Don't Let Go
Title: Don't Let Go
Rating: G
Pairing: America/Canada
Notes: I was in the mood for some depressing story based on HetaOni, with my favourite pairing for Canada and America in my mind. Well, then, here's the product! XD Hope y'all like!~
The crimson hues of the fiery red, vital liquid traces down his black leather gloves, ripped in several places from the battle against the creature, dripping to the floor in a rhythmic cacophony, a symphonic prelude to what is lost.
Blood soaks through his brown jacket, staining… permanent, as permanent as the events that had transpired, as permanent as the daunting memories that would forever be etched in his mind would be. He holds the limp figure close to his heart, his heart which threatens to cease. He wishes it would, because then, at the very least, he would join hands with his brother in the permanent tranquility of the afterlife, the agony of which would be lifted up from his heavy heart. Splotches of vivid red mark his face and the square-rimmed mirrors of his glasses, and that of the other’s, a metaphoric connection to the two lives that had been so intertwined, always loved, always brothers. A mirrored reflection, he saw, of the similarly bloodied man in his never relinquishing embrace, whose own hair, whose own height, whose own glasses, whose own face mimicked his so drastically that it was as though he had experienced his own departure from this accursed world.
And then it comes, that fragile voice, so much more flimsy than glass, cracking from the unbearable tension forced upon his frail body.
“S-see… I told you i-it would m-mistake me for y-you…”
“Why, WHY? Did I tell you to do such a thing? You should have stayed invisible like you always do!”
“I couldn’t… couldn’t l-let you d-die… Not h-here, too… O-onii-san.”
“Canada!”
“I-I thought I a-asked you to c-call me by my h-human name… *cough*”
“DON’T! I’m the hero, not you! That was completely unnecessary! Don’t you know the hero is one who does the saving?”
“Y-you won’t leave m-me here… will you…?”
“Canada! Of course not, why would you think…?”
“I-I’m sorry… th-thank you for hearing m-my voice this l-last time…”
“CANADA!!!”
Clammy hands go limp, and the time, which has been so distorted in that god-forsaken house of horrors, abruptly stops. There is neither the sound of the ticking, merciless seconds, nor the beat of the sadistic minutes. He can no longer sense a heartbeat, but the other’s eyes remain open, unblinking - two comatose hollows of light that radiate the lifelessness within, filled with nothing more than a hollow indigo tinge… never to see again.
“W-wake up, C-canada! This isn’t funny. Your eyes are open, so wake up, WAKE UP! We need to still play catch like old times! We promise we would also have a party after this, didn’t we? You SIGNED the agreement, didn’t you?”
Silence. Drip.
Drop.
The sound of the blood gushing ever more from the other’s chest exemplifies the bleeding, mutilated heart within the male’s own body, a cruel comparison by fate. It seems almost laughable, the crimson waterfall that sprouts from three uneven slashes that scraped his skin so deep that the innards would have been visible, had it not been for the bloodstained orange tie that left it unexposed. A shaking glove, a perfect blend of red and black, lifts up and creases itself against the blood flow, in an attempt to staunch the very life that was literally bleeding out of the other.
His hand shook. It shook once. It shook twice. It shook. It shook. It shook, with the agony of a brother’s pain, his own features distorting into that of unmistakeable… rage.
‘DAMN IT. This bleeding, IT WON’T STOP. SHIT. DAMN IT ALL!!!
Contorted into an unacquainted expression, his face draws the others away, as all bows in solemn silence for the comrade lost, for the comrade they had always overlooked in times of crises. They did not - could not - experience the same pain, for their grief is heavily overshadowed by the blatant anger that the usually happy-go-lucky man now exudes.
Invisible, they had called him. Transparent. Non-existent.
How could they? How could… he?
There is a shuffling, clearly audible in the stillness of the room in which no one dared disturb. Then comes a clear-cut voice, no longer the usual joyous hyperactive tenor of the male, but a brooding, darkened rendition. Words come that no one needs repetition of.
“He’s not invisible.”
Gazes of concerned men meet his, apologetic expressions on their faces as their guilt of the accusation burdens their hearts heavily - but yet, no one would dare break the ominous silence caused by the life forcefully taken away by some heinous, unnatural monster that sought the blood of the innocents. He tears his lashing fury away from the rest, one hand sliding ever so gently - a gentleness that could not have been perceived as possible for the gluttonous male - on the square of his brother’s back, as though in an attempt to sit him upright, as though this adjustment in position would somehow bring that shy, adorable spring back into the other’s empty, muted, almost teasing eyes, eyes that still radiated a sense of childish naivety. Luminescent, youthful blue tinges that matched his brother’s blink, staring intensely at the other’s equally blue - but yet, in a dissimilar hue, a purple almost - orbs, a brittle smile on his face - a smile that threatens collapse upon the drop of a needle, a smile that feigns joy and rejects acceptance.
