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Purging	By : FrankenFreddie Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 929 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers nor do I own the characters. This is purely for entertainment- I make no money from it.

Chapter List
- 1-Purging
- 1
Never in our lives did we believe that this day would come.
The possibility was always existent, but it remained as just that- a possibility. A mere ‘what if’, something that was too far off to even entertain. But with the fall of that wall came the fall of our friend. We watched as he staggered across that line amidst the East Germans that flooded to safe ground like water through a dam. We watched as his legs (shaking from something we were certain wasn’t just the cold) carried him toward his brother in a line that resembled a toddler’s clumsy first steps. We watched the light in his eyes as they connected with Ludwig’s, and just like that, in the mass of shouts and running shoes on the ground, he…
Somebody catch him—SOMEBODY CATCH HIM—

When he fell he didn’t even make a sound. We weren’t even sure what had happened for a moment, but wordlessly, soundlessly, his body fell like a great tree. Maybe he did make some sort of noise. Maybe he tried to say something with his pale, cold lips or maybe as his body impacted in the dying grass there was some sort of heavy thudding, but all I know is that once his body collapsed it was almost in slow motion. People rushed passed him and there he was, knees crumbling along with whatever shreds of his empire he had left.
And then he was gone.
Even now we can’t believe it. He was dead on the scene but somehow Antonio and I still expect him to walk through that door, carrying himself in that arrogant way, maybe laughing at our somberness and claiming that this was all a clever prank.
We wish it was. I know the both of us do. As I turn my head to the right I can see Antonio across the table, his chin resting in the palm of his hand as the fingers of his other hand are curled uselessly around the handle of his untouched cup of coffee. His eyes are looking somewhere far off, somewhere that no one but me could probably see right now. The heaviness in the room crushes the both of our appetites, and I find that as I look at my own drink I see it more as a decoration than any sort of sustenance.
“Come on, Tony.” It’s as if my breaking the silence almost startles him because his eyes widen as he looks sharply up at me. His stare stays on me as I stand and take our cups, stopping in the arch leading to the kitchen to turn and look at him. I don’t have to speak. We’re past that point. All three of us were. But all the same he stands slowly and moves toward the bedroom.
In the few moments I’m alone in the kitchen I meticulously pour out the cold coffee from each designer cup to wash them both, one after the other in a slow succession that might hint that I was a compulsively clean man. The truth of the matter is that I need this time to compose myself again. I take a moment after the cups are dried to lean over the sink, my hands on the edge of the counter. Breathe in, breathe out.
What happened? What happened to him, why isn’t he moving?
The shake of my head comes naturally, quickly, before I straighten my back again and run a hand through my hair. Before I can manage to think too hard about anything in particular I slowly make my way to where I know Antonio is waiting for me, most likely hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced, looking off into that nowhere-area that we’ve discovered together while everyone else was turning a forgetful eye.
