Alternate Summary: In which Hungary is driving herself insane, Prussia is the solution to the unasked question, and England makes an odd cameo. PruHun, probably.

Rated: T, mostly because of language.

Disclaimed. I own nothing of great importance.

Cover Art by scrambled-eggs-at-midnight, because she rocks like none other.

Notes: I wrote this back in July and, to be frank, it isn't getting any better just sitting around on my computer. Maybe I'll write more, but maybe I'll never get to it since this institution called "college" now has priority over almost all of my time.
For now, though, just have fun dissecting my strange poetic-prose writing story... type... thing...
Reviews are loved, as always.

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Lay Me Down

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Hungary doesn't understand.

England holds out his hand. His eyes are wild, rolling into his skull as his neck tilts to the point of cracking his spine. It's a look of demonic possession, and it's a look filled with the horrific understanding she lacks.

There rests a simple silver band above his outstretched palm.

Well? he asks. Are you ready to accept forever?

And as she sits at the funeral, earlier, the quiet resignation of pain echoes through the church in silent waves. Forever. The word rings in her memory without connotation.

Germany is the hardest to observe. He is the responsible nation among them—the one of them who is supposed to be steadfast in tragedy. But his stoic features are so permanently etched in memory that she has to turn once she sees his lips purse and tremble. It's the look of a desperate man with nothing to cling to, vainly trying to stop his world from collapsing when it's out of his control. She knows this. She's seen it before.

They're the only two who aren't yet crying. Sniffles occasionally break through the tenors of the presiding Father, and the quiet clamor they create feels like nails clawing inside her ribcage. She can't quite recall the last time she felt so uneasily calm.

Austria's hand reaches out to grasp hers, his left and her right fingers intertwining. Even he is crying. She doesn't know what she feels about this; someday she may understand, but not today.

"I'm going to miss that pest," he admits in her ear.

And she doesn't know how she feels about "that pest" either. Not yet.

"You're a bitch," Prussia announces earlier, sticking his tongue out.

They've called a truce, and this calls for a few calm moments by the riverside in the wood. That, in turn, leads to name-calling, and soon their cycle of rivalries will start over once more. It's bound to last forever, right?

Her green skirt is spread around her legs in a circle and vibrantly clashes with the grass, and his pale skin stands out like colored targets to a hunter against the sand of the shore. They make an odd picture of grudging alliances and awkward pestering, but more than anything they are likely friends underneath it all and simply too old to notice anymore.

"You're a bitch," he repeats. She swiftly decks him across the cheek, and so he adds, "Hey! That's the only reason I put up with you! I'm awesome—not everyone is worth my time!"

His red eyes are mocking and smiling and perhaps holding something more permanent than either beneath the surface—something that can't be conveyed in words but instead expressed through time. And neither of them know what it is. Neither understand it.

So she hits him again and calls for a chase. "Then I dare you to catch me, if you're so awesome!"

He grins, more out of cockiness than anything, as he dashes toward her into the woods and accepts her challenge.

And why couldn't he have stayed so cocky and full of himself? Why didn't things just stay in that moment forever, before either of them had to learn what was to become of them? So she feels like screaming later, because she doesn't know and can't possibly understand what she should feel about this crisis.

"Is that blood?" she trembles.

And Prussia doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to answer. It's blood, clinging to the walls and drenching his nightclothes and physically sucking the life out of his scarlet eyes as he desperately tries to grasp the tiles to keep himself from falling.

"Hungary," he pleads weakly. "H-Hungary, do s-something!"

And what can she do, besides putting on a brave face for everyone else to see? She's stressed her independence for so long that the facade of unemotional harshness comes naturally—if it must stay there forever then so be it. She understands feelings as a weakness, the way men do, and since it is the only understanding she has now, she clings to it.

But, later, when the tomb is closed and the memorial is planted for the remains of a body to never decay, she comes close, because she knows she will never see him again.

And she believes this, wholeheartedly, because of what he had confessed to her earlier, even if she doesn't understand his logic.

