This chapter was inspired by the song 'Firewood' by Regina Spektor and it was requested by an anonymous user on my Tumblr account. I just realised that it belongs over here too.
Firewood
There came a point when you had to let everything go. Let it all out. Let it go. Ideals become burdens and morals fester and none of it matters anyway.
The end of the world was sort of like that.
In the beginning, he held onto illusions of civilization. He pretended. He thought it might be a dream. A nightmare. And then he learnt better.
There is only so long that someone can handle hunger chewing them inside out, turning against them, before they steal a tinned can. There is only so long that someone can meet abuse with good humour before they start dishing it out themselves. Only so long that someone can trust, only so long that someone can hope, and pray, and hide.
There was only so long that he could stand the cold before he burnt the gorgeous three hundred year old piano in his foyer.
Prussia stood in front of the pyre and tried to feel some form of regret but the fire was warm and fleeting and he did not have the time. None of them did, really. Not anymore.
But he had been running on borrowed time for longer than most.
He was almost good at it.
"Gilbert…?"
He looked up as Canada pushed open the unlocked front door and knocked gently on the doorframe. He looked drained and wane and the slightest bit insane but he wore it well in patchwork sweaters and tattered jeans.
"I thought you were still overseas," Prussia hummed, surprised. He waved him in.
"We were," Canada nodded and closed the door. He did not bother to lock it either. "But everyone is dead or dying. Alfred is still looking for survivors but our sister headed to South America after Guadalajara fell and, well, I was lonely. So I came here."
"Did you miss me?" He asked with a tip of his head and a forced laugh.
"Desperately."
He stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and held out his hands. He leaned into the heat of the fire. And three hundred years of music going up in smoke was almost worth the smile on his face.
"You set your piano on fire," he noted.
Prussia shrugged.
"I did."
"It's… Warm," Canada closed his eyes and sighed contently. "I'm sorry."
He had loved that piano, it had been a gift, but there was a point when it all unravelled. When that had stopped meaning something. When it all fell apart.
He could only take what he could carry and he could only carry it so far.
National representatives had a terrible habit of living in the past or not living at all but he had been pulled kicking and screaming into the present. And the present was bleak and miserable.
But the fire was warm.
And maybe that was alright.
"Do you want to fuck?" Prussia asked after a long pause. Canada peeked at him from underneath his knotted curls and leered.
"Desperately," he repeated and Prussia wondered if that was why he had ended up in Berlin of all places. He wondered if Canada had sought him out at the end of the world. Just for a moment. Just for a little bit of warmth. Because what else did they have to hold on to?
What did they have to lose?
Canada kissed him, gently at first, and then harder. Prussia tore off his sweaters and dragged him down onto the floorboards and they made love in front of the burning piano.
And it was definitely worth it.