All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by deviantart's SailerInfoerno12908, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them.

The Hetalia Theory speculates that all of the countries once lived as humans, under their human names, and died at their age of something. Based on each nation's characteristics and personality, the cause of death and life differs for each.

This chapter is about Roderich.

Everyone leaves.

You know it's an actual scientific fact that people have trouble sticking to people. It's why the divorce rates are so high. People don't like long-term commitments. They leave. Oh, they leave, they leave, they leave.

Everyone left him. Yes, that was the way it was, wasn't it? First it had been his parents, then the rest of his family. Then his friends. Then, after everything Roderich had been through, he left. Then Roderich left himself.

Everyone leaves in the end. Don't share yourself, and you won't miss anyone when they do leave. That was the way he has resigned to living now.

Ah, yes. That sort of realization had come crashing into his mind some time ago. Right when he came to accept how abandoned, and how lonely he was. That was when everything came 'crashing down', as people say.

Back in what could be called his glory days, he owned a successful art gallery in the heart of Vienna, had a decent circle of friends and acquaintances, and was considered by everyone, including himself, to be happy. Then, music was his passion, but ended up being nothing more than a glorified hobby. After all, bills had to be paid, and he was far too frugal to hire an assistant to help run the gallery.

But the War had taken its tribute, and now that everything else was gone, he had time to work on his music. Yes, plenty of time. Hours upon hours of working in a dark, dilapidated apartment on the outskirts of the city he once loved. The sound of old fountain pen being scratched across thick paper to make neat lines and messy clef signs rarely ceasing to fill the room.

It always smelled of mildew. It was something Roderich observed every waking moment. The small part of him that still clung onto his upper-class habits was disgusted, but the rest of his mind, a compilation of white noise and voices, managed to scream louder. So, although he was aware of what a shit-box he was living in, he no longer could spare the mentality to care.

Yes, how could he care? How could he care when he had to work!

Despite the tiny dimensions of the room, Roderich had managed to fit the last remnants of his former life into the corner. It was a glorious piano. Old and long-cherished by his family. A Steinway. His fondest memories from when he was a child were of his father sitting down, resting his fingers gently on the keys, and making the string sound in beautiful tones. When Roderich's fingers were long enough, he had sat him on his lap, and placed his spidery hands over Roderich's own, and walked him through Mendelssohn's Song Without Words.

Before the War, it had been the centerpiece of so many grand parties that half of Vienna attended. First his father filled the halls with Mozart and Handel and then, when he realized that Roderich was surpassing him, he was the one who played for hours on end.

It was somewhat ironic. Something so beautiful and dear to him- the last thing left of his family- was sitting on a floor that let in a terrible under draft underneath a leaking ceiling with cracks that spread likes spider webs by the one windowpane.

It was as out of place as some part of Roderich knew he was.

But, oh, he could only work on the best. After all, he was creating his grand masterpiece! Yes, a symphony that would premier at the Musikverein on New Year's Day. He would the celebrated composure that his mother had always dreamed of. Yes, yes. He would make her proud again, even if she wasn't here any more. Even if she had left him, he had to make her happy to have a son. He did not bring their family military honor, he was not a businessman, nor was he a lawyer. He would have to make her proud with his music.

The way Roderich wrote was different from his father. He had written strong melodies, heavy and dreary. They were beautiful to listen to, but they always shrouded the room in gray fog. One person could only listen to so much of it. It would drive you crazy if you heard too much. It was the kind of music that brought too much; it made your head fill with pressure.

Roderich's music had always been nearly the polar opposite of his father's. The pages upon pages of music strewn on the piano and on the floor were beautiful in a sort of lilting way. Roderich wrote them with a sort of sadness in mind, as his father had, whereas his father's had been heavy, deep sadness, Roderich's was far more delicate. It was the sort of sadness he had felt as he waved goodbye to the only people he had loved, as he was wretched away from that last person left.

The sort of string wrapping around his brain as he watched dark-clad troops march down the cities he had once felt comforted to walk on.

So, oh but of course it hurt to write everything. With every measure, every phrase, brought the sound in his mind to a fever-pitch that screamed in his ears and filled his thoughts with static.

His left hand glossed over keys, his fingers stumbling their way over the notes with purpose, the piano carrying the melody a moment before his torn fingernails hit the smooth ivory. His right hand was furiously scribbling over yet more parchment. All that could be heard were harsh 'scratch's as he forcefully drew stems over tiny ovals.