I wish I wasn’t right. But there he is, hunched over, that nowhere in his eyes. It’s only when I close the door behind me that he looks up, but the turning of his head is slow, almost tired. He must be exhausted. We both are. I take my time in unbuttoning the wrists of my button up shirt- a light blue sort of affair that Gilbert would tease me over. Too gentle looking, too feminine, all of these things that he would laugh about. Antonio’s eyes follow my fingers until they finish their tasks and I come nearer to sit up against the headboard behind him.
“Tony… It’s siesta time, isn’t it? Why don’t you rest… You look exhausted.”
But he doesn’t hear me. At least, it doesn’t seem like he does, because soon he’s moving closer but it’s not to sleep. No, instead he slowly shifts to sit himself next to me, his back against the headboard and his eyes closed.
“Siesta… I am exhausted,” he finally answers after a long pause. “But I don’t want to sleep. I don’t think I could even if I tried.”
I can understand the sentiment. Without thinking too much of it I make a small non-committal sound just to acknowledge that he had spoken. What is there to say? Nothing, absolutely nothing I could say wouldn’t tread on our toes and clench our hearts. And so that silence falls over us once again and I drape my arm behind him slowly, propped up on the pillow that support him as I rest against my own. I try not to think about how large the bed is, or about the third pillow that rests next to the two we’re using. I try not to think of anything quite yet. But that doesn’t last very long. The moment I close my eyes I feel a sweet sort of weight on my shoulder. I don’t have to look to see that Antonio has rested his head against me, and I bend the arm that’s around him to nestle my hand in his soft hair, resting my lips against the backs of my fingers.
Not now, Francis. Not now. Don’t crumble right now, it’s not the time. Not when Tony so obviously needs you.
“Tony…” My voice is soft and made softer by its muffle against my fingers and his hair. “Why don’t you call Romano…” A part of me knows that if that had any chance of making him feel better he would have already done it, but I can’t resist at least trying.
“He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t understand.” There’s a pause, a catch in Tony’s speech that makes me begin to stroke his hair slowly. I expected as much, but I still hum in understanding. He’s right. No one really would understand. Perhaps Ludwig, but even then… Even then it wasn’t quite the same. Is it selfish to believe that perhaps we are suffering more than Ludwig ever could? Though in silence and though the three of us were never connected by blood, it’s a deep rooted sort of thing that threatens to rise in the both of us, Tony and I alike.
We’re tired but there is no sleep that will come to us right now. The first of his tears bud in his eyes like tragic blooms and I feel them soak into my neck as he presses closer. He is silent, stifling every little sob that might want to make itself known. That sort of pride is frustratingly endearing in him. It’s all I can do to press my lips into his hair and mutter something soft, mindless, comforting in French against his scalp.
We both know he needs more. We both know the two of us do. There’s no way this aching can be snuffed by sweet nothings and kisses. That aching will remain until we replace it, I know it. Perhaps it’s unhealthy, the way we heal. But isn’t that always how we were? Twisted up in each other like vines, tangling and flowing and growing… together. How are Tony and I supposed to grow when we’re still tied to Gilbert?

