Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia
Strongwolf4: Thank you very much! I was going for badass, since Hetalia really depicts Hungary as a maid servant.
CherryPetals0510: Thanks for favoriting and liking this! I am also a Naruto fan, and I see that you like Sakura the best!
The absolute newest chapter of A Day in Austria's House and this includes India x Pakistan fluff! Enjoy!
Pakistan
Pakistan sighed as she helped Bangladesh clean up.
"Thank you so much!" Bangladesh kept babbling, bangles on her hands jangling. Pakistan looked at Bangladesh, whose sari was caught on the foot of a chair. Bangladesh had on a sunny yellow sari, but one of those long flowy saris that got in the way of everything.
Looking at her own hands, Pakistan supposed she wasn't much better, with her long blue dress and her blue head cover. Right now she felt extremely happy; she was reflecting the feeling of one of her women, who was getting married.
"Listen," she said to Bangladesh. "It's been two hours! I must get back to hotel!"
"No problem, Pakistan!" smiled Bangladesh cheerily. "I will clean up rest on my own!"
Pakistan sighed in relief and went outside, into her car, which she started up and used to drive into the hotel.
She parked it and walked into the lobby, where a disheveled looking Austria was sitting, surrounded by both Germany and Prussia, who were explaining something to him. Pakistan passed England and France arguing about something, and she also passed Italy and Romano yelling at each other...more Romano was yelling at Italy, China and Japan were civilly discussing politics and America was trying to get Alaska to talk to him, but Alaska just turned around in her parka, her dark brown hair in a loose braid, ignoring America.
Pakistan walked into the elevator, turned around to press the button, and felt her heart stop.
India.
The mathematical nation was gazing at her softly, hazel eyes full of sadness.
Pakistan knew what was happening. She felt it too.
They both felt the pain of their people dying, fighting against each other, giving both nations constant wounds.
The saddest thing was that Pakistan's people were fighting India's people.
And the two used to be married.
"I still hate you," whispered Pakistan to India, gazing at her former lover.
"I hate you too," answered India, biting his lip. He pushed past her, head down, and pressed 29.
"Press 18 please," Pakistan asked quietly. India complied.
When the elevator doors opened for Pakistan, she went out immediately, uncomfortable with the burning gaze of India on her back.
Pakistan and India had used to be joined...married, if you say. But India was too big and many of Pakistan's people wanted freedom. Thus starting a war, which Pakistan won. But even now, divorced, there are the Pakistani-Indian border skirmishes all the time, which gave each of them constant wounds.
Pakistan gasped in pain as crimson stained the forearm of her dress. India must have killed more of her people. She ran to the room she had, and bandaged up the wound. Hopefully India wasn't hurt too bad...no. She would not feel worried for that murderer...who had been her lover once...no! She would not!
India
The World Meeting was over. Thank Vishnu. India couldn't take anymore of Germany's yelling about being quiet while being the loudest in the room in the process, France and England's constant fighting, America being rude and obnoxious, Italy being an idiot, and the constant wounds Pakistan's people gave him. They really messed up his thinking.
India went out of Bangladesh's house, noticing Pakistan staying over to help her clean up. India would have offered too, but this was Pakistan. His former lover...who he still had strong feelings for...no he did not! He wiped the treacherous thoughts out of his head and kept Pakistan in his mind as a killer.
At the hotel, India's phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and read the text that had been sent.
The Awesome Prussia is calling you to the hotel basement to show you things
India sighed. He really could use a break, but maybe Prussia would be his break.
Be right there
As India walked to the elevator, he saw England and France arguing about something or the other. Immediately the anger he felt whenever he saw England tightened in his chest and he instinctively glanced down at the back of his hands, hands that were riddled with old, old scars, from when the British ruled India.
He glanced back at them. England, with the bushy eyebrows, the constant scowl, the green eyes, the blonde hair, in his normal green military outfit. France with his flamboyant clothing, and both of their eyes were blazing with anger.
Love at its finest.
Stiffly, India turned to the elevator and walked in. The B button stood for Basement. India pressed it.
