was delicately wrapped around them, easily becoming soiled with blood.
"I am sincerely sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Carriedo. You are free to go. We'll be contacting you when we receive new information regarding your case," the elderly man said, offering his razor smile.
Antonio left the room without so much as a word to the others who watched him with condescending eyes.
"Toni!" a streak of platinum blonde blurred by and brought the Spaniard into a breathtaking hug—a hug that was not returned. "I'm so glad you're out of there, man! It's been hours!"
"Gilbert, there is no need to shout," Francis, brushing back an annoying strand of his golden hair, reprimanded.
"I don't care, Frenchie! He's my best friend, too! You need to stop hanging around that British asshole! He's beginning to rub off on you! And you don't even like him!" the Prussian stuck out his tongue and released Antonio from his hold when he finally realized that his friend had no intention to hug him back.
"We were so worried about you, Antoine. How are you holding up?" Francis spoke softly despite his French accent hindering his pronunciation a bit, and gently placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, concern rippling in his oceanic eyes.
Antonio stared at the Frenchman remotely, registering the question fully but ultimately decided it was best left unanswered. Instead, he replied shakily, "I just want to go home. Please… Just take me home."
He took a deep, unnecessary breath—nearly choking—and resurfaced from the dark waters that held him so delicately. The shadows dripped off of him and light filled his vision, blinding him but bringing no fear. He coughed and sputtered, clutching at his chest, forcing a rancid but coppery taste from his mouth. The light dimmed in intensity, and a grey filter washed over his vision, allowing him to study his immediate surroundings.
He was… home?
The bouquet of flowers gazed at him wearily—longingly, almost— as if waiting for him to return home again. Its fallen petals surrounded the vase, shriveled up and dying. He felt for the gaping wound marring his chest… nothing. It was clean. The rip in his shirt and the dry blood were the only remaining indications of his attack… of his murder. He was murdered, right? He died, didn't he? On this floor and in this room? The man shuddered to his feet and out of the large dark stain on the floor. He leaned against the wall, oddly weak.
What happened?
Everything was in such disarray.
Lovino Vargas paused a moment, allowing his swimming, greying vision to settle, and sighed heavily. He needed to pull himself together!
'Come on, Lovino! Get a grip! Quit being pathetic!' he reprimanded himself in his desolate thoughts. He grabbed at his chest again, unsurprised by the revelation of a silent heart.
He was dead.
No longer living.
But why was he here? In his house?
Trapped in limbo, perhaps?
"So this is what I get, huh? No Heaven or Hell, just purgatory?" Lovino's evanescent voice vibrated in his ghostly plane. "Great. Just fucking peachy."
No color.
No life.
Just the monochromatic hues of death were there to welcome him—the black and the white and the grey. The dull. The bland. The neutral. Lovino sighed. So much for that whole "Your-departed-family-will-be-waiting-to-greet-you -at-Heaven's –gates-like-it's-some-kind-of-airport" vision people offered. It'd really be Heaven if his family was ever that happy to see his face again. Hobbling over to the vase of neglected flowers, he brushed their colorless petals as they passed through his fingers, imagining their leather-like texture.
A bright blue… the brightest blue he had ever seen… if memory served. Such a beautiful blue. Like the clear waters of the ocean on a summer day. Sunlight washed in the room, ultimately catching Lovino's attention. Warmth. Its tingling sensation transferred from his blurring memory throughout his lifeless spirit, nothing but a distant echo. The Italian held up his hand in the light, reveling in the astonishing fact that he appeared… solid. The way the light refracted around his hand and his soul cast a fading shadow. He was stuck in this sad and lonely place. Not even the birds singing their chorus or the wind tangoing with the leaves in random steps could fully permeate such loneliness.
The front door creaked open and Lovino ducked around the corner, watching a man with bright hair (from what he could tell by his dulled vision) and twisted, dark eyes enter his home. The Italian's own forest orbs narrowed. He already didn't like this new character. The energy such a man gave off was… repulsive. He was walking around like he owned the place or something! Lovino continued scrutinizing the man, now realizing he was an officer by the uniform underneath his beige trench coat (despite it being almost 80 degrees outside), who explored the living room with mild interest, humming a small tune. Lovino moved to follow the man, silent as a falling leaf—as a passing shadow that danced just in the periphery that one might mistake the movement as an overactive imagination. As the vile investigator's eyes tried to locate the source of the sudden movement before he finally shrugged and turned his attention to the object in his hands.
