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Literature Text
Please listen to the song first, or even better, during. There's a link in the description.
A drop in the ocean
A change in the weather
I was praying that you and me might
End up together.
People say love is pain. Of course that's not true.
Having experienced love, you knew that the worst pain in the world came from your love going away.
Standing on the beach, you threw stones into the water, imagining them making their way to him as he stood on the coast of the Mediterranean, maybe looking for you as you were looking for him.
It had been almost a year, the longest year of your life, since Alfred had left to fight for the Allies. It was 1942, and the war was only just beginning. Propaganda seemed to be everywhere, and every time you saw a poster or heard news of the war on the radio, you felt your stomach twist, and you had to close your eyes.
It's like wishing for rain
As I stand in the desert
But I'm holding you closer than most
Because you are my heaven.
"I'll be fine, (y/n). Don't worry so much," he had scoffed when you had begged him to stay. You had been sitting on the grass underneath your favorite tree in the park.
"Please," you had begged,tears beginning to spill out of your eyes.
He had hugged you then. "(y/n), listen," he said, gazing into your (e/c) eyes. "I'll be back before you know it.Just try to forget until then, and it'll all be fine."
It's too late to cry,
Too broken to move on
Walking through the sand, letting the grey waves barely touch your bare feet, you could only think about how you didn't want to think about him, like had suggested, and how you were terrified of forgetting him. The cold November air swirled around you, making your (h/l) (h/c) hair whip your face.
All you had gotten were a couple of brief letters that you read every night before you went to bed. You weren't sure where he was now. The letters had gradually slowed to a stop. You were afraid, yes. The fear was all that occupied your thoughts sometimes. The only thing stronger than your fear was hope, the direct product of love. You had faith that he would keep his promise and come home.
And still I can't let you be.
Most nights I hardly sleep.
You stayed at the rocky beach until dark, when you finally drove home, surprised to see that a car was already parked in your driveway. You parked in the road and walked up to your small front porch, not noticing the man until you went to unlock the door. You yelped.
It was a grim-looking soldier with a letter in his hand.
"Oh, God," you gasped. "He's dead. He died, didn't he?" you sobbed, grief-stricken, leaning heavily against your front door.
The soldier's expression didn't change. "Do you know Alfred F. Jones?"
"Yes," you whispered shakily.
"No, ma'am. He's not dead. He's missing. We'll update you when we can. I'm sorry." He handed you the letter and left, disappearing down the street. You stood in shock, clutching the letter with both hands. You knew what it meant to be "missing." It meant he was probably dead, right? You sunk to the ground, gasping. That bastard! He promised... You fumbled for your keys, unlocked the door, and ran to your room, collapsing on the bed and sobbing. You threw the letter into the box with the others, not bothering to open it.
Misplaced trust and old friends
Never counting regrets,
And by the grace of God
I do not rest at all.
In the following weeks, you assumed a state of numbness, performing your obligatory duties and thanking people who said they were sorry about Alfred. The only light that existed now was that hope, the only thing that had survived the news. It had to exist, or you would have been long gone. In truth, the hope was irrational.
You tried stop reading his letters, shoving them into a box and throwing them into the attic, only to end up retrieving them an hour later. Again, that fear of forgetting was overpowering. You tried to avoid anything that reminded you of him, but he was always there.
One day you saw that same car in your driveway, and the same man standing on your porch. This was it. He was either dead or alive. You reserved the second option only for your sanity.
You walked up to the soldier and steeled yourself, prepared to use the door for support again.
"Alfred Jones is alive. They rescued from an Axis prison camp in Denmark. He'll be home in two weeks."
All you could do was tackle the nameless soldier with a hug.
"Thank you!"
Then he was off, probably to deliver worse news to other families.
___________________________________________________________________________
Two weeks later.
You were standing on your tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of the returning soldiers through the crowd of waiting families.
Then you spotted him.
He was limping a little, and he looked tired. He didn't see you yet. You pushed through the crowd, yelling his name.
"(y/n)?" He turned at the sound of your voice.
You threw your arms around his neck, tears streaming down your face.
"I don't break a promise, (y/n)."
Heaven doesn't seem far away anymore
No
No
heaven doesn't seem far away.
A drop in the ocean
A change in the weather
I was praying that you and me might
End up together.
People say love is pain. Of course that's not true.
Having experienced love, you knew that the worst pain in the world came from your love going away.
Standing on the beach, you threw stones into the water, imagining them making their way to him as he stood on the coast of the Mediterranean, maybe looking for you as you were looking for him.
It had been almost a year, the longest year of your life, since Alfred had left to fight for the Allies. It was 1942, and the war was only just beginning. Propaganda seemed to be everywhere, and every time you saw a poster or heard news of the war on the radio, you felt your stomach twist, and you had to close your eyes.
