more than yellow roses // hetalia fanfiction

Prerequisite

Clamorous sirens blared outside of the hospital, doctors and nurses rushing throughout the building for various reasons. Patient fathers, terrified mothers, and shell-shocked children stood, sat, and paced nervously in the waiting rooms.
The time read 22:12. Frantic and disorganized, this local hospital was not specifically prepared for the sheer amount of patients victim to an abrupt explosion that occurred at the base of a nearby apartment complex. Local officials blamed the tragic event on a gas leak; causing most to feel as if it was nothing more than a simple mistake. An accident.

In one of the rooms, a chestnut haired girl by the name of Anri Janssen kneeled down beside a hospital bed, a worried expression plastered on her usually bright and cheerful face. She whispered softly to the gray-haired man that lay still atop the mattress. Almost cadaverous and covered in blood-stained bandages, the man showed no signs of life other than the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

A small dresser-like piece was positioned under the light switch and right next to the door, a small vase with a simple bouquet of yellow roses placed on top.
Nearly ominous, a tall, dark figure stood in the doorway, arms crossed and brow furrowed in an expression unlikely to reveal any sort of emotion other than disdain. His peridot eyes shone through slits, seeming to be completely focused on the light flowers. He tapped his foot anxiously, as if to show concern in some bizarre way, yet made no attempt to investigate his father's health, or lack thereof.

"Finn."

The man's head snapped around to Anri when she spoke, seeming to force himself out of thoughts only he and God could hope to interpret. Personally, the girl found it rather difficult to read her brother. They had known each other all their lives, yet she could rarely elicit any form of expression from him aside from concern or anger, with the occasional hint of endearing.

She sighed lowly, bringing her light green eyes up to meet her brothers, the girls melancholy demeanor revealing her sensitive emotions. Unlike him, Anri's expressions were almost too easy to read. And this one was utter sadness, with a bit of mourning. Finn knew what she was about to say, he knew this fact long before they arrived at the hospital. Yet hearing the words aloud, spoken by his beloved sister, caused his heart to break.

"He's gone."

For a brief moment, the tall male's facial expression betrayed him, and a look of pain flashed over those sharp features.

But only for a moment.

He exhaled slowly before walking over to the bedside, hands stuffed in jacket pockets and emotions unreadable.

For Finn, this wasn't just the tragically unfortunate demise of his infamous father. If he were to be honest with himself, the eighteen year-old Dutch male rather loathed the man. After all, he was the one who had forced the siblings to live under a certain shifty organization's unruly judgement all their lives with no relief whatsoever. No. This day marked something far more tragic than his death. This was the day Finn Janssen inherited what his father so dearly prized. This was the day he became the leader of the violent and irrepressible Dutch mafia.

And, worse than that, he knew from this day forward there was no escape. His life was over.