here's to the heartbreakers




Their story is one he likes to tell and retell over and over, if only because it's saddening for him to do so.

Listen: she used to love him.


She has thin lips and hands far too big for her small wrists, and there is a chip in one of her teeth. Her hair is quite lackluster and her eyelashes are quite long. But to him, she's beautiful.

He tells her so one night under the stars, and he thinks she's going to throw something snappy back with that smart sophisticated manner she has, but instead she gazes up at him with those pretty green eyes he's grown to love.

Thank you, she whispers, because they're both young and unaware of the consequences of immortality.

She smiles, and it's been so long since she's really, truly smiled and despite her thin lips and that chip in her incisor she has a smile that's warmer than summer sun, and that makes her beautiful.

So are you, she adds, just after he's given up hope that she's ever going to reply at all.


His friends are useless idiots.

And then, he moans, knocking back another glass of sherry, she walks out on me, with her great heels and then s-she glares at me like she's gonna punch me in the face, and then she actually does, because I send her one dirty letter and she flips absolute shit

Ah, Spain intones faithfully and somberly, staring out the window. She always has been quite the puncher.

France winces at the memory and sighs. Instead of sulking around Germany's basement, Prussia, he says, in his stupid sexy chick-snagging accent, why don't you start from the beginning?


They had history, nobody could ever deny that. He vaguely remembers horses – yes, there were horses, did they not ride them together on the Magyar steppe, laughing and frolicking and pretending they weren't burdened by the duties of a nation?

You're awesome, he says, after his companion's managed to tame a wild horse they've found raring on the plains.

His companion returns the stare for the longest time, as if it's horribly out of character for him, then the gentle lips part to make a sound. Thank you. Then he laughs. So are you.

Things were different then.


He hates himself for introducing her to his cousin – damn wimpy weakling of a nation. Perhaps if she'd never known Austria, she'd never have started wearing dresses or started sweeping his floors or becoming a babysitter to Rome's adorable younger grandson.

Perhaps they'd still be talking, then.

Perhaps that ring on her finger would have been given by him.

I just don't see why you can't accept him, she fumes two nights before the wedding. You're my best friend, all right? And it's not like I actually love him, Prussia, it's merely that it's beneficial to my nation. Is that not enough of a reason for you?

He shakes his head. No. Because even if she's telling the truth now, he knows that she will learn to love Austria in time, and then his girl won't be quite his anymore.


The next day was the day before the wedding. They'd met, then, in a lovely, secret clearing in her lovely, secret forests.

I love you, was what she said. You're my best friend and I love you. And she'd looked at him like she wanted to kiss him.

He didn't know what to answer; he didn't know what to do.

So he ran. He never showed up at the wedding.

She never properly spoke to him after that.


I think, says Spain, you should say sorry.

What? Prussia sputters. You can't be serious.

I agree with Espagne, says France matter-of-factly. Let's face it. Without ever mending your broken relationship you will never be able to sweep her off her feet and ride away into the sunset.

Prussia gets around to doing neither. He doesn't have to.


When the year is in the third millennia she approaches him, all sugar and spice, and says she's sorry.

Too late for that now, he says. Not a nation anymore, remember? And he's tired, and she probably is too.

But the determination is still there, saying that she's made up her mind and that she will make the thousand years of hating him up to him, and she keeps rambling on about boosting bilateral relationships with his brother (as if that would help), and he realizes that she's a little older and a little more girl, but she's still the same little boy he'd played with back in his early childhood years. So he closes his eyes and silences her with a raised finger.

They stand in awkward, companionable silence.

So, he says. Haven't seen much of you around lately.

She gives him a charming smile. I've been around, she replies.

(You just never did anything when it counted.)

Another awkward pause.

I still love him, you know, she says in a small voice, refusing to meet his eyes. Austria, I mean.

He sighs heavily. I know.


Now he looks back and remembers that night under the stars when he first told her she was beautiful. And he replays the memory over and over and over again, watching Spain coddle up with Belgium or South Italy or France give Canada or Seychelles an endearing hug, wanting, wishing, praying that he'd seized his chance when he'd had it, and he doesn't want to forget.


She's a girl with too-thin lips and too-big hands and a chipped tooth, and listen, because she used to love him.

But she doesn't anymore.





I'm sorry, Hungary says again.

Prussia says nothing, just throws his arms around her and hopes for the better.

A little ditty to get rid of my writer's block. Sorry for the quality of utter crap. ;.;