It's like wishing for rain
As I stand in the desert
But I'm holding you closer than most
Because you are my heaven.
"I'll be fine, (y/n). Don't worry so much," he had scoffed when you had begged him to stay. You had been sitting on the grass underneath your favorite tree in the park.
"Please," you had begged,tears beginning to spill out of your eyes.
He had hugged you then. "(y/n), listen," he said, gazing into your (e/c) eyes. "I'll be back before you know it.Just try to forget until then, and it'll all be fine."
It's too late to cry,
Too broken to move on
Walking through the sand, letting the grey waves barely touch your bare feet, you could only think about how you didn't want to think about him, like had suggested, and how you were terrified of forgetting him. The cold November air swirled around you, making your (h/l) (h/c) hair whip your face.
All you had gotten were a couple of brief letters that you read every night before you went to bed. You weren't sure where he was now. The letters had gradually slowed to a stop. You were afraid, yes. The fear was all that occupied your thoughts sometimes. The only thing stronger than your fear was hope, the direct product of love. You had faith that he would keep his promise and come home.
And still I can't let you be.
Most nights I hardly sleep.
You stayed at the rocky beach until dark, when you finally drove home, surprised to see that a car was already parked in your driveway. You parked in the road and walked up to your small front porch, not noticing the man until you went to unlock the door. You yelped.
It was a grim-looking soldier with a letter in his hand.
"Oh, God," you gasped. "He's dead. He died, didn't he?" you sobbed, grief-stricken, leaning heavily against your front door.
The soldier's expression didn't change. "Do you know Alfred F. Jones?"
"Yes," you whispered shakily.
"No, ma'am. He's not dead. He's missing. We'll update you when we can. I'm sorry." He handed you the letter and left, disappearing down the street. You stood in shock, clutching the letter with both hands. You knew what it meant to be "missing." It meant he was probably dead, right? You sunk to the ground, gasping. That bastard! He promised... You fumbled for your keys, unlocked the door, and ran to your room, collapsing on the bed and sobbing. You threw the letter into the box with the others, not bothering to open it.
Misplaced trust and old friends
Never counting regrets,
And by the grace of God
I do not rest at all.
In the following weeks, you assumed a state of numbness, performing your obligatory duties and thanking people who said they were sorry about Alfred. The only light that existed now was that hope, the only thing that had survived the news. It had to exist, or you would have been long gone. In truth, the hope was irrational.
You tried stop reading his letters, shoving them into a box and throwing them into the attic, only to end up retrieving them an hour later. Again, that fear of forgetting was overpowering. You tried to avoid anything that reminded you of him, but he was always there.
One day you saw that same car in your driveway, and the same man standing on your porch. This was it. He was either dead or alive. You reserved the second option only for your sanity.
You walked up to the soldier and steeled yourself, prepared to use the door for support again.
"Alfred Jones is alive. They rescued from an Axis prison camp in Denmark. He'll be home in two weeks."
All you could do was tackle the nameless soldier with a hug.
"Thank you!"
Then he was off, probably to deliver worse news to other families.
___________________________________________________________________________
Two weeks later.
You were standing on your tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of the returning soldiers through the crowd of waiting families.
Then you spotted him.
He was limping a little, and he looked tired. He didn't see you yet. You pushed through the crowd, yelling his name.
"(y/n)?" He turned at the sound of your voice.
You threw your arms around his neck, tears streaming down your face.
"I don't break a promise, (y/n)."
Heaven doesn't seem far away anymore
No
No
heaven doesn't seem far away.
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You looked into the mirror, disappointment etched on your face. Turning sideways, and then at an angle, still noting the flatness of your chest. Sighing, you grabbed a box of tissues and proceeded in stuffing your bra.
Having a perfect sense of timing, America burst into the room singing Hero by Skillet. His face went through 20 shades of red as he realized what you were doing. Wide eyed and blushing, all he could do was stare at your exposed skin.
You stood there, perfectly shocked and humiliated. With the box of
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~Prussia's Chapters (Ch1/3)~
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(If you haven't read the start yet, please see the description below and the link should be there~)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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You l
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www.youtube.com/watch?v=LVsrP9… This is the song. You should listen to it.
Song by Ron Pope
I do not own Hetalia or America or the song (duh)
Another midnight story. Who's shocked? This came to me when I heard the song... Another cliche one, but, again, traditional is good.
Song by Ron Pope
I do not own Hetalia or America or the song (duh)
Another midnight story. Who's shocked? This came to me when I heard the song... Another cliche one, but, again, traditional is good.
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