hetalia_kink

5. “Ich bin mir nicht mal sicher, ob ich morgen noch hier bin”

(I am not sure whether I will still be here tomorrow”)

-

Ludwig has dreams where he is the only one standing in the hall of a great mansion. He’s shorter than he is now, or perhaps taller, but what matters is that he is alone. He can feel the ghosts of people who had been here before him- like imprints in the air- but they’re not here now.

“Hallo?” he calls into the dust. “Österreich? Preussen?”

The piano is deserted. The kitchen is empty.

“Ich bin’s. Ludwig.” The silence flows liquid thickly around him. “Ungarn? Italien?”

The carpets swallow his deliberate footprints as he walks up the stairway.

“Polen? Wo seid ihr?”

Feliks doesn’t answer. The door to his office creaks instead. Somehow the air is thick around him, as if there is physically more oxygen in the gas that he breathes. His lungs can take the pressure.

“Luxemburg? Belgien? Nederland?” He glances down at the paperwork strewn all over his desk. There are words written all over it in letters he can’t recognise. He shakes himself and strides back to the doorway. “Baden? Hessen? Bayern?”

“Thuringen?” he asks as he walks to the bedrooms. “Hamburg? Brandenburg?”

Finally, swimming in the richness, in the quality of the air around him, Ludwig floats into the bathroom and comes face to face with the mirror above the basin.

Then he smiles and says, “Endlich. Da seid ihr dann gewesen?”

And he wakes up to the white ceiling above his eyes.

-

“The only way that the entirety of Europe…can hope to remain relevant and competitive in such a(n)…economic climate is to rely greatly upon the European Union’s…economic aid. …Europe, in the face of stronger competitors…will need to show a more cohesive and unified stance on intercontinental trade.”
-Dr. Richard Hays, Australian National University

-

Japan takes a breath, swallows, and enters.

China has Australia pushed flush against his desk, naked and panting, as he whispers Mandarin into his earlobes. He lets out a long groan of encouragement as they stand and watch- he’s descended into low English profanities out of time with his tensing body.

How many times has Japan imagined this behind his eyelids? Tanned skin covered by Yao’s communist lapels; English and Mandarin and all the other languages that seep from his pores like heady sweat; Uranium and steel and iron ore and an ever-consuming heat like the furnace of a coal power-station.

He would be lying to say that he didn’t feel a visceral fascination stirring in him. Korea however, next to him, sees Red. Literally.

When they do notice them, Yao rises with a startled cry, though he doesn’t move from between Australia’s legs. “Kiku! Yung Soo! Aiya- I should have locked the door!”

“No, no.” This is public relations, after all. “We should have knocked,” Kiku lets out breathily.

Australia mumbles something that sounds like “Too right” but he doesn’t move. He’s honest with his affections. Modesty is something alien to such a man naked. Yao pushes himself to a stand and holds his hair in a make-shift ponytail in one hand. “I’m so sorry, aru. This…what were you here for?”

“…Korea.” Yung Soo doesn’t move. Japan has to turn his eyes away from Australia’s eyes staring blankly back. “Yung Soo?”

“Ani- Ge-“ Red communist eyes burn holes into the floor.

“-We were just here with the economic records. That’s all. Isn’t that right, Yung Soo?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, takes the crumpled sheets from North Korea’s violently shaking fingers. “Here.”

Yao watches him. And maybe there, he might be worried. “Yu-“

North Korea turns on his heels and glides out.

“It’s just the pressure. America has…said some unkind things,” Kiku lies by way of explanation.

“Don’t listen to that fool.” Australia speaks to Japan but addresses China, self-satisfied and still erect. “No one has the right to treat us like that. Not now.”

Kiku finds Yung Soo sitting next to the door when he leaves. Without blinking he slides down next to him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Always. Always, always like this. I’m nothing to him. Nothing. To anyone.”

Kiku tightens his grip and stoops forward in one mournful movement. “No,” he whispers, because without this they will fly apart. “He loves you. Us. We are all important- all equal, yes? That’s how the philosophy goes.”

Yung Soo is all boiling sentiment and hate that rises in North Korean spikes of blue-red-red. Perhaps, though, he needs this. “Nothing,” he repeats. “No one thinks about me. Always you and China and Australia, and now nobody will listen to me. No help for me.”