“Hey, Canada, you’ll come over later when we’re out of here and we’re going to play catch, just like old times, huh? Better not let me kick your butt again this time!”
…
“… Right, Cana-… Mattie? Speak up, speak up, don’t be shy, or else we won’t hear you again! Don’t be… shy…”
At that moment, it is as though a wave of ice cold temperature washes over his insides, overflowing within him, finding their outlet through the crystal eyes. Mixing and dancing with his body’s salt, the transparent tears drop rhythmically on his brother’s face. He clenches his bloodied fisted glove, biting down on his lip with such brute force that it threatens to burst and bleed… bleed… bleed… The blood would have not been unwelcome, the blood that would have - and should have - been one with the lost comrade, the highly strong bonds of brothers snapped like a twig in that one shallow instant, and the memories replay in his head like a filmstrip.
‘It should have been me.’
Cry. An unearthly howl of pain, anguish and sorrow bursts into the tense atmosphere of which he needed no manual to read. A heart-pounding cry echoes, such that even the spirits dwelling in the house had to cower from, followed by wracking sobs. It releases all such gut-wrenching, heartbreaking sorrow for the life that had been lost so fruitlessly. And it comes again… but it arrives with more ferocity than the time before, now accompanied by a fresh new wave of tears as he pulls the limp corpse closer in a tight embrace - as though with a lover, unwilling to ever let go again, unwilling to part. Mouth howls in sorrow with the regrettable thoughts that would now never be shared and voiced, smiles that would never be shown in the dead of the night. Raucous moans escape from his cherry-red lips that have been dirtied with the blood of his own family, of the thing, and of himself, as tears drip steadily on. May he be frozen to the death here, he thinks, as punishment for letting his brother sacrifice his life for the supposed hero.
He was no hero.
“Let me hear your voice once more... Mattie. ”
He mourns in quiet lamentation.
Rating: G
Pairing: America/Canada
Notes: I was in the mood for some depressing story based on HetaOni, with my favourite pairing for Canada and America in my mind. Well, then, here's the product! XD Hope y'all like!~
The crimson hues of the fiery red, vital liquid traces down his black leather gloves, ripped in several places from the battle against the creature, dripping to the floor in a rhythmic cacophony, a symphonic prelude to what is lost.
Blood soaks through his brown jacket, staining… permanent, as permanent as the events that had transpired, as permanent as the daunting memories that would forever be etched in his mind would be. He holds the limp figure close to his heart, his heart which threatens to cease. He wishes it would, because then, at the very least, he would join hands with his brother in the permanent tranquility of the afterlife, the agony of which would be lifted up from his heavy heart. Splotches of vivid red mark his face and the square-rimmed mirrors of his glasses, and that of the other’s, a metaphoric connection to the two lives that had been so intertwined, always loved, always brothers. A mirrored reflection, he saw, of the similarly bloodied man in his never relinquishing embrace, whose own hair, whose own height, whose own glasses, whose own face mimicked his so drastically that it was as though he had experienced his own departure from this accursed world.
And then it comes, that fragile voice, so much more flimsy than glass, cracking from the unbearable tension forced upon his frail body.
“S-see… I told you i-it would m-mistake me for y-you…”
“Why, WHY? Did I tell you to do such a thing? You should have stayed invisible like you always do!”
“I couldn’t… couldn’t l-let you d-die… Not h-here, too… O-onii-san.”
“Canada!”
“I-I thought I a-asked you to c-call me by my h-human name… *cough*”
“DON’T! I’m the hero, not you! That was completely unnecessary! Don’t you know the hero is one who does the saving?”
“Y-you won’t leave m-me here… will you…?”
“Canada! Of course not, why would you think…?”
“I-I’m sorry… th-thank you for hearing m-my voice this l-last time…”
“CANADA!!!”
Clammy hands go limp, and the time, which has been so distorted in that god-forsaken house of horrors, abruptly stops. There is neither the sound of the ticking, merciless seconds, nor the beat of the sadistic minutes. He can no longer sense a heartbeat, but the other’s eyes remain open, unblinking - two comatose hollows of light that radiate the lifelessness within, filled with nothing more than a hollow indigo tinge… never to see again.
