The end was nigh. He was all alone in the room his cell, the final place he could ironically call his home before the fated end. With each resounding tick of the clock standing just outside the small barred cubicle, he could feel the end draw near. His hand was clasped around the small name tag around his pale neck. He was not afraid.

He looked up when the door opened. Eyes widened. Then his hopeful expression fell.

Arthur was just standing there, clad in an impeccable uniform, stiff as ever. Of course it had to be Arthur to escort him to his death. The irony was almost bittersweet.

"Get up Gilbert, you don't want to keep them waiting," the blond said softly, never making eye contact, was that emotion in his eyes or was he just feeling uncomfortable about having to perform this task?

Gilbert rose, stretching, lean legs taking firm steps to reach the other. "I can't even get a kiss?" he joked, voice calm, successfully hiding the slightest quiver of distress. He wasn't going to cry because of Arthur. After all, he didn't fear death. He should've known there was nothing to be done about…

Finally, the other looked at him, expression both mocking and pitying. "Don't be absurd. Get a move on, we're on a tight schedule."

Gilbert grimaced, shaking his head. Arthur hadn't changed a bit. Not even his death sentence would deter that stubborn little man.

Their footsteps echoed through the empty hallways. Apparently everyone trusted him enough not to need him in shackles or surrounded by guards. Not that he would run away. There was no use trying to escape his destiny. He could only embrace it with open arms.

He had not really expected Arthur to be there in his last moments, but he supposed he should have seen it coming. They were all going to be there- Alfred, Ivan, Yao and the others. All come to… Say goodbye? Laugh in the face of a dying man? Further discuss how they would divide the mortal remains of his body?

Gilbert sneered, feeling his lips twitch back into an ugly snarl. Disguised it by a cough, dragging a hand under his nose. He glanced to the side, finding Arthur looking away at the last moment, as if he had been caught staring.

They turned another corner. Crossed another corridor. Almost there.

"Do you…" He scraped his throat, suddenly finding it to have gone impossibly dry. "Do you think it will…?" He frowned, mentally chastised himself. What was he, one hundred years old? He wasn't a child! He shouldn't start fearing death only because he was in the presence of a man he'd thought to have lost many times before! Arthur always came back; he had learnt to laugh in the face of death. It wasn't because Gilbert was going to change forever that he should…

"Of course not," Arthur huffed coolly, stubbornly, as if trying to make himself believe the statement. "It never does. Not even when…"

When what? When you can't come back? When you'll change so drastically no one will be able to recognize you anymore? What if he indeed remained alive even after death, what if he did have some of his nation left- what would happen to him then? Would his personality change for the worse, would he lose everything he had, everything he was?

"They won't pity you just because you're crying," a soft voice broke his musings. He sniffed loudly, quickly dragging his thumbs under his eyes, finding wetness. Arthur was staring at him again (beautiful, hot-headed Arthur), as if he knew, but couldn't tell.

The last corridor. The closer he came to death, the more he could hear the voices of his people, their suffering, their despair, but also… their hope. And among them, a single memory, a voice both strange and so very familiar. Two young nations sharing stories under the willow tree, growing older, conquering and expanding their lands, marriages, kings and queens, so much hope for the future, for their countries, for themselves, and then…

A kiss. A pair of sweet yet chapped lips, roughened by battles, by war and dispute, by liquor and travels and hard work. He didn't even notice the hitch in the other's breath, putting his hands on his head, carding through those yellow locks, wanting just this one moment of courage before standing up straight, making sure the red in his eyes was only to be accounted to his natural eye colour, and walking out, into the early light of day.

He could hear that voice calling, trying to tell him so many things- secrets, words of encouragements, pleas and demands to be forgiven.

It's going to be okay, he whispered back, I won't die. My people need me. I have to live to fight another day.

And even if he was indeed going to be a different man, he would find Arthur again, and ask him to finish what he'd started.