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: Gilbert gets into a fight and makes his choice.

A/N: Not much to say about this chapter, other than it starts off pretty angsty. Actually, this chapter is filled with angst. Enjoy, my lovelies? Notes at end.

Life Starts Now Chapter 3: Someone Who Cares

"Mina, marry me."

"What? Why would I do that?" She paused, turned her head and coughed. Gilbert watched her with intense red eyes, glancing, for a micro-second, at the readouts on the monitors above her head. He knew enough now, had spoken to the doctors and nurses and her mother, and realised that what he saw wasn't good, and hadn't been good the last fifty times he looked at it.

"Mina, please. Be happy, for me."

"With you? Gil," she shook her head, "Why are you running?"

"I'm not running," Gilbert replied automatically, but he thought, when her bruised, watery eyes narrowed, that maybe, just maybe, he'd been a little too quick.

She laughed a little, but it sounded so much like a cough, Gilbert couldn't tell the difference. But there was laughter on her face, so he smiled a little too.

"Gil, you're absolutely terrified. I can feel you shaking." She met his eyes levelly and held him there, head slightly to one side, blonde hair fanned around her, and he wondered how that was. "What are you running from? What was so bad that you had to come here?"

"Mina, please." Gilbert was not above begging; he didn't come here to talk about this. He came here to propose, and he was proposing, but she wasn't listening and this wasn't the way it was supposed to go at all. "Please, just… marry me, Mina, please."

"So you don't have to go back?"

"So I don't regret not asking you. For not giving you what I should have given you years ago."

"…You're only three months an adult," she reminded him. "You couldn't have given me what I wanted years ago." She grinned a little. "How do you know what I want?"

"Because I love you," he replied, quiet and angry. "Isn't that enough? Why is that never enough?"

"Oh, baby," she whispered, voice rough, and lifted a thin, shaking hand to touch his thin, shaking cheek. Her skin was cold against his own, the skin dry and Gilbert could feel tears welling in his eyes. He rubbed them away angrily and caught her hand before it dropped, holding it against his face. His eyes closed and he just sat there, breathing. "It is enough, it's more than enough. But, baby, it's not going to save me. You know that."

"I love you," he whispered into her palm, her skin tasting of chemicals and her monitors and drips and soft cotton hospital sheets. "I've always loved you, and I'm never going to stop loving you."

"You're sweet," she told him indulgently, and he could feel her hand become a dead weight. He lowered it and looked at her.

"Please," he repeated, because he knew full well that this was his last chance.

Her eyes slipped shut and she sighed. "Oh, alright then. I'll marry you. God, Gil, anyone would think you were about to die."

It wasn't even that funny, but Gilbert laughed anyway, and then he laughed until he cried, and then he just cried. For a good half-hour, he sat on the edge of Mina's bed, sobbing into his hands.

Are you alright?

"I'm fine," he replied, hauling himself from his bed and stomping to the door. He caught his reflection in the mirror as he passed it. He looked like a wreck; puffy, bloodshot eyes, messy hair, wet, splotchy cheeks, sallow skin, too-red, too-dry lips. He sniffed angrily and slammed the door as he left.

You're not fine. You never were fine. Not after that.

"Shut up!" he demanded, and Ludwig looked up from the table to stare in shock at his cousin. Gilbert glared back and stomped past him to get into the fridge.

"It's six in the morning," Ludwig mused idly, still watching the older man as he pulled out a can of beer. "I'm not complaining about you drinking, nothing I say will stop you. But what on earth are you doing up so early?"

Gilbert whipped round and glared at him, daring him to say anything. Ludwig, so healthily tanned and perfect and composed, the colour drained from his face even as Gilbert watched, and his eyebrows slanted.

"Oh. Oh, Gilbert, I'm sorry."

"Shut up," Gilbert spat back, downing the last of the can and throwing it expertly into the bin. "I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to look at you, I want to forget you and your perfect German breeding exist, get out of my face."

"Don't talk to your cousin like that!"

Gilbert whirled on the spot, facing the door once again, and glared daggers at his uncle. "I'll talk to my cousin however I want, Uncle. You don't understand what I've been through, you don't understand any of it, so you don't have any right to say anything."

"I understand far more than you," Lothar snapped back.

To which Gilbert laughed. "Oh, yes, because you know what it's like to lose your wife to Leukemia, because you know what it's like to lose your parents to the Stasi, because you know what it's like to be brought up believing that you're the defective son, that you're worth nothing." If asked later, Gilbert wouldn't remember saying any of it, but it was as if a floodgate had opened. Fifteen years had passed since he was taken from his family, two since he lost his wife. The wounds were, to Gilbert, still fresh, and he had been left bereft of what he needed. "Newsflash, all this? My attitude, what I've done and didn't do and will do? It's all on your head, because you hate me."