“Yung Soo, I love you.” He closes his eyes. “Please. We’ll get through this. You and me. And China. And Australia. Together.”

The change is always visible- North Korea’s angles melt slowly into more gentle curves and slightly warmer skin- and in three blinks his eyes are black instead of crimson. “…Yes,” Yung Soo mutters under his breath. “I…Kiku-“

Kiku hums ‘Tulips, Tulips’ into the Hanbok and wills the trapdoor feeling in his stomach away. They sit like this for a long while; the sun begins to creep towards the horizon. Korea starts to shake, but Japan grabs his fist and squeezes as if trying to press all the fragmented pieces of their lives back together. Japan doesn’t blame Korea. The political climate is volatile, to say the least, and Yung Soo is delicate. Half of him is. “Think about something else. Tulips. Plum flowers. Cherry blossoms. Think about something else.”

Japan has experience with losing himself. Yung Soo and Yao still have the scars and Kiku still says prayers about atom bombs.

Australia doesn’t have that. An impossibility- something that shouldn’t be here in China, but somehow is. Impossible not to like; impossible to love. Once after the many times Kiku had let the island nation into his bed he had felt the bracing energy of him fill him to the brim, and wondered. The Commonwealth and Britain and even America and why it was Yao. “Why did you do it? Why do you let him screw you over like this?”

Usually brilliant during sex but antsy afterwards (as if he wasn’t sure if he was really allowed here), Australia had run a palm down his thigh and shrugged. “China’s a better fuck than England. You’re a better fuck. Better than ‘merica ever was. What about you?”

“This is my duty. This is my family.” And it was about time that Japan stood by his family. For once. “…I didn’t betray Alfred.”

ASEAN is his atonement. This- the blood on Yung Soo’s lips, the trembling of the fingers that grab his when Japan tells him that everything will be all right, the times when Yao holds him close and tells him he loves him- this is his atonement.

There’s a thud from Yao’s office. “Tulips.” Keep him sane. Hold him close. This isn’t about who is important anymore. “Tulips are blooming in a row. In a row, in a row-, red, white, yellow-”

“Wow,” South Korea says.

-

“China’s political alliance with Australia represents a major threat to the financial interests of the Commonwealth in the Asia-Pacific region…within the next few decades we will see a shift from the Anglo-centric economic climate of the current stock-market to a…Sino-Asian dominated reality, in which Britain sadly will play at most a peripheral role. Australia’s continued decision to sell uranium, coal and oil to its East Asian neighbours and not to its Commonwealth partner India…will certainly strain relations between the two countries.”
- Excerpt: Britain after the second GFC, Oxford press, 2023

-

“I want part of Rome.”

Rome turns dumbly towards him, but his face is obscured by the steam. “What?”

What he can see of Germania’s stomach near the water of the bathhouse does not move. “Part…I want a place for myself. Here.”

“Why?”

“…Haven’t I earned it?”

Rome forces out a laugh, unable to take things seriously. “Of course, my friend. Of course.” He leans across to rest his head on the other nation’s shoulder. “Where would I be without you?”

Germania tries to shift away but doesn’t manage to, and it’s nice, like this, Rome thinks. He could get used to the blond hair that curls beneath the water like a living thing between them. Slightly bitter, he notes that his friend’s arm is considerably more powerful than his own now, and he tells himself to get back onto the training ground and out of the library. “You wouldn’t be able to tie your own sandals,” Germania quips in a monotone.

“Ah, but you would still be languishing in the Dark Ages, instead of wearing the armour of the Roman Legion!”

Germania is meant to laugh at that in that quiet, non-demonstrative way of his. He doesn’t. Instead, he tilts his neck and twists his upper body and suddenly all Rome can see is the sinew of his friend’s neck and the curtain of hair that brushes across his vision, and suddenly they’re all too close, too close, pulse rising in his chest and maybe this isn’t so bad after all-

“I’m dying,” he rumbles into Rome’s ear, and then he stands and paces out to find his clothes.

Rome is frozen, icicles prickling heat under his fingertips as he listens to the dripping water from Germania’s hair and can’t move. “Don’t joke like that!” he yells when he catches his breath. “Don’t!”