"I'm going to hell," he announces nonchalantly, lying back against the grass and sand which only highlight his pale state as a target.

Hungary doesn't know what she should feel about this. So she shrugs and adjusts her clashing skirt and says, "So am I."

"I'm being serious." He rolls onto his side, one arm trapped beneath his head and the other resting beside his ribs. "I'm going to hell."

And so she attempts another approach. "We were already there in Russia's house, though, weren't we—"

"Hungary, dammit!"

They pause, and she sees the stream and wood and wonders if they're more like one or the other—running on and on to greater things, or ending when the ending is least expected?

"Why did you decide you're going to hell?" she mutters.

Prussia shifts his jaw in awkwardness and averts his eyes. "Because... I realized you aren't."

And she hates him for that. She absolutely hates that he can destroy her arguments in a single sentence and make her feel inadequate. She irrevocably hates how he isn't afraid to say what he assumes and feels and understands and how his backwards assurances make her feel like a missing piece to his puzzle. She hates it, beyond all reason, that he makes her feel this way and always has made her feel this way and will always continue to destroy her insides until forever arrives.

The full horror of this hatred comes later, crashing down, hard, at the worst possible moment.

"I," she scathes. "Hate. You."

And she had expected his signature cocky smile to continue to shine through the rain again like it always does, but it doesn't. She had expected him to retort a reasonably offensive statement like he usually does, but he doesn't. She had expected, maybe, for his sentiments to be the same for once, but they aren't.

Instead, he looks away across the stream and into the dark woods under the cover of clouds, the downpour still dripping down his face as the water washes over them. And finally, he asks, "Why?"

So she shrills, "You're supposed to make fun of me, seek me out to annoy me, and—well, something! Instead you just sit here feeling sorry for yourself, you bastard!" Her foot comes down hard in a mud puddle. "I hate you!"

And he doesn't immediately respond to her, but when he does speak—"You're such a bitch," he whispers without fire. "Such. A fucking. Smartass. Bitch."

"...Prussia—?"

"Why did I start wearing gloves again?" he asks her bitterly, spitting the rain out of his mouth. "Tell me the answer, if you're so damn smart!"

And she realizes then that he is wearing gloves, but did he wear gloves at Russia's home at all? "I... I don't know."

"Because—you bitch."

And when he takes the glove on his left hand off, she steps backward and can't even stop herself from screaming.

And that was what she really doesn't understand. Why did she have to be the one to see the crevasses forming beneath the brave face he continued to uphold for everyone, forever trying to preserve himself in their eyes? Why did she have to be there, later, at the end?

"H-Hungary," he finally says, heaving, sopping wet from the shower and weak on her shoulder. "I'm not going to last."

"You asshole," she spits without malice. "I could have guessed."

"I'll... I'll be gone tonight."

For a moment, she believes it. He's a ghastly sight, looking more and more like a ghost the more and more the moments pass. But then, as he sinks onto the bed with hollowed cheekbones and skin pale as death and fading eyes into forever, she grasps his cracking hands.

"No," she orders. "You won't disappear yet."

"Why not?"

And the slight defiance in his eyes lights him up just enough to give her the cockiness she needs to say the truth. "You're Prussia," she states simply. "You're surely more stubborn than that."

And that was what was always said before, but not by her.

"What the hell do you mean, am I scared of it?—Of course not!" he scoffs, earlier. "I ain't dying that easy!"

And the creek continues, the woods meander into the distance, and their picking and prodding and poking cycles in circles and flows into forever, or at least as far as they can see. "Why aren't you afraid of death when you don't know?" she asks, scrunching her nose and wrinkling her dress by the shore. "Any sane person would be terrified of something he doesn't understand."

So he pauses, but his short explanation still infuriates her with its honesty. "I don't understand you, but do you see me running?"

And that was a lie, she realizes later. Prussia had understood her since forever. That was the only reason he had known that it was okay to tell her he was dying, and that was the only reason he let her drag him back to her place out of the rains with his sopping wet gloves and dampening spirits.

