Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia and I never will. It'd be very different if I did...and I'd probably butcher it.
A/N: MS Word tells me this is 1,090 words. FFn tells me this is 1,178. I don't know which to trust. Anyhow, I like this pairing. It needs more love; I thought there would be a lot more Prussia/Hungary on FFn than what I found. I decided to use their country names rather than their human names. Shoot me. I do what I want. This is either friendship, romance, or somewhere in-between. Depends on how you interpret it.
Note: For anyone that doesn't know, the tulip is Hungary's floral emblem. I fail with flower language, although I did look it up, but then I felt it would get too complicated so I left it out.
He sees her shrunken form lying in the grass at the top of the hill, just out of the large oak tree's shadow so that the sunlight caresses her. Her long hair glows a light auburn as sunbeams dance around her. The white dress she wears is pristine like fresh snow, too bright for him to behold with eyes wide open, and the spring sun sheds a cool radiance all around them that makes him shield his ruby eyes.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, his expression disgruntled, and stands at the top of the hill before her sleeping form, a measly and yet distant ten paces from her, so that his shadow does not envelop her.
Her expression is peaceful as she sleeps, mouth slightly open and eyes that droop in serene slumber. Tucked behind her right ear is a bright red flower and he suppresses the inexplicable urge he has to pull it out of her hair. He's not sure what species of flower it is — perhaps it is a gerbera, or maybe it's a tulip — he's never been good with these things. He only knows that he feels the need, the want to rip the flower from her tresses; the locks that were once unkempt when loose, tattered after their adventures and battles were now prim and proper, a sign that she had ran a brush through her hair countless times.
He steps forward silently, noting the angle at which the shadows — his shadow included — creep against the green. His footsteps make no sound on the billowing grass to which the wind whispers and when he's beside her, right beside her, he flops down on his back, staring up at the sky, a slight scowl still on his face. She makes no movement, unaware of his presence.
From the corner of his eye, he sees the same slumbering countenance, unchanged. He turns to face her, his left hand tucked lazily beneath his head like a pillow and his elbow almost touching the hands she laid gently by her face. He blinks, something flickering in his ruby eyes when he sees her so different from how he once knew her, but the frown does not leave his face; a slow burn within him continues to glow.
The spring breeze blows in the scent of summer, gently ruffling his white hair and her sunbathed locks and creates ripples in the grass. Where the shadow of the large hilltop tree does not reach, the meadow below them is a field of freshly bloomed flowers the colours of summer skies, sunsets, and of dusk, all dancing in the warmth of sun rays and sunbeams.
As he picks himself off the ground, he rips a fistful of grass with him. Soon she'll be living with that wussy aristocrat, leaving him to chase the sky by himself. Sitting beside her, he takes one last look at her sleeping face, a face that she'll never voluntarily show him.
He litters the grass on her and ruffles her hair, stirring her awake.
Because he is stubborn.
"Wha—" she starts, rudely awakened. "Agh, Prussia!"
"Hah," he smirks, the scowl gone. "I could've done a lot worse."
He really could have.
She brushes the grass out of her hair. "Ugh, I don't have time to play games with you," Hungary groans, fingers combing through her hair. "I've given up that lifestyle."
"We'll see how long you can last."
'Before you come running back.'
"You're such a moron," she tells him, frustrated but matter-of-factly. The fiery flower in her hair drops to her feet as she straightens her tresses.
Prussia watches as it falls, wanting to catch it before it hits the ground, but he doesn't move a muscle. She doesn't notice.
"I'm going to live with Austria and become a proper lady," Hungary states firmly, almost flauntingly. There's a subtle, happy chorus in her voice that rings beneath the sky. Her eyes sparkled every time she spoke of the aristocrat, and it sickened him.
He kneels over to pick up that burning flower that fell so carelessly from her hair, the one that he does not know the name of.
"Bah," he scoffs, "it's impossible for you."
"Give me that," she grumbles, reaching for the flower sitting in his hand. It was almost slipping through his fingers.
Just as she was.
He slides his hand away and haphazardly slides the flower into her hair, the same place in which he had found it.
Even though he had wanted to rip it right out of her hair a moment ago.
"Since when did you wear flowers in your hair?" he asks, unimpressed.
"I've always liked flowers," she answers grumpily, though it's not the answer he's looking for. "Especially tulips."
"So, did that wussy aristocrat force you into wearing that ugly dress?"
"I wear what I want!"
"It's disgusting," he mutters, turning away from her. He fully expects her to retaliate against him, but is surprised to find her in front of him, stationary.
"Yes, well... Good day to you, Prussia," Hungary finishes curtly. The look on her face, however, tells him that she wishes something terrible befalls him.
What she doesn't know is that her leaving him is exactly that.
"Yeah, yeah, you too," he blurts out snarkily; it's a reflexive, instinctive response.
And with a turn of her heel, she's off, racing down the field and getting further and further away from him. She's dashing through the flowers that dance in the sunlight while he sits in the shade, dapples blotting him from head to toe, forgotten.
She's already out of his reach.
Prussia watches her retreating figure from the top of the hill. Because he can only ever push her away. He can't hold on to anything. He can't offer her anything.
Even though all he wants is for her to stay close to him; within his reach, as she was once before.
Prussia grits his teeth, charging down the hill and into the meadow of flowers as they promenade him in the sun.
He pulls out the flowers, one stalk at a time, witnessed only by the sun and the white and rolling passersby floating in the sky.
The day before she moved into the House of Habsburg, Hungary was visited by an unknown knock at her door but not a soul was there to greet her.
Instead, what she found lying at her doorstep was a scattered pile of freshly picked tulips.