But Germania’s already gone.

-

“It’s a hard question. …I was a fool. I didn’t realise. I thought that power and riches lasted forever. Then, when I realised, I was old and a hero of the past. And…err…umm….yeah. It’s that…you know…yeah. Yeah…umm…you know what happened?”
-Rome, to Germany; one dark night in WWII

-

“We don’t have time, Raivis. We can’t shut down because Toris is going through a bad time.”

“But he…he’s not coping.”

“We’re not in such a position that we can ignore Germany. We’re not Asia. Heck, we’re still smaller than the DEU. Ivan’s debts don’t wait.”

Lithuania isn’t present to hear the rest of what is said, because he’s already stepped out of the house into the warm afternoon sun and shaken the snow from his boots. He doesn’t belong back there with the UEBC and Estonia in his business suits. Ivan’s gone into hibernation and it doesn’t matter what they do in his absence. Like America. Toris remembers Alfred with a fair amount of sadness. They say, now, that he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

It’s sad because Toris thinks that Ivan might just need a friend too, instead of what Eduard says that he needs.

If he hurries he’ll be back by nightfall and no one will miss him, not with Ukraine the way that she is. Not Eduard at least. Raivis, perhaps, but he wouldn’t say anything. It never really crosses his mind that he might start an international incident. Taking out a long blue ribbon from his jacket pocket Toris trains his green eyes on the horizon. “Do you think that he’ll be alright, Bela?”

The ribbon doesn’t answer.

-

“The EU? The EU was a good idea in theory. It just fell apart, because they didn’t realise that the world had changed. Because Europe wanted to stay at the top of everything. They should have just accepted the change. I mean, you can’t stay king of the world forever, can you?”
- Eduard von Bock, head economic advisor to the UEBC economic alliance

-

One day in the passing week Ludwig swings open the door to his office and almost trips over Prussia on his way out. His heart stops; Gilbert looks up at him with soulless red eyes from the floor.

“I heard you talking on the phone,” he clips.

“Oh.” Ludwig’s played this scenario out in his head several times, but they’d all involved an angry Austria and Gilbert defending him. “It was nothing. I…I’m sorry.”

“God, Ludwig,” he bites as a flash of self-loathing darts through his expression. “Don’t apologise. I’m not fucking Roderich.”

“Were you there…long?”

A snort. Maybe it means yes. “It’s not your fault, Ludwig. It’s more than a month and you’ve just been a good boy the whole fucking time. I…I don’t know how you could live with it. I saw it coming. Who is it?”

“Who was whom?”

“Don’t play the fool, West. I know you better than you know your fucking self.”

That stings. How do you know that?, he feels burning right on the end of his tongue. How do you know who I am? I’m not who you think I am. I’m just me.

Ludwig feels as though he should sit, or offer Gilbert a seat or something, but he just keeps standing in the doorway, hand frozen on the doorhandle and Prussia watching him from where’s he’s sprawled on the carpet of the hallway. “…Japan. We just…we talk.”

“Oh. Yeah, he’s cool. Total fanboy in the 18-hundreds. Cool.”

“You’re not happy.”

“I am!”

But he’s not; Ludwig can see that. He’s grinning but his gaze drags along the floor and he’s curled up like a boy left out of something. “Gilbert,” he begins, but he’s cut off.

“You know what? We visited him, back when he wouldn’t leave his house. Before you were Deutschland.”

“Before I was Deutschland?” But…he’s Germany, isn’t he? “Who was I?”

“Just Prussia. Baden. Hesse. Westphalia. A little blond boy with a stick up his arse. You did a whole heap, and then Bismark had this idea to make you a country. I was getting sick of it, to tell the truth. Being someone. It happens, West. Hell, everybody in Europe is everybody else.

Ludwig thinks of Prussia, who is actually East Germany, who is always Gilbert. “You…you were part of Germany in the war,” he says without thinking. “Japan told me.”

Prussia physically reacts, freezing and staring but not there. He’s not breathing- it looks as though someone has simply stopped the world and he’s caught in a gap in time. He calls him, shaking him, but he doesn’t respond.

Then, the doorbell rings and Gilbert jerks, taking a rattling breath like someone drowning. “The door,” he mutters. “The door. Get it. Come on.”