"If West found out," he admits in her pristine kitchen, toweling his hair, "he'd flip shit."

Hungary is surprisingly certain that Germany would, indeed "flip shit" if he saw Prussia's hands crumbling like stone statues under stormy weather, their natural whiteness being chipped away into pale death for no reason whatsoever. "How long have your hands been...?"

"Since last week," he admits. "But this morning, when he wasn't around—I almost coughed up a lung, and then I started flipping shit instead."

And later, it's the both of them flipping shit instead.

"I'm calling your brother—" she begins, shaking, turning around, intending to find a phone—

"No!" Prussia manages to choke out against the shower tiles. He tries to say something more, but he's interrupted by another stream of coughs and hacks and vomiting more blood. So she holds tighter and he finally gasps, "Not e-enough time."

And who's to say that Hungary would have listened to him if she'd known how serious his statement was?

Later, it pours down.

"Germany. G-Germany?"

Her voice shakes, because she doesn't know what to do or what to say or how to act or whether this is all just some horrible hallucination and how badly she hopes that only that much is true and how she hates that she's been put into this position of becoming the messenger for something she doesn't understand and will never be able to accept as a reality because it simply exists as an impossibility like the stream running dry or the wood disappearing into itself or their cycle being suddenly broken in the shadow of the rainfall on a day where she found him crying for himself.

It couldn't have.

"Hello?—Hungary?"

And it doesn't hit her until after the funeral, later, as Germany slips a signed and sealed slip of stationary into the nearly-empty casket, to be interred forever.

"What did you write?" Austria murmurs to him under his breath, his arm hooked in Hungary's to support her empty weight.

And Germany looks dead as he recites, "'Terrific. Extraordinary. Inspiring awe.'"

And that's so utterly like Germany to look in the dictionary for words to convey the inadequate feelings that she knows are swirling beneath the surface of his deadening eyes—and it's utterly like Austria to have to ask, and it's utterly like her to understand exactly how difficult it was to write those short few words.

It's utterly like Prussia, in a way. How fitting—encompassing not a true physical form but instead defining the word awesome for all eternity.

And it's also utterly like Prussia to make promises he can't keep, and to agree to things he doesn't understand.

"I'll last forever."

"No you won't!"

"Yeah, I will. Because I'm awesome."

"And if you're wrong?"

"Then I take it like a man, I guess. But I promise it won't come to that."

And promises were made to be broken.

"Are you crying?" she asks later, incredulous and disbelieving and numb because she doesn't understand how this could be happening to him.

And Prussia can't choke out more words but instead chokes out more blood as he fades into her shower tiles. It's past two in the morning and he's violently sobbing as the force of crimson vomit wracks his crumbling body—it's the look of a desperate man with nothing to cling to, vainly trying to stop his world from collapsing when it's out of his control.

"Is that blood?" she trembles.

And Prussia doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to answer. "Hungary," he pleads weakly. "H-Hungary, do s-something!"

So she does the logical thing and flips on the shower, water cascading down and erasing the blood and causing him to collapse on the floor with the pressure beating down on his weak body. And as all other thought but instinct flies away, she joins him on the ground and let's him cry on her shoulder and spit red down her drainpipe.

"I don't want to die," he sobs out. "Fuck—I'm so scared—"

She cradles his cracked hands, his beautiful cracked hands like worn marble of empires past, deserving of so much more honor in demise than this. He, the Awesome Prussia, falls apart and breaks the eternal cycle on her bathroom floor, and now she has to pick up the pieces.

"I'm calling your brother—" she begins, shaking, turning around, intending to find a phone—

"No!" Prussia manages to choke out against the shower tiles. He tries to say something more, but he's interrupted by another stream of coughs and hacks and vomiting more blood. So she holds him tighter and he finally gasps, "Not e-enough time."

And what else is she supposed to do? What else can she offer him, this boy she hates for ruining something grand they had in an awkward friendship they never realized?