“W-wake up, C-canada! This isn’t funny. Your eyes are open, so wake up, WAKE UP! We need to still play catch like old times! We promise we would also have a party after this, didn’t we? You SIGNED the agreement, didn’t you?”
Silence. Drip.
Drop.
The sound of the blood gushing ever more from the other’s chest exemplifies the bleeding, mutilated heart within the male’s own body, a cruel comparison by fate. It seems almost laughable, the crimson waterfall that sprouts from three uneven slashes that scraped his skin so deep that the innards would have been visible, had it not been for the bloodstained orange tie that left it unexposed. A shaking glove, a perfect blend of red and black, lifts up and creases itself against the blood flow, in an attempt to staunch the very life that was literally bleeding out of the other.
His hand shook. It shook once. It shook twice. It shook. It shook. It shook, with the agony of a brother’s pain, his own features distorting into that of unmistakeable… rage.
‘DAMN IT. This bleeding, IT WON’T STOP. SHIT. DAMN IT ALL!!!
Contorted into an unacquainted expression, his face draws the others away, as all bows in solemn silence for the comrade lost, for the comrade they had always overlooked in times of crises. They did not - could not - experience the same pain, for their grief is heavily overshadowed by the blatant anger that the usually happy-go-lucky man now exudes.
Invisible, they had called him. Transparent. Non-existent.
How could they? How could… he?
There is a shuffling, clearly audible in the stillness of the room in which no one dared disturb. Then comes a clear-cut voice, no longer the usual joyous hyperactive tenor of the male, but a brooding, darkened rendition. Words come that no one needs repetition of.
“He’s not invisible.”
Gazes of concerned men meet his, apologetic expressions on their faces as their guilt of the accusation burdens their hearts heavily - but yet, no one would dare break the ominous silence caused by the life forcefully taken away by some heinous, unnatural monster that sought the blood of the innocents. He tears his lashing fury away from the rest, one hand sliding ever so gently - a gentleness that could not have been perceived as possible for the gluttonous male - on the square of his brother’s back, as though in an attempt to sit him upright, as though this adjustment in position would somehow bring that shy, adorable spring back into the other’s empty, muted, almost teasing eyes, eyes that still radiated a sense of childish naivety. Luminescent, youthful blue tinges that matched his brother’s blink, staring intensely at the other’s equally blue - but yet, in a dissimilar hue, a purple almost - orbs, a brittle smile on his face - a smile that threatens collapse upon the drop of a needle, a smile that feigns joy and rejects acceptance.
“Hey, Canada, you’ll come over later when we’re out of here and we’re going to play catch, just like old times, huh? Better not let me kick your butt again this time!”
…
“… Right, Cana-… Mattie? Speak up, speak up, don’t be shy, or else we won’t hear you again! Don’t be… shy…”
At that moment, it is as though a wave of ice cold temperature washes over his insides, overflowing within him, finding their outlet through the crystal eyes. Mixing and dancing with his body’s salt, the transparent tears drop rhythmically on his brother’s face. He clenches his bloodied fisted glove, biting down on his lip with such brute force that it threatens to burst and bleed… bleed… bleed… The blood would have not been unwelcome, the blood that would have - and should have - been one with the lost comrade, the highly strong bonds of brothers snapped like a twig in that one shallow instant, and the memories replay in his head like a filmstrip.
‘It should have been me.’
Cry. An unearthly howl of pain, anguish and sorrow bursts into the tense atmosphere of which he needed no manual to read. A heart-pounding cry echoes, such that even the spirits dwelling in the house had to cower from, followed by wracking sobs. It releases all such gut-wrenching, heartbreaking sorrow for the life that had been lost so fruitlessly. And it comes again… but it arrives with more ferocity than the time before, now accompanied by a fresh new wave of tears as he pulls the limp corpse closer in a tight embrace - as though with a lover, unwilling to ever let go again, unwilling to part. Mouth howls in sorrow with the regrettable thoughts that would now never be shared and voiced, smiles that would never be shown in the dead of the night. Raucous moans escape from his cherry-red lips that have been dirtied with the blood of his own family, of the thing, and of himself, as tears drip steadily on. May he be frozen to the death here, he thinks, as punishment for letting his brother sacrifice his life for the supposed hero.
He was no hero.
“Let me hear your voice once more... Mattie. ”
He mourns in quiet lamentation.