Hoch; a wine brewed in Germany. It's strong, and a little bitter, with a dry aftertaste. The smell is sharp, and stings my nose. The colour is a pale yellow; the unappetizing colour of piss. It's slightly thicker than water, and seems to cling to the side of the glass as I swirl it between my fingers. Two empty cartons- yes, cartons, not bottles- of the fermented drink rest by my feet. A third, half empty, stands on the table and a few more sit in the empty space in the fridge where Ludwig's beer used to live.

The house is a mess without Ludwig. My clothes are strewn everywhere, the kitchen is splattered with pasta sauce, I've dropped plates and glasses and vases all over the floor, my paints and books and papers are strewn across the table, my shoes have been flung in all corners of all the rooms, and the only clean area in the entire building is the bad that hasn't been slept in since he last made it.

I, myself, am a mess without Ludwig. My clothes are unwashed and wrinkled from living on the floor. My skin in unbathed and greasy, acne spreading across my back and shoulders. My hair is unbrushed, and my once perky curl now hangs limply by my face. My eyes have sunk, my skin has paled, and my lips have chapped after chain-drinking a variety of wines and beers.

I take another too-large gulp of wine, ignoring the way the excess dribbles down my chin. I'm drowning in my sorrows, and this German liquid isn't helping me to resurface.

"No matter the many years that may pass, I love you the most in this world!" I thought no words could devastate me as much as Holy Rome's, until Ludwig said, "Auf Wiedersehen."

Peroni; a beer brewed in Italy. It goes flat quickly, the excessive froth thinning to a soapy scum. The colour is a dirty gold, the smell makes my nose itch, and the drink tastes mostly of barley. It froths back up as I pour it into my open jaw, ignoring the tickling sensation running down my throat as I swallow. A bin outside is full of empty bottles, a half-empty bottle balances in my hand, and several more fill the empty space in the fridge where Feliciano's wines used to live.

The house is empty without Feliciano. The bed is cold in the morning without Feliciano snuggling into my side as I wake up. There are no clothes strewn across the floor, no shoes in the corner, no characteristic messes anywhere. Even the smells have faded: the pasta in the kitchen, the paint in the study, the funny little soaps in the bathroom that would froth up as excessively as Peroni.

I, myself, am empty without Feliciano, both literally and figuratively. I forget to eat without Feliciano bugging me about pasta. I forget to sleep without Feliciano wining that he's tired. I forget to stop exercising without Feliciano's panting and complaining, and I forget that he isn't there as I turn around to check that he is, then I remember that he can't be, and the empty feeling, that can't be hunger or a lack of sleep, seems to grow and twist and churn in my heart.

I take another too-large gulp of beer. The cold, tickling burn does nothing to soothe the aching in my chest.

"No matter the years that may pass, I will love you the most in this world!" I thought I could utter no words as devastating as these, until I said, "Auf Wiedersehen."

A/N:

I don't own Hetalia, or Hoch or Peroni. I make no money from this.

This idea crept up on me when I was bought my first legal drink; a bottle of Peroni. Both Hoch and Peroni are real drinks, and Hoch actually does come in a carton instead of a bottle.

-Laurel Silver