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hetalia2011-05-07 01:07 pm
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Entry tags:
[fic] Timeless
Title: Timeless
Disclaimer: I don’t own Hetalia
Rating: PG for a bit of language
Warnings: None
Characters/Pairings: America
Summary: Alfred grieving over Elvis' death.
Note: There was a post on Captalia about nation's relations with their citizens, and someone posted a headcanon about America and Marilyn Monroe, which led me to this.
---
A bird chirped. The sun slowly began to shine in through the window blinds. The radio announcer's golden voice blared through the radio, reminding the audience of the marathon they would play in memory of the King, who had unfortunately passed away a few days ago.
No one had to remind Alfred of what had happened. He'd been physically and emotionally crushed since he received the news, reduced to spending his days laying motionless in bed. This wasn't possible, he'd repeated ten times over. This couldn't be happening.
But it had. At 3:30 in the afternoon on August 16th, 1977, the King had been pronounced dead.
Way Down began to croon out of the speakers of the alarm clock, but Alfred's hand quickly slapped the OFF button, shutting the thing up for now. He didn't want to hear that. It was no longer the voice of an American legend, but the voice of a dead man.
He got up a few times, eventually. Once to peruse the kitchen and decide everything was shit, another to flip on the TV and hurriedly flip it off in rage. The main story was about the King's drug addiction and declining life, and it pissed Alfred right off. Fuck them, he thought. Fuck them and whatever they have to say. Elvis was a goddamn hero.
He sat on the edge of his bed, grieving. How many people had sung along to his music, feeling invincible at the highest points in their lives? How many Last Dances were back-dropped by his sultry voice? How many teenage girls sighed dreamily at the thought of him? And how many boys saw him as competition and a bar-raiser?
And they wanted to talk about drugs.
A combination of his despondency and anger made his eye itch, and he stood up to fetch a cloth or some sort. He trudged to the bathroom adjacent to his room and yanked a few squares of toilet paper. He rubbed his eyes furiously with the paper, fighting back the tears that he thought he'd run out of days ago.
Finally he tossed the soggy paper aside and took a good look at himself in the mirror. Looked like shit, but he couldn't expect much else after his experience the past few days. But then, he remembered something: He'd been here before. Crying, hurting, staring himself down in the mirror in mourning.
He'd been here in 1964 after the murder of Sam Cooke. In 1962 after Marilyn Monroe, that gorgeous woman, was found dead in her home. And he could remember vividly the cold February morning in 1959, when a plane crash took the lives of The Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens, and Buddy Holly.
He took a deep, shaky breath. This was just one drawback in being a nation. He was to live forever, them only a few years. It wasn't new, and it wasn't specific to only him. They all had their loves and heroes, and they had all lost them, or would lose them in time.
But still, it was much different from losing a political leader or war hero. You respected leaders, and they lived life realistically, knowing that one day they would die and so they worked to make their time on Earth as monumental as possible. The others, they were different. They weren't just people, they were personalities, and their passing was tragic and unexpected. No one anticipated a celebrity to die. It's almost as if they weren't real people--they were expected to live forever.
He straightened himself, clearing his throat. This was just what happened. It was not the end of the world, it was not a disaster. He would move on, but he would never forget. They were just human, subject to illness and death, but their legacies were not. Even when all the 'in memoriam' marathons and programs were over and another star had risen to the plate, America would never forget them in his heart.
They would be forever. They would be timeless.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Hetalia
Rating: PG for a bit of language
Warnings: None
Characters/Pairings: America
Summary: Alfred grieving over Elvis' death.
Note: There was a post on Captalia about nation's relations with their citizens, and someone posted a headcanon about America and Marilyn Monroe, which led me to this.
---
A bird chirped. The sun slowly began to shine in through the window blinds. The radio announcer's golden voice blared through the radio, reminding the audience of the marathon they would play in memory of the King, who had unfortunately passed away a few days ago.
No one had to remind Alfred of what had happened. He'd been physically and emotionally crushed since he received the news, reduced to spending his days laying motionless in bed. This wasn't possible, he'd repeated ten times over. This couldn't be happening.
But it had. At 3:30 in the afternoon on August 16th, 1977, the King had been pronounced dead.
Way Down began to croon out of the speakers of the alarm clock, but Alfred's hand quickly slapped the OFF button, shutting the thing up for now. He didn't want to hear that. It was no longer the voice of an American legend, but the voice of a dead man.
He got up a few times, eventually. Once to peruse the kitchen and decide everything was shit, another to flip on the TV and hurriedly flip it off in rage. The main story was about the King's drug addiction and declining life, and it pissed Alfred right off. Fuck them, he thought. Fuck them and whatever they have to say. Elvis was a goddamn hero.
He sat on the edge of his bed, grieving. How many people had sung along to his music, feeling invincible at the highest points in their lives? How many Last Dances were back-dropped by his sultry voice? How many teenage girls sighed dreamily at the thought of him? And how many boys saw him as competition and a bar-raiser?
And they wanted to talk about drugs.
A combination of his despondency and anger made his eye itch, and he stood up to fetch a cloth or some sort. He trudged to the bathroom adjacent to his room and yanked a few squares of toilet paper. He rubbed his eyes furiously with the paper, fighting back the tears that he thought he'd run out of days ago.
Finally he tossed the soggy paper aside and took a good look at himself in the mirror. Looked like shit, but he couldn't expect much else after his experience the past few days. But then, he remembered something: He'd been here before. Crying, hurting, staring himself down in the mirror in mourning.
He'd been here in 1964 after the murder of Sam Cooke. In 1962 after Marilyn Monroe, that gorgeous woman, was found dead in her home. And he could remember vividly the cold February morning in 1959, when a plane crash took the lives of The Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens, and Buddy Holly.
He took a deep, shaky breath. This was just one drawback in being a nation. He was to live forever, them only a few years. It wasn't new, and it wasn't specific to only him. They all had their loves and heroes, and they had all lost them, or would lose them in time.
But still, it was much different from losing a political leader or war hero. You respected leaders, and they lived life realistically, knowing that one day they would die and so they worked to make their time on Earth as monumental as possible. The others, they were different. They weren't just people, they were personalities, and their passing was tragic and unexpected. No one anticipated a celebrity to die. It's almost as if they weren't real people--they were expected to live forever.
He straightened himself, clearing his throat. This was just what happened. It was not the end of the world, it was not a disaster. He would move on, but he would never forget. They were just human, subject to illness and death, but their legacies were not. Even when all the 'in memoriam' marathons and programs were over and another star had risen to the plate, America would never forget them in his heart.
They would be forever. They would be timeless.
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Thanks for writing this.
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