[Fanfic] Hetalia_Contest "Cuban Crime of Passion"
Cuba was warm.
Something about the sun, sea and stars did something to lighten Russia’s mood. His smiles seemed more genuine, his fists less eager to justify violence.
Still, perhaps that was because he was too caught up looking to the north, reaching out towards something in the distance that none of them could see but didn’t need to look for. Russia’s hand would outstretch, then clench around something as he stood in the lonely moonlight of the beach.
Hungary took her drink into shaking hands and tried to down it in one gulp. It was the first alcoholic beverage she’d had in a decade that wasn’t vodka and proofed to down horses.
“Looks downright demonic, doesn’t he?” Someone said to her left.
Speak of the devil. “Prussia,” she greeted.
“East,” he corrected, then addressed the barkeep, “her drink’s on me.”
The bartender told him that drinks were free.
A smile twitched at Hungary’s lips. “It’s a couple hundred years too late for chivalry, don’t you think?”
“Shit, and here I thought it was never too late to learn.” He ordered beer and took a deep drag from the cigar dangling from his lips. Smoke slipped from his lips and nose, enveloped his face and lapped at his hair. He again looked at Russia, still holding his solitary requiem on the beach. For a moment, the motion seemed anxious on Prussia, like he was looking behind his back to check for ghosts.
She looked at the bandages covering her body. White gauze still gripped her in spots the dress would have left bare to the cool Caribbean night. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know her face bore the signs of a failed revolution.
Prussia shot her a smile, laced with camaraderie and centuries of alliance and betrayal.
Betrayal.
Then she remembered that she hated him.
“You think just because this is the first time we’ve seen each other in twenty years,” she hissed, “that I’ve forgiven you?”
When most people panicked, their eyes grew wide. When Prussia panicked, his eyes narrowed and a minor tic formed under the right eyelid. He got pale, looked sick. It was a lowly, cornered look that crossed Prussia’s face when he was cornered.
He managed to wash it away with a particularly hardy drink of rum.
“Nope,” he managed, but only just. “I don’t expect forgiveness. Just figured you might be scraping the bottom of the barrel. You know, since the world’s gonna end and all.”
Hungary thought of the Soviet propaganda, the posters and advertisements flowing through the bipolar world in a way to counter the gorgeous images of the other side of the wall. She thought of the terror and the now-present desire to keep her head down for fear of triggering the events that would end them all.
“The world won’t end,” she insisted. “Russia’s not that crazy.”
Prussia’s laugh snapped something inside of her; he was a downright asshole for laughing so blatantly at her security blanket.
Just like when they were kids.
A stuffed bear, a snickering snot-nosed brat, and a little white-haired boy messing with someone too big for him and tumbling into the mud made Hungary smile despite everything.
She thought of the Crusades. She thought of her life with Austria, the warmth of Italy as he would run up and show her his new drawings or sit on her lap while listening to Rhoderic’s newest instrumental piece.
And she remembered the days of ricocheting through the hillsides on her mare, sword in hand and banner in the other in the moments before armies’ clash.
How could all of that end with a few tactical missiles?
The sharp grin that spread across Prussia’s face was something she knew by habit; there was no need to look and confirm his maddening, insane teases.
“I never said Russia was crazy enough to end the world,” he sneered. “America’s the one that will drum us all to our graves.”
Teetering in her hand, Hungary’s beverage stopped halfway to her mouth. “T-that’s a political analysis I haven’t heard before.”
“It’s also true.” She could feel his breath on her ear now as he leaned over, and everything suddenly seemed hotter between his body and the layers of bandaging enveloping her, smothering her. “America won’t just die for his ideals, he’ll kill everyone to preserve the American Way of Life.” The last phrase was said with mock boisterousness that could have only been made to imitate America’s unfailing bravado.
As if retiring for the night, Prussia flung himself up from the barstool. Despite herself, Hungary turned to watch him go, searched for truth in his face before the opportunity was gone.
Pleased with the attention, he twirled on his step to face her as he walked away. “America thinks he’s chivalrous, thinks he can save us.” He pointed to Russia. “America thinks he can save that sorry bastard. And you know what? He’s gonna drag us all down with him in a Cuban crime of passion he thinks is romantic.” Another twisted grin.
Hungary licked at the dryness in her lips, the soft skin sucking, stinging lightly as her tongue traced chapping skin and a sick vileness threatened to make her wretch.
For a maddening moment, she craved freedom again, wondered what it would be like to build a raft and escape to Miami, ride it over the waves like horses over rolling fields.
“Prussia, I don’t know where you have been for the last twenty years, but personally I’d rather burn than freeze.”