Candaslighter here. Last chapter of the day XD This was actually the first chapter I wrote. I was gonna make it a one shot but I thought hey what the hell. So I hope you enjoy.
Gilbert groaned as he sat in the trench, the muck coating his trousers and even reaching his shirt. It was a far cry from the previous wars where he'd sat on an awesome war horse, Prussian blue uniform standing out like a beacon of just how awesome he was. This, on the other hand, was hell. The uniform was rough, lacking any grandeur, just simple green. It was so unawesome.
Francis was on the other side of the war, being torn apart by Ludwig. It was insane. That was it, the world had gone mad for this to be happening again. Last time he'd thought it was the worst, he'd thought, like the rest of the god-damned world, that it would be the war to end all wars. That was a laughable thought now. The interim had fucking sucked too, money almost worthless, Ludwig in pain from the god-damn debts and the state of his people, himself fading away into history. He could barely call himself a country anymore. He was just a part of Germany, just a god damn state that would be forgotten.
It scared him to think his last memories could be in this trench.
What was even doing here? He should be back in Germany, planning, trying to save his-no Ludwig's people. Yet he here was, in a trench, waiting for the signal so he could tell the poor saps with him to run at the other side. He hadn't seen another country in what felt like years. Where was Arthur, Francis even Ivan? Tucked away, not seeing this hell. They felt it. He felt it. But they couldn't see it.
It made him sick.
The whistle blew.
He stood.
It blew again.
He shouted.
It blew one more time.
He pulled himself over the top.
Matthew was tired of this war, tired of telling Al he was okay when all he wanted to do was cry, was tired of having to go back to Europe and see his men blown to bits, drown in their own blood, die.
But he couldn't give up. Francis was relying on him, weak and in so much pain it hurt Matthew to look. Arthur was relying on him, those thick brows almost constantly furrowed, expecting another bomb any second. He had to tell Alfie he was fine. There was no way in hell Matthew was letting his brother anywhere near this place.
He was waiting to give the order for his men to go over the top. He was dreading it. He was wondering whose family he would write to tonight.
The blond gritted his teeth before calling out the command.
He pulled himself over the top.
It was madness. Utter madness. Men fell everywhere, red flowers blooming on chests, arms, faces. Shouts and shells filled the air. The ground was soft, soldiers being swallowed by the mud as they died. Both sides were being ripped apart.
It wasn't the worst thing Matthew had seen that week. It wasn't even the worst battle he'd seen in the past week. It was a near everyday occurrence now, the cycle of war. It scared him sometimes, how accustomed he had become to it.
A bullet flying past his ear bought him back to reality. A scream died in the throat of the man behind him, signalling the bullet had found a target. He grimaced.
War was hell.
But Matthew figured he'd rather fight through hell than let it spread.
Gil saw him first. Saw a flash of blond and violet and knew who was there. He knew that Matthew, his tiny Birdie was in the war. Again. He'd seen what the kid could do, what he'd done to West but, dear God, it hurt to see him here. He was meant to be tiny. He was meant to be safe. He wasn't meant to be here.
But then again, who was?
It wasn't like the boy didn't know what a monster Gil was but he didn't want to have to shoot him. To shoot the tiny boy who'd once run to him, quietly asking to pet his bird. He still remembered 1776. He was sure Francis did to.
His name bought him back to reality.
And then so did a punch to the face.
He hadn't realised he'd stopped. He hadn't seen Matthew running at him.
He'd felt the punch though. And felt that he deserved it.
The bastard staggered, hand going to his jaw as he looked dazedly into Matthew's eyes. He had the gall to stop and his men go on ahead. He had the fucking gall to let his men die for him when he had started this fucking war, him and his brother. Matthew couldn't believe it. (He could. He just didn't want to).
"Fuck you Prussia."
It was cold on his tongue as he spat the words at the older man, glaring. A shell fell nearby but he ignored it, though the impact sent vibrations running through his core.
"Ni-nice to see you to Birdie," the albino muttered, stull rubbing his face.
"Don't call me that."
"I can call you whatever the hell I like."
"I guess I won't call you Prussia anymore then."
Gil had to stop himself wincing at the jab. But once the pain had passed, the anger took over. So he did what was expected of him.
He shot.
The bullet went straight through Matthew's chest, those beautiful violet eyes opening just a little bit more before tightening in pain as air tried to get to his lungs. It felt as if it were his chest with the bullet in, his lungs failing, because of the sight of Matthew, fucking Birdie, beginning to drown in his own blood.
"Gil," he tried to speak.
Matthew's knees gave way, hitting the mud and sinking in, his face following a few moments later. Gilbert took a step back, and then another and he turned and ran. Matthew's voice a constantly replaying as he did so.
Matthew's body was dragged back to the trench by his fellow soldiers after the battle, he was told. The only thing he remembered was Prussia's face after the shot. France had held him and cried, England swearing to gut 'that bloody git'. Both father figures were weak and worn themselves, so much so it hurt him, far more than the tightly bound hole in his chest. Alfred didn't know he was here, none of them wanted him involved in this mess. None of them had much choice in the matter though.
Matthew soon fell asleep again, Arthur soon stormed out of the room, swearing, again. And Francis just stared at his son, remembering those days when he thought he could trust Gilbert with the most precious thing in his world.