When he arrived, he wrinkled his nose. The entire floor was dusty, and there were white sheets all over the furniture. Prussia wasn't there yet, so India decided to wait. He sat down on one of the sheeted armchairs, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
For over two hours, he waited.
And Prussia didn't show up.
Finally, at last after two and a half hours, Prussia showed up.
"Where have you been?" India exploded angrily. "I've been waiting for ages!"
"Ah," winked Prussia. "You still got that English accent from England, I see, from when you were his colony!"
"I am leaving now," said India, the anger in his chest returning as Prussia had called him England's 'colony'. India walked into the elevator as the buttons dinged, and Prussia wailed behind him.
"I didn't mean it! Stay! There was a pretty woman and I had to give her some of the Awesome Prussia and-" The elevator doors shut.
"Ah well," sighed Prussia. "The Awesome Prussia doesn't need anyone else to do his dancing act!"
India stood in the elevator, and pressed L. Then he cursed himself. He wanted to go to his hotel room, not to the Lobby. But the doors opened and a very pretty woman walked in. She turned around, and both their eyes widened.
"Pakistan..." India breathed so softly she couldn't hear.
"I still hate you," whispered Pakistan, answering the unspoken question in his eyes.
"I hate you too," said India quietly, feeling his heart break, as it was not true. He bit his lip, then chastised himself for doing that. He put his head down so he wouldn't have to meet Pakistan's eyes, and headed over to the buttons. 28.
"Press 18, please," asked Pakistan softly. India complied.
He watched her blue dress trail on the floor as she walked out, and watched the doors close. He couldn't help thinking about why Pakistan hated him. He shouldn't have tried to keep her married to him. Then they might still be friends.
A sting in his side made him look down, and see the crimson stain his brown work outfit. Pakistani-Indian border skirmishes.
India closed his eyes, wondering if the pain could wash out everything else he was feeling. No. It intensified his sadness.
He limped into his room, and bandaged up the wound.
In The Dining Restaurant
India was sitting at his respective table, wondering who had been assigned with him. Germany was not a very good tables assigner, so maybe he'd be paired with Mongolia or South Africa or Morocco.
He was reading a book from America, Time of the Fireflies by Kimberley G. Little, and was enjoying it, though it was a little sad. Then the delicate patter of feet approaching the table made him perk up towards the sound.
"Is this Table Six?" a feminine voice asked.
"Yes," answered India.
The woman sat down. India looked up from his book. He gasped, as did the woman.
"Pakistan?"
"India?"
India smiled shakily.
An Hour Later
"Pass the salt please?" Pakistan said politely. India sighed and passed her the salt.
"Look, we have to make at least a bit of conversation!" he said. "We have just been being polite and in silence, it's unbearable!"
"You want conversation?" Pakistan breathed, leaning forward, her eyes angry. "I just wanted to be independent from you, but you wanted to hold on! Do you know how much that hurt me? How many scars your people are still giving me?"
India opened his mouth to reply, but Pakistan beat him to it. "Your people are hurting mine during border skirmishes! I have headaches from morning to night! Do you know how that feels?"
India pushed his sleeve back and laid his arm on the table. Pakistan noticed it and continued. "I get that you're hurting as well, but I'm hurting so much more than you! You see-"
She broke off as she stared at his arm. Criss-crossed with old and new scars, not a single part of his skin remained smooth and clear from scars.
"Oh..." her voice was soft. "I'm...I didn't know. I'm sorry."
"England," India's voice was hard. "His rule over me. He killed my people, and when the peaceful protests began, that killed even more. Then your people, fighting for freedom, added to these scars. He broke me, Pakistan. You and England. You broke me."
"I'm so sorry," Pakistan said hesitantly. "I didn't realize-"
"But even broken things can be fixed," India said, cutting her off. "I'm healing."
Pakistan leaned close to gaze in his eyes, when India leaned forward as well.
Their lips joined in a sweet, sad kiss, something that expressed pain and sorrows, but healing as well.
They pulled apart at the same time.
"I'm healing, and you are too," murmured India.
He smiled at her, and for the first time, Pakistan smiled back.
Awww, the two learning to love again! How cute!