"Hmm… let's see what we've got here," the man flicked open a manila folder with Lovino's name printed neatly on the tab.
Glancing over the officer's shoulder, Lovino's eyes widened upon seeing the photos of his bloodied corpse, limp and ashen against the wall. That was… that was him! That was his body he was staring at! The sticky notes accompanying the disturbing photographs were the obvious details of the crime scene jotted down: defensive wounds, knife injuries to the arms, legs, and abdomen along with the fatal blow to the heart and concussion from a blunt object. However, in bold red print, it read:
"MISSING MURDER WEAPON—KILLER STILL AT LARGE."
A chill rushed down the living man's spine, causing the hairs on the back of his to stand on end, and he looked around with an utterly puzzled expression.
"You know better than to be here, Summers," the sound of a thick, British accent from the doorway made both men jump in surprise and caused the Italian spirit to distance himself from the two men as his presence was already having an adverse effect on the temperature of the room.
Summers, Lovino now learned, sighed heavily in frustration, closing the folder, "How many times have a told you to stay out of my business, Kirkland? You're always trying to outdo me. It's the middle of the day. Aren't you missing your afternoon tea?"
"How can I try to surpass you when it's already been done?" came the scornful remark.
Arthur Kirkland.
Blonde hair and green eyes, if Lovino remembered correctly, with a personality that could freeze even the warmest and kindest of hearts in a case of thick ice. Lovino asked himself what Arthur Kirkland could possibly be doing at his house but the Italian had to remember that the blonde-haired, green-eyed Englishman he detested was an investigator himself—and a damn good one at that (but Lovino would never admit that aloud).
"You've no business being here, Summers. You Americans can be so nosy sometimes, prying into matters that do not concern them," Arthur entered the empty home, already taking note of the tense ambiance, with sarcasm practically dripping onto the floor from his words as he spoke in round, pear-shaped tones.
"Speak for yourself, Kirkland. This is my case and I'm going to prove that Spaniard guilty if it's the last thing I do," Summers sneered, returning his gaze back to the folder.
Lovino growled upon hearing Antonio's affiliation with his murder. After all this time, Antonio, his lover, his life, killed him? How dare he?!
"I'd hate to burst your bubble—actually, I'd love to—but I'm going to let you down easy. This case has been handed to me personally by your chief, in case it slipped your mind, and let's not forget that you need evidence to support your claim. Which you don't have," Arthur smirked, knowing he had struck a nerve in the novice officer.
When Summers didn't respond, Arthur continued, "And, unlike you, I plan to solve this in a much more… humane and not to mention quicker manner than what you had in mind." He then snatched the folder from the novice's hands artless with a sardonic smile, immediately tucking it underneath his arm.
The young officer sent a glare that would've murdered the Englishman instantly if looks could kill.
Arthur chuckled, thoroughly amused, "Come now, don't look at me like that, Trent. You botched this up on your own, you know. And that's putting it nicely."
Lovino watched the scene unfold with piquing interest, daring to inch closer. Arthur's eyes shifted around the room, taking note of the change in atmosphere pricking at his skin. The Englishman hummed in thought, carefully strolling about the area, his eyes narrowed while Trent Summers stood there absolutely puzzled.
"What in the hell are you doing?"
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Now get going. My son is waiting for me at home," Arthur nodded towards the door.
Summers growled in agitation and stormed out of the home, leaving Arthur in perpetual silence. The Englishman was quiet for a moment, listening for the faintest whisper or feeling the slightest drop in temperature.
"All right," Arthur finally said aloud, "I know you're here and for what reason is your own business."
Lovino tilted his head to the side a bit.
Was Arthur… looking right at him?
"You really ought to work on concealing yourself better. If you get too careless, even someone without my ability will be able to see you… Mr. Vargas."
And with that, Arthur smiled knowingly.
Lovino's eyes widened.
He was! Arthur was staring right at him! Not through him but at him—as if he was truly there!
It was then that the Englishman left, leaving the thunderstruck, abandoned Italian soul behind.
