Lament (Hetalia oneshot)

Lament (Hetalia oneshot)

I buried my face in his jacket, trying to hide from the cold, misty air. Fog hung like a cloak over everything, a light drizzle of gray rain seeping slowly through my coat.
He didn’t seem to mind, instead putting one arm over my shoulders. I felt warmer, half-covered in the heavy red fabric of Arthur’s thick winter jacket.
For some reason, it was always on mornings like this that we would have some sort of errand to run in London. I entertained thoughts of a sunny day for a while and wished I could just catch all the rain in a bucket and hide it in my closet, so maybe my big brother wouldn’t look so bored. Maybe he liked the sun, but there was never any so he was depressed?
I barely came up to his waist, but if I stretched I could reach up and tug on his sleeve.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, looking down. His green eyes were distant, like he was thinking of something else.
“Are you sad, Arthur?” I pulled on his jacket again. He thought a moment before answering.
“I’m sad because it’s always so dreary and dark in England, but I’m happy because you’re here.” He smiled, ruffling my damp blond hair. I felt a swell of pride because I looked kind of like my brother. Or at least, that’s what I thought back then.
“I’ll chase the rain away!” I boasted. He laughed quietly and squeezed my shoulder.
“I know you will,” he replied. “Let’s go home.”
We walked back down the street, Arthur holding the big black umbrella and me half-blanketed in the folds of his warm red coat. I closed my eyes and smiled. The foggy morning didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.

Now, I’m sixteen, or at least I look like it. Arthur is standing across from me, panting heavily. Both of us are bruised all over from the wounds our opposing countries have suffered. I can still feel my muscles throbbing from scuffles months back.
Somehow, I hold the rifle steady and so does he.
“I’m not your brother anymore, Arthur.” My voice is trembling slightly, just like the rest of me. “This is what I’m obligated to do; don’t keep trying to stop me!” I’m not worried about whether the wetness blurring my vision is rain like from that misty London morning or tears.
My best friend and once-brother is wearing the same coat as he had so many years ago, yet now it is even redder, soaked in blood and rain. The same secret grief hidden for so long in his brilliant green eyes is showing clearly now, reawakened by my words.
I feel a pang of regret, but don’t say anything. This is what I need… he’ll just have to deal with it.
We stare at each other for a long time, both pleading for the simplicity of eight years ago. Eight years. Emerald and sapphire in a world of dull gray. A Redcoat and a Yankee, just breathing and watching and… crying? Are we crying? I can’t tell.
Arthur drops his gun and walks away, and this time I’m not curled in the warm red coat with an umbrella over head.
England has never been farther.