"Oh, yes, blame me. That's Romulus Vargas right there. You spend one flight with him, and suddenly he's a saint."

"He was more of a father to me on that flight than you ever were in the fifteen years I've been here!"

They were shouting at each other now, bellowing across the table between them, over Ludwig's head. The blond had been privy to these arguments before, but never before had Romulus Vargas been brought into it like this, never before had the arguments taken on this kind of tone.

"Rome indulged you, Gilbert," Lothar sniped, "Because he knew you were weak, and you needed your pathetic wants. You're as bad as your father."

"My father was better than you. Oh wait, sorry, you got him taken away by the Stasi, didn't you?"

"He was not worthy of your mother."

"And because of you, I don't have her either!"

That got him. "That… that wasn't what I intended."

Gilbert snorted with laughter, shook his head and turned away, walking to the door and through it.

A long, heavy moment passed in which Gilbert stood on the doorstep, eyes closed, fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard through his nose.

You shouldn't have lost your temper.

"I'm going to – "

But he paused, Mina's voice whispering across the underside of his jaw, her fingers warm against the back of his neck, too young to bring him to her bed, but old enough that she knew she wanted it. You wouldn't speak ill of me, would you? Then why speak ill of the dead?

Going to what? Kill me?

"Throw rock salt at you, that's what."

Stop watching television.

Gilbert sighed a laugh, his shoulders relaxing, fists unclenching, and stepped away from the house. In the two weeks that had passed since Matthew's murder, Gilbert had begun to hear his voice, but he still couldn't determine its origin. For a while, he was convinced it was in his own head, but Arthur had provided sound advice, and what he'd written on Gilbert's palm had been… educational.

Much like the old-style vampires, Ghosts seemed to need express permission to enter a place that was not their domain; the poetic four lines that Arthur had scrawled onto Gilbert's skin must have been that express permission, because Gilbert had needed to be in either the Louvre, the Academy or, when the police had finished searching it, the east end of town before Matthew would offer anything. Now though, now that he'd mumbled those dozen words in the silence of his bedroom late one night, not expecting it to work, now Matthew wouldn't leave him alone. It was as though Arthur's poem or chant or spell or whatever-the-hell-it-was had stuck Matthew to Gilbert like glue.

It was to the lake that Gilbert headed now, Matthew's steps echoing in his wake, audible only to him.

"Does it hurt?" Gilbert asked eventually, but paused, mindful of the people around him, and pulled the Bluetooth headset Arthur had advised him to buy from his pocket and slipped it into his ear. No one, he suspected, would notice that the blue light wasn't flashing.

Does what hurt?

"Don't make me say it. You have to remember what he did to you, Mattie. We've talked about it before."

What am I meant to remember?

Gilbert glanced around out of habit, if not genuine fear; he wasn't meant to know any of the details, no one was, least of all Alfred. The boy had a quick-fire temper that maybe Arthur wouldn't be able to keep under control, and a twisted hero complex. If he knew…

"When I read your file the day you, ah, answered my call, it said that there was evidence of – oh God damn it – there was evidence of rape. I just – I'm wondering – you know – if you could feel it?"

Matthew was silent for a minute, but he was still there; the air was contemplative.

No… I remember the feeling.

There wasn't much Gilbert didn't know, but he admitted little knowledge in the topic of, well, you know. He was straight – for all of ten minutes, he'd been married to the most beautiful girl in the world – so why would he know anything about gay sex, male or female? Okay, so maybe he knew a little about the latter, he'd been in Ludwig's bedroom and seen under his mattress, and that wasn't an experience he had any great desire to repeat.

There was pain, a lot of pain. But the water washed it all away. There's nothing now.

"Oh."

Yeah, exactly.

Gilbert didn't give an immediate reply to that, but instead tucked his hands into his pockets and bowed his head, walking in silence.

You walk like a soldier.

"That would be because I am."

Eh?

"My uncles hates me, remember? Suppose I remind him too much of what the scumbag did." He took a breath. "So he used to cart me off to this summer camp in Germany, run by some British general or something in one of the bases there, I don't really remember. He was a pot-bellied, balding nutjob. But I went there every summer till I was fifteen. Then I met Mina and stayed with her instead… We went to Rome one year, with her parents. Rome's great."

I always wanted to travel.

"Can't you do that now? I mean, it's not like anything's stopping you."

I'm missing pieces. I'm bound here until I have them back. But I don't –

"Remember, I know, I know. And I'm looking, Mattie, I am."

By now, he'd reached the lake, and flopped somewhat gracelessly onto a large rock by the edge. Arthur had assured him that Matthew would become a visible presence when he felt ready to; when he had his missing pieces perhaps, or when he knew enough about Gilbert to feel comfortable. As it stood, all Gilbert had to go by were a few dated photos Alfred had given the police, and the pictures accompanying the autopsy report, which were, admittedly, not very pleasant to think about.