Shaken, Ludwig follows him down the stairs, holding his hand. Prussia’s shoulder had been icy to the touch.

-

“It was a bad idea. Everything… Europe. The UN. Money. The GAAEN was a bad idea in the political tension there was. I feel very sorry for Germany. He…its people must be suffering.”
- Kiku Honda, political advisor to the PM of Japan

-

The person at the door isn’t Italy. Ludwig doesn’t know whether he’s disappointed or not- he doesn’t have time to think about it because Prussia pulls him aside and just stands, dumbstruck.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands. It’s a slender figure with shoulder-length brown hair pulled into a ponytail. They have a blue ribbon tied in their hair and a resolute expression on their face. “What the fuck?”

“I want to see Poland.”

Prussia doesn’t even have the presence of mind to sneer. “You crazy son-of-a-bitch.” Instead, he sounds almost impressed. “If the UEBC found out about this, you’d be dead, you bastard. This is insane.”

He doesn’t look set to back down. “Please, Gilbert. I’m begging you. As a friend.”

Gilbert doesn’t blink. “I’m not the DDR anymore, Lithuania. We’re not behind some fucking Iron Curtain anymore.”

“Are you blind as well as ignorant? The Iron curtain is right here, between us. Right now.” The man, Lithuania, stares back resolutely. Ludwig can see his jaw trembling. “The UEBC and the GAAEN, and me stuck alone in the middle! If this isn’t the Cold War all over again, I don’t know what it is!”

“I’m not your friend, Toris- I don’t have any obligation to you. I’m not the DDR anymore.”

“You think you can just stop being who you are? You’re Gilbert. Gilbert, after the war, was one of us. We worked together. We cowered together. You think that now, now that you’re nothing more than a part of your brother’s Empire,” he waves an abrupt hand towards Ludwig, “you’re still not the same person? That you’re not still Prussia?”

Gilbert doesn’t answer that.

“I’m not going to last much longer like this,” Lithuania admits after a while, defeated. “I’m not going to last, East Germany. I just want to see him-”

“-Let him.” Ludwig surprises himself, the words welling up from nowhere, but as Prussia turns to him the only thing he can think of is the emotion in Lithuania’s green eyes. It’s familiar in the worst kind of haunting way.

Prussia is the same person that Lithuania wants him to be. At least, Ludwig hopes so. Gilbert starts to say something, but Ludwig ignores him. Suddenly, he feels reckless, in a way like Italy and daisies had been. “This is my house, Prussia. I’m letting him in.”

“If Austria hears about this,” Gilbert says with critical awe in his voice. Eyes steeled, Ludwig just puts his hand out for the key to Poland’s room.

“I’m stronger than he is.” A click. It’s unlocked. “Just go. Quickly.”

“Thank you. Thank, Ludwig.” Lithuania’s breath tickles his neck, and then he leans forward and presses the door open. His steps ring thinly in the air; Gilbert and Ludwig just watch, fascinated, adrenaline running high.

“Not you too?” is the first thing Poland asks, eyes frantic. In Warsaw, the unemployment rate is falling, but slowly.

“No. Not like that. It’s nothing like that. I’m still in the middle, where we were, Feliks. I’m fine.” Poland tries to say something, but Toris hushes him. “I’m just here for now. I can’t stay.”

Poland’s eyes are wild with rebellion. “He’s got me here. I don’t want this- my boss is an idiot, and I hate him, Liet. I don’t want to disappear.” Prussia tenses in the hallway, but Ludwig’s hand on his wrist presses hard; Lithuania and Poland don’t notice, in their own world. Feliks grips his friend’s shirt. “I don’t want to be part of GAAEN.”

“You don’t have to stay,” he replies insistently. “It’s just for now. Ludwig’s just trying to help. You have to trust him.”

Then Poland starts laughing and Ludwig’s never heard anything that scares him more. “Trust him? Trust him? Germany?”

“Yes. He’s not the same person that you think he is. It’s not his fault.”

(‘…that you’re still not the same person?’)

Watching Toris and Feliks join their hands on the quilt of Poland’s sickbed, Ludwig wonders if he is still Germany, or Deutschland, or whoever he is meant to be.

