Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. If I did, PruAus would be an actual thing and they would get all of the screen time.
A/N: Sorry the first chapter is so short. I hope to make longer ones in the future. Also, during the first bit, Roderich will be OOC for the sake of the plot. He will return to his snarky self later though. Trigger warning for self harm and attempted suicide. I do not want to be responsible for anyone getting hurt, so please read with caution. If anyone ever wants to talk to me about these kinds of things, or really anything, PM me. I'm always here to listen. Now that the author's note is out of the way, I hope you enjoy the story.
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She left him. All alone, panting beside his only solace; his piano. She left him right after their raging fight filled with screaming insults and obscenities that they didn't even mean. Her voice was still ringing in his ears and through his mind. "If you don't want me to help you, then I won't! Call me when you care about me more than that damned piano!" And then she left, slamming doors in the process.
It wasn't true. He did care about her. He cared about her more than anything in the universe. He loved her so much, and that was why he could not burden her with his pathetic problems. That is why he never told her about his extreme anxiety. That was why he didn't tell her about his crippling depression that made him never want to do anything ever again. That was why they had gotten into this fight in the first place; she wanted him to share his issues and emotions with her, but he didn't want to bother her.
That was why he was left a sobbing mess on the floor, gasping for air and clutching his racing, aching chest. All he could feel was the sharp pain of abandonment and fear. Now that she was gone, the realization that his love had left him struck. His mind raced over what he was supposed to do without her, the one who took care of him whenever he needed. The young man had no one anymore and that thought terrified him to no end. His strong, stoic exterior was crumbling. If anyone were around, he would be ashamed of the way he was on his knees, with wrinkled clothes and disheveled hair. 'Looking and acting like this, I don't deserve her, anyway…' He felt his stomach turn at that thought.
Soon enough, the musician felt bile, along with everything he had eaten that morning, rise to his throat. Being unable to control himself, he just let it happen. The man lied there, covered in his own tears, mucus and vomit. He felt ashamed of how weak he was acting. But he was sick of trying. Every time he failed, he tried again and again and again, each attempt more hesitant than the last out of a growing fear of failing not only himself, but everyone he cared about.
Finally, he began to calm down. Feeling more pathetic each moment he spent lying there, he picked himself up and walked to his rather large bedroom, nearly getting lost in the process. He had decided that before he began cleaning the mess he had made downstairs, he would take a much needed shower. The young man opened his wardrobe and scanned his clothes before deciding on a simple white button down and black slacks with silky boxer briefs. He laid them out on his bed for after his shower. Entering the bathroom connected to his bedroom, he grabbed a towel and set the clothing in his arms on the sink before stripping himself and placing the dirtied clothes in the hamper in the corner of the room, carefully placing his glasses on the sink.
The man pulled open the shower curtain and turned the nozzle for hot water. He waited for the water to get warm, sticking his hand in impatiently every so often. Finding that the water was finally heated just enough to hurt, the pianist stepped in and allowed the burning water to cascade down his lithe frame. He grabbed a sponge and poured his favourite raspberry scented soap onto it. Then he scrubbed until his skin was deep red and raw, trying -and failing- to make himself feel clean again. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, the musician gave up and decided to sit. 'It couldn't hurt to lie here for a bit and try to relax. The mess downstairs can wait for a bit longer,' he reasoned with himself. Soon enough, his eyes began to droop and he could no longer resist the temptation sleep had to offer.
He awoke to freezing water running over his trembling body. Realising what had happened, he swiftly, but shakily, stood up and turned off the water before pulling back the curtain and stepping out of his shower. While the shower had been cold, once the chilled air hit him, he was unable to stop himself from shivering. The young man grasped his towel, eager to be warm again, and began drying his now sensitive skin. The towel, usually soft, felt as if it were tearing into his flesh, despite how slowly and gently he was grazing it across his cool skin. Moving his towel up to dry his straight, dark hair, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He couldn't help but stare at the many scars from past abuse littering his slim form. How badly he itched... He shook himself from his reverie and threw his towel in the hamper. He was past that. He'd stopped, and would not go back to those times. He had promised that to her…
But how could he resist? His razor was practically calling him, begging to taste his skin and blood again after six months of neglect. The idea of going back on his word hurt his conscience. However, he knew that the bite of the blade would take away all of that pain and transform it into a completely different kind; a much more bearable kind. It would make him feel better for a little while. With all of the agony he felt since that morning, he couldn't possibly hold back his desire to mutilate himself. He felt along the bottom of the medicine cabinet beside the mirror until his hand met cool metal. Peeling away the tape holding it in place, he grabbed it and sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the object occupying his thoughts. Firmly holding it, he brought it down to his thigh before remembering he had no one to hide his cuts from and instead moving it to the underside of his arm, close to his wrist. His hand trembled as he made his first slice. Beads of blood pooled where the razor had been. The blood made a lovely contrast to his pale skin, but it wasn't deep enough for his liking; he wanted it to hurt. He wanted his torturous mental battle to melt away. Soon, he lost himself in the sharp sting as he made incision after incision until he finally blacked out, falling onto the bloodied floor.
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He was playing the piano. His fingers gracefully danced along the keys, showing raw emotion with each note struck. The music echoed in his ears and through his mind, and he could feel the force he was using on the keys vibrating through his long fingers. All of his anger and frustration was being taken out on that piano. Wanting only to feel and hear the music, the man closed his eyes in a futile attempt to distract and relax himself. His girlfriend was upset with him again. The had the same argument over and over; she was sick of him hiding himself from her, and he could not bear to burden her with what he deemed as "silly emotions." Before the argument could get out of hand, he had decided to retreat to his music room and take out his frustrations on the instrument that was always there when he needed relief.
Suddenly, a loud 'bang' was heard throughout the spacious room. The pale man's hand slipped in surprise, creating an awful sounding chord. He winced at the noise. Opening his eyes, he turned to face the intruder, who was, as expected, his beloved. She marched over to where he was perched on his piano bench and yanked him up and away from his seat. The scrawny man stared at her with wide eyes. Then she began yelling.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" She began. "What gives you the right to walk away from me while we were having a serious discussion?" She looked as if she were pleading for him to listen, to pay very close attention to her words. "Why do you always have to go to that stupid instrument for help when you have me? Aren't I good enough for you?"
The man, shocked by her words, stared into her eyes and began talking softly. "Of course you are. If anything you're too good for me," he spoke sadly. "I just… I don't want to burden you with my petty problems. You are too amazing for th-"
She cut him off abruptly, enraged by what he was saying. "We've talked about this a billion times before! How can you not understand that I want to help you? I want to be the one to make you feel better. I want you to come to me with your problems. I want you to finally pick me over a simple, replaceable object. Damn it, I want you to not be so fucking sad anymore!" Her voice gradually became louder and louder. She spoke with strong movement, her arms flailing with purpose, with the intent to prove a point. With so much passion in her words, she did not notice the frightened tears in her boyfriend's eyes. She didn't see the vase on the shelf beside her when she knocked it over, creating a loud crash. She didn't see his trembling. When she finally did notice, it was because of a muffled whimper coming from her love's covered mouth.
For a moment, she felt sympathetic. But then she realised that nothing would change if she relented. So, with finality, she turned around. When she reached the door leading into the hall, she called behind her "If you don't want me to help you, then I won't! Call me when you care about me more than that damned piano!" Then she left.
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When the violet eyed man awoke, all he could see was bright white stinging his eyes.