He could hear Matthew pacing as he sat there, back and forth, back and forth, treading invisible feet across unmoved bits of bark and leaves, across twigs and grass.

Gilbert, used to this behaviour, turned his attention to the rippling surface of the water. A storm was brewing, coming in off the far side of the woods, from the Asylum way.

"Glasses," he said abruptly, and when the pacing stopped, he elaborated. "In all the photos I've seen of you, you're wearing glasses. But not in your autopsy report. Is that the missing piece? What you should have with you?"

I… don't know. No… something else.

Gilbert deflated, visibly sinking back onto the rock. He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun, and frowned.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.

The living male waved a hand idly. "Don't sweat it, kid. 'Snot your fault death's addled your brains. I just don't know what else it could be, yanno?"

I don't know.

Again, a dismissive wave of a pale, thin hand cut the air, and the lake edge fell silent.

It was, of course, such a subtle shift in the air that Gilbert felt he should be excused for not noticing. Only someone who had been looking for it would have noticed, and Gilbert wasn't expecting anything. It was only when he finally opened his eyes that he noticed the difference in his surroundings.

"Oh," he said helpfully. "Hello."

"Hello."

He laughed nervously. "Been here long?"

"Long enough."

"Right. Uh. Didn't expect to see you here."

"Neither did I."

Another nervous chuckle. "This was easier when I couldn't see you."

"Sorry. I'll go."

"No, don't," Gilbert rushed, lurching upright and making to grab the cotton of the sleeve of a hooded sweatshirt, but his hand sank into freezing air. "Stay, please," he asked, pulling his hand back, wincing at the bite of the cold. "I just… you don't have glasses."

Matthew Williams laughed. "It's not like I need them, is it? I don't 'see' the way you do. I don't 'see' much of anything really. Just colours, shapes. To me, you're the Ghost."

They eyed each other, wary and appreciative and idling all at once. Matthew was tall like his brother, thin and lanky, but not without muscle. His hair was tousled – not wet, though Gilbert couldn't understand why – and his face was long, bruised in a struggle the Ghost clearly couldn't remember. His jeans were torn, and his sweatshirt bloodied, a gaping hole in the middle, through which Gilbert would see a clean, open wound.

"They're going to bury me tomorrow," Matthew supplied, jarring Gilbert from his trance.

Tearing his eyes from the wound – not the cause of death, though it would have been, if he hadn't drowned first – Gilbert met a pair of lavender eyes that looked too bright to be a natural colour, and said, quiet and sad, "I know."

Bold beyond previous measure, Matthew stepped into his bounty and put a hand on Gilbert upturned face, barely brushing it, the cold of his aura raising Goosebumps on Gilbert's skin.

"I want you to go to my house, Gil," he murmured, and there was no breath to leave his lips. "Whilst there's no one there. Find what they're missing. Find the clue."

"I'm not a cop, Matt. And I'm not a thief! I won't break and enter."

"You'll find a way. But please, Gilbert, please. It's there, I know it. The clue."

And in that moment, Gilbert knew he was in over his head.

++End Chapter++

NOTES::

Mina Lorenz(-Beilschmidt) is my OC personification of the German state of Brandenburg, and also, from 1701, Prussia's wife until her dissolution as a state in the later 1800's. I see her as being a year older than Gilbert.

When Gilbert wonders how it is that Mina still has hair it's because a lot of people lose hair after having chemotherapy. Some people don't. Mina is one of those people, not that Gilbert realises that.

Gilbert's (platonic) relationship with Rome comes from the fact that Prussia was indulged by the Pope as a young nation, so he gets away with doing all sorts of stuff when Rome's watching. It's also a reference to how religious a nation Prussia is-was.

I have a thing about non-physical entities talking in various places on their living lover's body, here written as the underside of Gil's jaw. I'm not sure why that is, but I don't know, I just have a thing for it.

Throwing rock salt at a Ghost is a hat's off to the CW show, Supernatural. Another one is the cops in the bar. The blue tie/black suit is Castiel, the red striped shirt is Dean in the episode It's A Terrible Life. (Which actually happens in chapter 4, I keep forgetting what's in which chapter /fail)

Gilbert's near-prudishness comes from something I read a little ways back that I had to check up on from something I heard from a good friend of mine; East Germans were notorious prudes and had an abhorrence for anything even slightly erotic. I like to think Gilbert plays the lecher.

The British military bases in Germany still exist. Or did a few years back. A girl in my year of school – which, btw, is officially over and I never have to go back again fuck yes – used to live over in Germany whilst her dad was still in the army. The summer camp is – to my knowledge – made up.

Has anyone guessed what Matthew's missing piece is?