Saudade


PART SIX


Jett may have slowly learned to sleep through the bombs, but even he is not immune to the strangling feeling of smoke and dust taking up residence in one's lungs.

He wakes, coughing violently, nearly choking in his desperation to get the offending substances out of his system, but it's no use—what comes out is quickly replaced.

His cell is filling with settling dust and smoke, and even as he looks around with wide, watering eyes, still coughing up a lung, there's a distant whistle and then a massive, thundering explosion, so loud it might as well be right above his head—

—more dust falls, and through the roar and the sudden ringing in his ears he hears a clatter as what sounds like part of the ceiling crumbles in the corner.

The bombs have finally reached them, he realizes with sudden, cold clarity.

It is right above his head.

The base is collapsing.

He is about to die.


In all honesty, there have been many times in his life Jett has been certain he was about to die.

The first he remembers is when he wandered from his mother when he was barely a toddler—

—and found himself face to face with a wild, hungry coyote.

He didn't understand what it meant to die, then—or to lose someone, or to hurt in a way that wasn't physical.

All he knew was that later, when his mother had swept him close and there was a strange dampness in his hair—

—he knew that the strange ache in his heart was something he never wanted to feel again.


He felt it again, many years later, watching his mother slowly fade away and being absolutely helpless to stop it.

She had been his rock and his heart for centuries, the only constant to keep him anchored as he grew and lived and lived—

—yet his people grew and lived and died.

She had always been there even when he wasn't there for her.

He is there to hold her hand and watch her take her last breath.

She tells him to live, and he swears that he will—

—although some part of him, the part that aches almost more than he can bear, wonders if it's a promise worth keeping.


World War One.

Of course, back then, it's not World War One, because no one is thinking that after so much death, so much destruction, so much loss, that there could ever be another—no, then it's the Great War, though he really can't see what's so great about it.

There's mud, and there's rain, and there's death, and there's pain, and there's really not much else to be said.

It's his chance to prove himself, and he tries so, so had, he really does, but he is not a battle-hardened nation.

He's not yet used to having to pick himself up and go on, no matter what—though he does learn quickly.

The one time he can't pick the pieces up fast enough is the one time he finds himself flat on his back in the hospital, fevered and injured and bleeding and rambling in languages long forgotten by most, and in his rare moments of consciousness, certain he will die.

He doesn't.

Any innocence left does, though.


World War Two.

He's such a fool to believe that anything would be different than last time. The planes are coming, the bombs are dropping, and he is standing there, useless to do anything to stop it—

—he races towards the oil tanks as though he has a prayer.

All it does is put him in the way when everyone's prayers go up in smoke and flames and a deafening explosion.

For a few moments he can hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing—there is only roaring and the faint sting of tears in his dirt battered eyes, the sensation of overwhelming pressure and heat—

—and then the taste of blood, and the feeling of fire spreading across his face like magma through cracks in the earth—

Shrapnel has driven into the bridge of his nose, cracked it open, laid him bare.

He cannot move save to collapse, to fall, to break.

He cannot tell the difference between his blood and his tears, between the pain in his body and the pain in his heart.

Lying here, surrounded by smoke and ash and flame, Jett is certain he might die.

If he must, he prays it will be quick.


Rejection.

It is a cold, ruthless blade that makes quick work of ripping his heart out and dashing it against the ground.

He can see the shock, the denial, the refusal plain as day in Mathias's eyes.

You shouldn't have told him, you shouldn't have told him, you idiot you shouldn't have said a word—how can you expect him to understand when he doesn't even remember—

But he did, and this is the price he pays.

He tells him it's alright, that it's understandable, that it's his own fault for saying anything when he clearly shouldn't have.

He doesn't lie. But that doesn't mean his heart isn't breaking just a little—or a lot—underneath it all.

Jett never thought he'd let anyone hold so much of his heart.

And he never thought having it handed back to him like that could hurt—

—so—

—very—

—much.

Don't you know? There are more ways to die than to just—

die.

A part of you can die inside.

But you keep smiling.


So many times, Jett has been certain of his impending death, in one way or another.

But this time…is different, in that this time, a part of him almost…welcomes it.

After all, there's not much left for him to live for.

A broken world, a broken country, a broken heart—he thinks, if not for this damned near-immortality, he might already be gone.

Going would be nice.

Apparently, though, Mathias doesn't feel the same, because at that moment the door to Jett's cell bangs open and reveals said nation in a whirl of smoke and dust, coughing and gesturing wildly.

"Out!" he yells, and then doubles over as another set of coughs wracks his lungs. Jett can only stare, certain he is hallucinating.

Or at least, he is until Mathias looks up, glares at him, stalks across the room, and drags him bodily by the arm from the cell. "I said out, ya idiot, do ya have a death wish—"

Jett finally snaps out of his almost-stupor and snatches his arm back, moving on his own. "No, just a little shocked that you're botherin' to rescue a prisoner."

—nonetheless, they are both running, now, Jett not thinking twice about trusting Mathias to lead him out of this hellhole—

Jett puts the flinch down to the bomb that exploded right above them at that moment.

"Please do suspend your disbelief for a moment, then, so I can get us both out of here alive—"

"Like you actually give a damn—"

Jett doesn't know where this bitterness is coming from. Probably mostly from the sentiments of his own country, but likely some of it from being trapped in a cell for God knows how many weeks with nothing but his own thoughts for company.

He does know that suddenly he is slamming up against Mathias's back as the other stops, turns, steps closer with some unidentifiable anger in his eyes.

"What are you—we have to keep—"

"Do ya think I'm heartless, Kirkland, is that it? Just because our countries—"

Jett never finds out just what about their countries. His idiotic antagonism and Mathias's rise to it have cost them precious time.

An explosion sounds, the loudest yet, so close it might as well be happening around them

and it is

He can hear the roar of flames and the whistle of smoke and beneath it all, a faint, rising rumble, the terrible noise of stone breaking beneath insurmountable stress—

it's caving in—

Jett flings his arms over his head and throws himself to the ground, noticing out of the corner of his eye Mathias vanishing in a shower of dust and stone before his vision is obscured and there is nothing—

darkness—

roaring—

pain—

pressure—

screaming?—

I suppose I'm going after all.

and it all—

goes—

to—

black.


Original comment on this chapter: ...I regret nothing at all.

Still don't.

A lot of the events in this are based on the headcanon of the roleplayers these interpretations of Mathias and Jett were based on, but I think the only one that really needs a quick explanation is the WWII scene: in the Australia roleplayer's headcanon, the bandage on Aussie's nose covers a scar caused by flying shrapnel during the bombing of Darwin in February 1942. More background on that can be found in the Wikipedia article "Military History of Australia During World War II."

Any questions, feel free to ask!