The violins will come in once again here. Yes, yes, good, good. The cellos…. The cellos will follow behind in the same fugue.

Crescendo, yes, louder, louder, louder. He nearly tore through the paper as his writing became heavier.

That page was full, the phrases so tiny and crammed together that it was hard to tell what part was what. Roderich pushed the sheet away from him, leaving it to slip into the growing pile at the end of the piano. It disturbed what was already precariously resting there, sending a cascade of paper to the floor, the gentle rustle of them falling to the ground breaking the sound of heavy-handed writing.

"Dammit." He muttered. "Dammit, dammit, dammit. Now it's all out of order."

He dropped his fountain pen somewhere, not paying attention as to where. He dropped to his knees in front of the pile, his hands grabbing for pieces of paper. He had failed to realize how dry his hands were. As he gathered them in his grasp, he found himself scanning over pages he had written days ago.

No, no, no. This is all wrong. Roderich suddenly felt his blood rush to his head.

All wrong. What was I thinking? This is shit.

He looked around him, dragging more pages down from the piano top. He splayed them over the floor around him, sitting in a ring of parchment. Nothing looked right all of a sudden. All of the notes seemed dissonant, the key changes seemed wrong. The fugue didn't seem intricate enough. It was all so, so wrong.

He frantically clawed at more pages. He felt panic begin to rise in his chest. How could I have thought this was a masterpiece? You're crazy, crazy. Yes, yes, you're crazy.

He hadn't meant it literally, but a part of him knew that it was true.

The panic was pounding against his ribcage, closing its filthy hands around his windpipe. He longed to scream, loudly and shrilly. It was such a sudden impulse it almost caught him off guard. His muscles seized, and his hands shook. It all felt disquieting, unsettling. His nerve endings felt as though they were on fire, burning his skin.

Just do something with your hands. Yes, yes, that would do.

He hauled himself up, using the piano as support, and unsteadily sat himself down on the bench. He extended his trembling fingers toward the keys, but could not find the control to position them correctly. Instead, he swiped the rest of his music off of the piano. Although less coordinating, he needed to do something.

Something.

Scream.

Kick.

Break glass.

He tore at a box on the ground next to the piano, ripping open the flimsy cardboard top. Something, yes, something. He would do something.

The panic now took his breathing. The foul beast took up all of the room in his lungs. It worked its way through his bloodstream, through his veins, and to his mind. What a failure, a failure, a failure, he chanted in his head. It was a mantra of sorts.

Personal mantras often tend to be true.

He continued digging through the box, throwing things to opposite ends of the room, smashing things against the wall, until he found what he was looking for. It was still in its pristine box, smooth mahogany. An 18th birthday present from his father.

Unable to practice care any more, or even care at all, he threw open the lid and grasped at the thing inside, nails scratching against velvet.

The revolver itself was beautiful. Made in the days when people actually put care into guns, instead of the mass production the damned Germans spurred. A fitting way to go, he thought. The last page of his book would end with his old upper-class flourish, albeit red-stained.

As he brought the smooth barrel to his temple, he realized that he wasn't entirely sure what had brought him to this decision. He could have easily done anything else; rip up his music, smash the clock, force his fist through the window glass. He didn't know, but his mind screamed too loudly and his blood flowed too rapidly to care.

With dissonant noise in his ears, he found a fitting end of sorts to his symphony, even if he hated the rest.

A grand 'bang!'.

"You really miss that damn piano, don't ya?" Prussia asked, standing at a distance from Austria.

He didn't respond.

"But-cha can't play with the way you are now, right?"

There was a moment of silence. "No, Prussia, I can't. What is it that you want?"

Prussia stared at the once-great empire perched in a wheelchair, still managing to maintain his hoity-toity posture. "Well, ya know. You can't reach the pedals, so…" He trailed off.

"Excellent observation."

"I could push 'em for ya if you need." Prussia paused, an awkward smile on his face. "You'd go crazy without company or your music, wouldn't ya? It's the least I could do. You know, killing two birds with one stone."

Austria raised an eyebrow.

Roderich was a deranged composer who killed himself while writing.

Well? What did you think? Hastily written, but here it is.

I apologize for not updating in a while. I have been literally swallowed in schoolwork.

Anyway, please review? (and follow me on tumblr)

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