He would like to think that he is the same person. But Japan’s Germany, and Prussia’s Germany, and Poland’s Germany, like the mirrors in his dreams, all seem to point in different directions.

-

Lithuania thanks him and holds his hand long after they have finished shaking them.

“His hands were cold,” he murmurs to Gilbert as they watching him through the windows.

“What about me?” he thinks he hears him reply, but he’s so far away and alone that he’s not really sure. The distance between them is further now; he steps towards him but it's still there.

-

A Crow’s lament
Published in Austria with the permission of the University of Vienna

“Surely you speak nonsense,” says the Goldfinch to the Crow
“For I do not see such a cage at all!
“Land o’ plenty here, in winter, spring, summer and fall
“And lo! The trav’ling birds seek ne’er to go”

“Outside good birds freeze and starve where winds do not abate
“You recognise this not for what it is-
“A Paradise on earth?” Mr Goldfinch asks. “Cages?
“Why cry murder, crow, against your fate?”

“Fate?” Herr Doktor Crow hunches his coat. “Play you the knave?”
“You little fool. You do not see the truth?
“Where Mr Stalk wades discontent? Wolves, once long o’ tooth,
“Now act the Dog and gambol on the grave

“Of what we once were known.” A crow’s lament behind the bars
Of a cage gilded in gold and seed
In a world just so chained by suburbia and greed
And where birds see not the sky-line for the stars

Goldfinch does not stir but the Herr Doktor strays not
From a soliloquy so artf’lly drawn
“Are we not creatures of the air? Of branches, not the lawn
“Where Herr Eagle watches our titles rot?”

“My good Crow!” the Finch says “Doubt not I your good intention
“But no Eagle here will seek to wring our necks!
“Your poetry, so fine and bold, speaks not the benefits
“Of comfort’s hand- all crumbs! Of the suspension

“Of belief! What is wrong with the seeking of warmth her’
“When we all know we have no other way?
“Here we are safe! Will you now scoff and turn ‘round when we say
“The murder that you witnessed hath no murderer?”

“Enough!” the Crow cries loud “Hear this and know your disillusion!
“Our truth and lies are simple dichotomy!
“Our Eagle here is Germany, our cage a failed economy
“And our final pred’tor dissolution!”

-

After it all, he wonders whether it hasn’t all just been a dream, something rolled up and thrown into the air made to vanish, like memories and histories. The entire week that passes is not in him- he feels alarmingly detached. Somehow, everything that has happened doesn’t belong to him.

Ludwig wakes up again, in the middle of the night (it’s all he does, he thinks. All he does is wake up from dreams and not remember).

He suddenly knows where that forlorn, lost, mourning look is from. Why Lithuania’s quiet, accepting sorrow had looked familiar. Where he recognises the eyes of somebody missing the one that they love from.

Austria’s eyes, he realises, are like that.

-

DYK?

Sorry about the delay, folks- end of year exams are eating my life. Next update will come in a 2 weeks or so, after my last exams are over. Then I'm free. :)

Next time: Germany visits Italy; Berlitz eats some chickens.

I'm in love with this. It's just... so good. God, all of them break my heart. It very well written, too!

I'm so happy to see you haven't abandonned this, I can't wait for your next update..!

Yaay, you updated!

More soon, please!

This is stunning. Confusing and strange in all the best ways, I love the way you keep revealing little things but it's still all so disjointed. Absolutely wonderful.

Good luck with your exams! ♥

My god this is amazing..and Australia joining ASEAN? Wow.

6. “Ich werde an dich denken”

(“I will think of you”)

-

Prussia wakes up at dawn; Gilbird is crowing and scratching at the window to be let out. So he lets him out and watches him strut out on the roof tiles and try to impress the hens. He gets cold though- Gilbert returns to his covers, feeling his own pulse in his neck.

His blood is very thin.

Prussia remembers a lot of things in mornings like this while he waits in the twilight. Most of it is about Austria and Hungary and he, the way they used to be. Then he thinks about Germany, when he’d been small, back when he’d had to kneel to look him in the face. How he’d used to hug him and laugh into his neck as he lifted him up onto his shoulders and how, right then, he’d been happier than he’d ever been before.

The only one. They’d been the only ones.