"I'll stay, then," she whispers.

And that will forever be the first moment she can remember where she wonders if, maybe, she hadn't understood what she'd said to him earlier and earlier, when they were both just children and too young to know anything.

"I hate you," she insists, throwing a small stone from the creek into the wood instead of towards her real mark.

"Well, sure," he shrugs with a smirk, his short silver hair and sandy skin looking more and more like an appealing target as the moments pass. "What else do you call such a dumb feeling?"

And that dumb feeling stayed. Forever.

"Hungary," he whispers, still shaking from the shower and blood and emotion. He's toweled off again, but his dulled eyes still glisten. "Shit—I want—"

And as sentimental and ridiculous as her own instincts protest it is, she can't justify it in her mind to leave a dying man alone when he's in his final hours.

It's three in the morning.

"Fine," she says, as he scoots weakly along the mattress to make room for her. "Just tonight."

"You weren't s-supposed to see that," he says. "I th-thought you were asleep a-and wouldn't find me like—"

"Prussia."

"You hate me."

She lays on her side, one arm trapped beneath her head and the other resting beside her ribs. "I always have."

He heaves a sigh and closes his eyes before choking out a chuckle. "Whatever that feeling is, it's m-mutual."

And that feeling is turning her gut inside-out.

Forever.

She doesn't understand.

No.

"Hello?—Hungary?"

No.

"Prussia's—" she chokes.

No.

"Prussia? He's at your place?"

No. No he isn't. He's—

"Prussia's gone," her voice escapes. "He's—he went i-in his sleep—Germany. Oh, oh God!"

Forever.

The word rings in her memory without connotation.

And when his cracking hand softly hits her ribs at three-thirty, she feels it.

"It's the end, isn't it?" she shakes, sitting upright, still as wide awake as ever.

And he nods in the darkness, hands grasping for something and eyes squeezed shut.

"I'm sorry," she whispers—and she is, because she can't stop this or make the reality of it any better when she doesn't understand herself how this can be happening.

"H-here," he weakly says as he opens his eyes and finds her hands.

A small ring is slipped into her palm, and she clasps it as though her life depends on it.

Is this happening?—No—

"Don't f-forget me," he says hoarsely. "P-promise."

"I won't."

"N-never?"

"Never. Never."

His eyes drift closed. "K-keep it forever, o-okay?"

And she grasps his hands tighter, and the marble cracks run deeper.

"I will."

"Germany says," France confronts with glossy eyes, "that Prussia died in his sleep."

"And we don't believe him," Spain adds with tear-stained cheeks. "W-what happened?"

And she looks between his two best friends who should have been there instead of her, and she can't stop herself from saying something. "He died awake," she admits, and she softly concludes with the lie, "and he died honorably."

And no more words need to be said as she sits there and cradles him because damn it, she doesn't know what else to do—and his lips form silent screams as the cracks from his hands run deeper and spread to his arms and rip him to shreds as he tries to gasp for futile gulps of air—and the pain he must be feeling is horrendous, absolutely horrible, and so she grips his hands harder as his reality slips away—

And suddenly, with one final crack, his mortal form is suspended.

As Hungary holds him, Prussia's lifeless body relaxes, and the marble crumbles into sand.

XXX

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The week following his funeral feels like forever.

Every morning, she gasps herself awake as the memories come in a jumble, and every night she grasps her sheets asleep as some stupid, subconscious part of her is left searching for that boy she hates. The times which come between are empty. She doesn't dream, and she doesn't live. She clings to a memory and a silver ring, because they're all she can force herself to care about.

And finally, it's too much.

The ring has been dangling from a chain around her neck—to wear it on a finger seems too final, and so she has prolonged what she is able. But it's time, she thinks decisively, and so she runs through the wood to the one corner she has accustomed herself to, and she soaks her skirt in the stream as she breaks its chain from her neck and prepares to bury the memory forever—as soon as she can force her hand to pry itself apart and let go of the past, dropping it down into the cool water to be buried beneath the running sand.

