So, Clearly I don't own Hetalia nor the movie quote I referenced in this story...but if you know the movie...then you earn a special place in my heart. Let the depression commence!

Side note, this wasn't really intended for German Reunification day, but I mean if you want to look at it that way, by all means have a field day.


Pale-greyish parchment held a distinct eye-catching color when it was placed against the old work desk, and the Prussian took time to carefully note all the bumps and ridges in the paper as he stalled in writing a very important letter. It was not a letter he wanted to write, nor was it one he wanted to ever be read. But Gilbert knew, as well as everyone else in the world, that all stories…even our most favorite ones, must come to an end.

He knew that his passing would have a grandiose effect on his younger brother, no matter how emotionally strong the able-bodied German might be. With a sigh and a steady hand, Gilbert began his letter, like all letters ever written with the very simple yet somehow very meaningful "Dear". Ink marred the pristine paper, causing it to become almost ugly in the garnet eyes of the one writing it. Perhaps it was because the author didn't wish to write it, or perhaps it was the fact that the dissolved empire never really liked his hand writing in the first place, despite his boastful approach to everything.

The pen hit the paper again, hard, black, yet tender words forming and stopping with every stroke of the utensil, creating a moving confession and last words of advice for the intended reader until he paused. Smiling faces of a young boy danced across his memory, and he felt his heart lurch as he knew he wouldn't ever see that face again. To be fair he didn't see it much often nowadays either; the young boy had grown up into a stern well-mannered and well-meaning man, a man that the Prussian had felt proud to have raised and to have seen grow up.

Gilbert picked up the pen, unable to neither cease nor control the overflowing memories, as he continued to write. They were not memories of grandeur. They were not memories of how he bested the Austrian in war…..they were of daily life, a life full of hope and imagination, scraped knees and sweet milk with honey at bed time. He recalled every time he had to tuck the German into bed with him after the small boy had a nightmare. Those days after war, when he'd come home bruised, battered and victorious and a flaxen, bowl –cut , blue eyed little brother would come bounding down the stairs to jump in his arms and babble about how much he missed the Prussian and everything that had happened since he left. Every bed time story. Each one read by candle light as they snuggled together on the German's tiny bed and each character had been given their own accent. Especially Rumpelstiltskin voice, Oh how the younger would laugh and laugh as his brother adopted that silly tone.

He had to stop again, his eyes clouding over as all the memories rushed through his head. The letters had begun to blur, and rather than motivate illegible tear-blotched characters, he set the pen down and blinked back the liquid sadness, cursing the prospect of grief laced happiness. Letting out a wry chuckle, the Prussian cursed his own procrastination as well. He should have written this letter a long time ago when he first started to realize he was dying. He shouldn't have pushed it back like that list of chores the German set out for him every day, which never did get done. Naturally they wouldn't get done today either…..but for once it wouldn't have been brought about by negligence.

Once again the ballpoint found itself in a rendezvous with the dulled parchment as he furiously worked to finish his letter; it stopped for the last time after he wrote his brother's accustomed nickname on the wing of the letter turned paper airplane. A plain old hamburger folded paper just wasn't his style; he would leave that kind of antic to an unimaginative soul. With a grin, and thousands of fond memories he sent the airplane flying.

It would land on the table in the empty room, lopsided and waiting to be read.

"Dear West,

As a well-known procrastinator, this most likely should have been written ages ago, but I'm writing it now and, it'll be more fantastic than any movie "I'm going to die" letter you've ever seen. Not only because I'm the one writing it…but because putting "I'm dying, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner" Is more than stupid. Light bulbs die. I will depart.

But, I suppose in blunt honesty, I have died…but when King Lear dies in Act V, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He's written "He dies." That's all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is "He dies." It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with "He dies." And yet every time I read those two words, I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria, and I know it's only natural to be sad, but not because of the words "He dies." but because of the life we saw prior to the words.

I've lived all five of my acts, West, and I am not asking you to be happy that I'm going go. I'm only asking that you turn the page, continue reading... and let the next story begin. And if anyone asks what became of me, you relate my life in all its awesome brilliance, and end it with a simple and modest "He died."

Also…I'll be insulted if you seem shocked that I can be deep. I love you…of course I'm going to put all of me into this letter, not just the "Oh hey look at me I'm awesome"…but every emotion, every thought...all for you. Everything I've ever done in life, post meeting you…has been for you. And I will always watch over you from wherever I end up, because I love you.

Your life is an occasion, West, rise to it."