As soon as his head tilts up I know what Tony wants, what we need. Maybe I was being presumptuous. But he doesn’t move away when I cover his lips with mine, and I can only thank God for that. I’ve become startlingly appreciative for the little things in our lives.
Our kiss slowly escalate until our mouths press against each other in a way that resemble two wounds trying to heal together. The sentiment isn’t lost on me, and before either of us could refuse our natural instinct I was on top of him, removing his clothes, my hands making as much contact with his skin as I did so as if… as if, if I stopped touching him, he would disappear. I silenced that thought in my head.
Ludwig. Ludwig, stop. Don’t cover him like that, he can’t be dead, he can’t… Mon dieu, he can’t be dead.

I regret every sour word I’ve said to him. I regret every hurtful action I’ve taken against him, no matter what sides I may have been on in the past, no matter what appearances I must keep up. But isn’t that how it typically goes? Isn’t there a saying for that? Tony’s skin feels warm under my hands and our lips only part from each other’s when I have to pull his shirt over his head.
This is the ache we settle with… this is our mourning. As we hold on to each other so tightly we try not to think of the paleness of our friend’s skin in the last moments we saw him, the weakness in his legs, his shaking arms wrapped around himself. We try not to think of what was going through his mind. I can only hope it was a relief that eclipsed any negativity in him. A relief that was worth his…
I can’t even think it. My hips find Antonio’s and he lets out a breath that carries but a wisp of sound. His eyes have dried by now and his hands have found the sides of my neck, fingers curling against my nape and the hair there before his touch shifts to my shoulderblades. He’s even more receptive than usual, and I notice in silence that he doesn’t squirm, doesn’t ruin the moment, doesn’t curse and squirm in ways that make me penetrate him at uncomfortable angles like Gilbert did. Every time Gil tried to move away and I ended up prodding him strangely as a result he would curse and accuse me of being a bad lover… Sometimes I wish that I hadn’t just chuckled in response. More and more I’m wishing that I would have been sweet to him, at least once or twice, and let him rant and rave, let him say what he wanted. Kissed him and apologized and tried to make it better for him instead of trying to prove him wrong, even if it was just to humor him.
Mourning with Antonio is undeniably pleasurable… it’s all we need right now. We’re forcing ourselves together and chasing that end in the hopes that this process will somehow purge every ounce of all the things we want to say but don’t have the heart to. As I turn my head to the side and nuzzle my lips against the side of Tony’s calf held up in the air I can hear him laugh quietly, almost to himself. The motion of my hips rutting into his slowly slightly as I turn my dark eyes back toward him, asking without really needing to.
He breaks the silence with something other than heavy breathing and mewling and moaning for the first time in… it’s been an hour already. I wonder idly how many times he’s come already, if he has at all. I wasn’t really paying very much attention. We probably wouldn’t have stopped even if he did. No, this isn’t something that could just be ended by climax. This is a boil that we need to maintain to kill all of the poison in us. To sterilize us of the heaviness in our bodies.
“You know,” he says between two short hum-like sounds caused by my hips changing speed, “About now he would have complained that we weren’t paying enough attention to him.”
For a moment I pause, but on that silence’s heels comes a short little laugh… not even a laugh, a chuckle. A little sound riddled with sadness and false humor. I lean over Antonio’s body, a hand on his hip and a hand steadying myself on the bed next to his head. His legs instinctually wrap around my waist.
He can’t be gone. Where would he go? This has to be a joke. He wouldn’t just leave us like this. He can’t handle being alone. I know he can’t, he never could, no matter how much he denied it… He’s not good at being alone. He’s not good at taking care of himself.
“…maybe we weren’t.” The words move past my lips before I even realize, before I could stop them. With a small breath Tony’s legs tighten around my waist and he reaches his hands back up to thread into my hair, pulling me down until his face could be buried in the crook of my neck. Perhaps this is all just the typical remorse one feels when losing someone… I know that I felt it when Joan passed away. I bet that Antonio felt it when he lost Romano. That sense of ‘there has to have been something I could have done but just didn’t do’.

We didn’t think he would die. Not like that. We didn’t think he would completely disappear.
There’s a haze where my vision and hearing once was. My senses are touch, taste, scent, Tony’s body, his lips, his sex, the salt of swear and tears. No words register to us- we’re beyond words. For a moment we dip right into that nowhere-area that we’ve become to familiar with and step out of our skin. He mash together in hopes that we never come apart. In hopes that perhaps this might untangle us from the void that lays in Gilbert’s wake. His side of the bed is unrumpled and unoccupied. If we were in our right minds we would notice that, looking close enough, there was still the slightest dent in Gil’s pillow where his head once lay.
We make love until we can no longer hold ourselves steady enough to move in any form of coordination. When we reach that point I curl the both of us, his back to my chest, my arms around his waist, our legs tangled underneath the crumpled and dirty sheets. As I inhale the scent of our purging I feel Antonio moving. My eyes catch his hand reaching up to take Gilbert’s untouched pillow, pausing once he has contact with it before dragging it in towards him and wrapping his arms around it, burying his nose in the cover and inhaling our friend’s lingering scent. It must be strong and sweet because in a moment Antonio is curling even more, spooning the pillow that serves as an ill substitute for our childish little king’s body as I reach to hold the both of them. The fabric feels cold under my hands, and even as it begins to warm I know it’s just my own heat being soaked in and mirrored back to me. I hold them so close, so tight, my lips against the nape of his neck.
‘Goodbye, my friend.’ It’s on both of our tongues but if either of us spoke it aloud now it might wound us beyond healing. So instead we weep into the night and into our sleep, silently though we’re both aware of each other’s tears. Though it sits on our tongues and is caged behind our teeth and lips, the thought is still with us. He is still with us. In some way, deep inside us, he is still with us. Until we, too, are called to Heaven, this will have to do.
Goodbye, my friend.
Goodbye.
- 1
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Purging