She'd made a promise. And, she knows, promises are made to be broken.

I wouldn't do that if I were you!

And she nearly topples over midstream as she twists to see who called—and confusion overtakes her as she sees England striding out of the forest with a confidence that sends chills through her spine. Even as he stands in the shadows, she recognizes there's something utterly wrong about him. He grins, too knowingly, and his eyes shine, too bright, and she can sense something off in the near distance.

"What are you doing here?" she demands lowly.

But he doesn't respond. Instead, the chain shoots out of her hand in his direction. And suddenly, the chain isn't there at all but flying off into the forest. It's the ring which becomes entrancing—it circles between England's hands as he looks it over and examines its every detail, suspending it in midair with a magical prowess she never knew he possessed—

"You're possessed," she gasps with realization.

The dead haunt me, love, he says nonchalantly, cracking his neck as he lets out a shriek without warning. Aha! Such lovely mutual relations you both shared!

And now the ring is glowing as brightly as a star in the midst of its twirling and twisting. Beside herself without understanding, Hungary steps backwards in the water. "What—what the hell is wrong with you?"

Ah—nothing, Hungary dear. But please, he says, extending one hand with the ring levitating above it, grinning like a madman. Take this back.

She doesn't trust this—not in the slightest. "No!" she yells. "I don't know what you did when you touched it, but—"

I didn't touch it, England corrects with a demonic grin.

"Then why did you just taint it?" she pleads. "That was my one memory of him, and now—"

She can't finish—and for a moment, the madness flees his eyes as he looks at her directly. She steps back again, because suddenly it's England making her an offer and not a tool of a demon.

"You almost threw it away," he states calmly, "but love. Love love love—you can't just throw that away so easily."

"I hate him," she corrects, the words sliding off her tongue like bitter poison.

"No, you don't hate him," he corrects just as easily. "And you'd do anything he asked, wouldn't you?"

Hungary is rooted to the spot. Her throat is dry. Her palms itch, and suddenly her finger aches because—"Like what?" she whispers.

England grins, all teeth and malice and unspoken truths. It's all right here—provided, he adds, that you accept.

"...Accept?" she mouths.

And England grins harder, knowing that she will listen. Accept.

Her breath is coming heavily. "Accept what?"

Accept, he specifies, forever.

Forever?

To be alone in mortal company for the eternity you walk the earth—but to have a chance at something great that will never come again. His head tilts, and his spine cracks again. It's really quite an offer. He must have trusted you very much.

"And if I say no?" she whispers.

And England practically falls onto the grass—he begins to sputter so violently hard with laughter she worries he'll become sick. As he catches his breath he barks, You irreparably betray him! You think of it as a silly ring to toss, but to remove it from you now is enough to guarantee you will—truly—never see him again—he practically bet his own soul that you would say yes!—forgive me! he laughs out. It's quite absurd that you would even think of it!

She hates him.

For a moment, it is undoubtably true hate that rings through her chest. What kind of bastard is Prussia, to give her a stupid piece of jewelry and make a shitty choice like this without asking her what she wants out of any of it? Going and treating her like she's a piece of baggage to be carried around for an eternity! What kind of games was he playing with the devil to have wound her into it?

And she has half a mind to say no. She has half a mind to take that ring only to hurl it beyond her vision into the trees. She has half a mind to spit in England's hand as he grins his maniacal grin of the joker.

...

She can't. She doesn't understand why—but she can't.

Well?

England's hand stretches further, enticing her with its offer.

Are you ready to accept forever?

K-keep it forever, okay?

I will.

Forever.

And as she tentatively takes it back and slides it on her finger, she feels her heart heave down down down, through her chest and into the ground in which she finds her feet planted in shock and despair and realization.

Forever.

Prussia is dead, and Hungary will never see him again.

Forever.

"Forever. F-forever. F-forever."

And as her facade finally cracks and pent-up emotions are released, her legs give way and she collapses, sobbing, under the enormous weight eternity entails.