Wisps (PruHun) [Hetalia]

How long, exactly, had it been, he wondered, since he had last stepped foot in this house?

Years?

Yes, that sounded about right. Years, decades, but not yet a century.

Centuries passed in the blink of an eye for them, but these years in particular had gone by with an unprecedented lag, as though it was common knowledge that there were wounds in need of desperate, prolonged healing.

Still, it has been years, he thought, his footsteps soft as he padded down the hall, his fingertips ghosting over the wall, careful to skirt framed pictures he wouldn't allow his eyes to devour, however much he might have wanted to. I wonder how she's been, if she's... He feigned a smirk. Nein. Of course she hasn't. After all my awesomeness, there's no way she'd find someone who met her standards. 

The thought was hollow, deprived of its usual arrogance, its certainty. After so long, how could he be sure of anything?

The room was just as he remembered, from the canary-yellow walls he'd scoffed at her for choosing (she'd still been on her feminist kick and had reacquainted him with her frying pan for the remark), to the scuff mark on the door from when she'd thrown him against it in a fit of rage after finding him hiding here one evening; from the pictures scattered across the corner desk, to the chip in the wall, once again courtesy of her unruly strength (she'd tossed a book at his face, only to have him duck just before impact and for the novel to strike the wall behind him instead). 

Her sword - rusted, unusable, as much a victim of time as any of them - hung above her bed, the sole reminder of her warrior past. She'd "dressed it up" with fake, forever-in-bloom flowers in an effort to disguise its overt manliness. He'd always thought it was a waste, covering up the part of her that had endured the brunt of her history, and he told her so in blunt terms on many occasions.

The last time the subject had been broached, he'd asked, "Vhat? Are you ashamed or somezhing?" because the thought had been nagging at him for some time, and irked him to some extent. That gruff, mannish version of her had been what allowed the two of them to meet, after all. Does she regret it? he'd wondered, unsure if he really wanted her answer. All of it?

But she had smiled and his doubts were swept aside as her lashes fluttered under the weight of memories. "No, I'm not," she'd said. "I cherish my past like anyone else. But people change, Gilbert; whezher zhey do it villingly, for zhemselves, or because zhey have to, zhey still change. You have, too, you know. Changed, I mean."

And he had chimed in with, "Kesese, you're right! I have become even more awesome!" earning a frustrated sigh from her, followed by a laugh he hadn't expected.

"Maybe you haven't changed all zhat much... and maybe zhat's not zhe worst zhing in zhe vorld."

He grinned, now, reminiscing, mirroring his expression from so long ago. Change was inevitable, yes (though for people like him, there was somewhat of a loophole), but whether it was good or bad depended entirely on the people affected. And when it involved her, Gilbert made it a point to always put as positive a spin on change as he could.

He didn't rap out a greeting on the door, but just stepped inside without a word. 

She lay on her back, her arms tossed to either side of her, eyes hooded; he was sure she wasn't tracing the subtle cracks webbing over the ceiling, and wondered what kinds of thoughts dimmed the vibrant green of her eyes. 

Loosing another glaring smirk, Gilbert stepped around the bundle of clothing piled by the door (he vaguely noted that it marked the end of a trail beginning in her open closet) and plopped down beside her on the bed, a chuckle escaping the corner of his mouth.