{ Fic } 41. Tragedy
Another drabble from the 64 prompt list
Characters: Gilbert Weillschmidt (Prussia)
Rating: ...T? Maybe? Probably.
Warnings: Mention of death, (kinda the theme, actually) Prussia's mouth,
Summary: Prussia learns of Fritz's death, mass freak out/breakdown occurs.
Prussia (Gilbert Weillschmidt) & Hetalia copyright to Hidekaz Himaruya
Frederick II of Prussia DOESN'T BELONG TO ME.
***
41. Tragedy
He promised.
He fucking promised he'd always he around.
Gilbert holed himself away uncharacteristically once he was told. Gott knows if he had a gun he would have shot the messenger when he was told. Again, and again. Again.. And he couldn't fathom stopping there. The body of the poor man burdened with relaying the message would be mutilated; Against the wishes of the one he was (mentally) honoring in this twisted way.
He would have chastised the Prussian in the quiet voice; with the quiet anger, the complete disapproval, the calm melody of his voice, and the stupid, unending reassurance and forgiveness. The everything the albino had grown so accustomed to.
Gone. Gone without him every saying goodbye. Thank you. Sorry.
..And I fucking love you.
Gilbert had never experienced the kind of rage and complete loss of his everything before.
It was so easy to recall the hundreds of times he was teasingly called young, unexperienced, childish, rash because of naiveté. He remembered all of his quickly snapped retorts, that probably dug deeper into one of the only people he'd rather claw into himself then hurt.
And there wasn't a hell of a lot of people like that for him.
The Prussian laughed loudly, over the edge in this unknown level of hysterics, clawed at the wood of the furniture nearest to him, unaware of why small dots of liquid stained the fabric shades darker in some places. Didn't know or care why his eyes burned and his vision blurred the more time pasted.
He ripped and tore, shredded and screamed, and he knew it still wasn't going to be enough. (Never enough.) Even when his chest started to heave and his attempts at vocalizing were swallowed by sobs and the desperate need for air. (He hadn't done enough.)
"F-Fritz.. Fritz, Fritz, Fritz.." He muttered the name for his leader over and over; As if he could breath life back into the man that way.
And what a fucking pussy way to die! In a fucking armchair! Gilbert wanted to yell, shake and provoke that damn corpse back into life, but he couldn't. Didn't-- Couldn't bring himself to do more than shake and stay plastered to the floor.
('It's a tragedy, really..')
He could hear the voices ringing from outside the heavy wood door. He wanted to laugh, if it didn't hurt so damn much. Wanted to cry, but that was so fucking degrading.. Definitely wanted to scream at the damned people thinking they understood anything or could emphasize with what this meant to him.
A tragedy.
If this was a fucking tragedy--
..Why the hell did it only seem like the first act?
***
2/64
Characters: Gilbert Weillschmidt (Prussia)
Rating: ...T? Maybe? Probably.
Warnings: Mention of death, (kinda the theme, actually) Prussia's mouth,
Summary: Prussia learns of Fritz's death, mass freak out/breakdown occurs.
Prussia (Gilbert Weillschmidt) & Hetalia copyright to Hidekaz Himaruya
Frederick II of Prussia DOESN'T BELONG TO ME.
***
41. Tragedy
He promised.
He fucking promised he'd always he around.
Gilbert holed himself away uncharacteristically once he was told. Gott knows if he had a gun he would have shot the messenger when he was told. Again, and again. Again.. And he couldn't fathom stopping there. The body of the poor man burdened with relaying the message would be mutilated; Against the wishes of the one he was (mentally) honoring in this twisted way.
He would have chastised the Prussian in the quiet voice; with the quiet anger, the complete disapproval, the calm melody of his voice, and the stupid, unending reassurance and forgiveness. The everything the albino had grown so accustomed to.
Gone. Gone without him every saying goodbye. Thank you. Sorry.
..And I fucking love you.
Gilbert had never experienced the kind of rage and complete loss of his everything before.
It was so easy to recall the hundreds of times he was teasingly called young, unexperienced, childish, rash because of naiveté. He remembered all of his quickly snapped retorts, that probably dug deeper into one of the only people he'd rather claw into himself then hurt.
And there wasn't a hell of a lot of people like that for him.
The Prussian laughed loudly, over the edge in this unknown level of hysterics, clawed at the wood of the furniture nearest to him, unaware of why small dots of liquid stained the fabric shades darker in some places. Didn't know or care why his eyes burned and his vision blurred the more time pasted.
He ripped and tore, shredded and screamed, and he knew it still wasn't going to be enough. (Never enough.) Even when his chest started to heave and his attempts at vocalizing were swallowed by sobs and the desperate need for air. (He hadn't done enough.)
"F-Fritz.. Fritz, Fritz, Fritz.." He muttered the name for his leader over and over; As if he could breath life back into the man that way.
And what a fucking pussy way to die! In a fucking armchair! Gilbert wanted to yell, shake and provoke that damn corpse back into life, but he couldn't. Didn't-- Couldn't bring himself to do more than shake and stay plastered to the floor.
('It's a tragedy, really..')
He could hear the voices ringing from outside the heavy wood door. He wanted to laugh, if it didn't hurt so damn much. Wanted to cry, but that was so fucking degrading.. Definitely wanted to scream at the damned people thinking they understood anything or could emphasize with what this meant to him.
A tragedy.
If this was a fucking tragedy--
..Why the hell did it only seem like the first act?
***
2/64