That’s when he sees the note on the bed-stand.

Gilbert, it reads in tight, precise script. I am leaving for Italy. I plan to be back by the end of the day as I am traveling by ICE Bahn. I’ve fed Berlitz. Please keep Roderich off my back. Say hello to Poland for me. I hope you can understand.

He traces the signature and a hardness builds up in his lungs. A tightness coils in his stomach; he just drops the paper and rigidly turns to face the other way. Prussia doesn’t move at all as the hours go by. He just keeps his eyes open towards the wall, skin all goose-bumps under the covers because he’s still cold, because East Germany is still poor.

Maybe Italy’s warmer. That’s why. It’s fine. Awesome.

Eventually, Austria bursts in. “Gilbert! Get up. Now. It’s well past 10, you fool-“ He breaks off at the sight of his lonely back curled up into the wall. For a second there is nothing to be said. “Where’s Germany?”

“Germany doesn’t exist anymore,” he answers flatly, and then Prussia just laughs and laughs and keeps on laughing long after Roderich has left.

He laughs because he’s not lonely, dammit.
-

“Oh, and America?” He turns to go, shooting him a small smile as he turns up the collars of his jacket. “You are remembering Afghanistan, da?”

In an odd reversal of how things should have been, Ivan’s hands are bare, and Alfred clings to the gun at his hip. “What about him?” he snarls, hostility barely hidden.

“I am merely asking, friend Alfred. You are little too quick to assume, I am thinking. It is pity- I remember when you were much nicer.”

“And I remember when you were a goddamn communist superpower, but I don’t bring it up at every opportunity, do I?

Ivan’s smile is laced with pity that would freeze blood. “Just being friendly, America. Afghanistan is still not happy, the poor man. I tried to help, and then America is trying, and then…you are not trying anymore. And Pakistan, and Tibet. Lots of sad people- but now, I am thinking maybe that India is happy to try. And China.”

“Nothing to do with me,” Alfred bites, but he’s visibly loosened up and looking at him with something reminiscent of the old America- as if he knows what this means diplomatically. “…But they hate each other. Like…like-“

“Like us?” Russia chuckles a little. Different clothes, different decades and different governments have made him change. He looks more like a human and less like a Great Bear. “Oh, I am not hating you, America. Maybe you are hating me. But you hate everybody, da?”

“I don’t-“

“Naïve. Why do you think Australia and Japan are being friendly to you? It is because China needs your help to beat India. I am not a fool, friend America. Eduard is a nice boy, but he is making friends with England and India so he can make money. Not for me. Is pity.” Ivan shrugs, a sad sort of smile on his face. “Because we are weak.”

With that, Russia finally descends the stairs and walks across the asphalt towards the road. America trains the shotgun sight on the back of his head, but his hands are shaking and he can’t get a clear shot anyway. Goddamn it.

“Who…who was that?” Canada asks him later.

Alfred keeps fingering the lapel of his bomber jacket, eyes disturbed and appraising.

“Ivan,” he replies after a pause. Alfred cocks his head almost subconsciously. “About China. And India.”

Caught in transition- unsure if his brother lies to the Right or the Left and hopelessly at the mercy of everything out of his control- Canada wishes that he could help America, but he doesn’t know how. He wets his lips. “I’ll talk to Arthur about it, if you want.” Alfred hums and brushes past him.

Storm clouds are gathering, Kumajiro mumbles, and Matthew just hugs him closer and watches the patterns of smoke in the sky.

-

I just came to apologise and I would like you to forgive both Roderich and myself for our behaviour when you visited. I just came to apologise and I would like you to forgive both Roderich and myself for our behaviour when you visited.

He gives the knocker a few smart raps.

Italy lets out a joyous little cry as he lights up. “Germany!”

“Italy. I…I just came to apologise and-“

But Italy doesn’t wait, clapping his hands and nodding as if he understands. “Oh Madonna mia, Germany! Come in! I’m so happy!” He pulls insistently at his shirtsleeve and somehow Ludwig finds himself dragged through the house and into the kitchen. There are wide windows looking out onto a garden brimming with vegetables and daisies that pop out obnoxiously from cracks in the pavers- the entire room is filled with late morning sunlight.

It’s beautiful. Ludwig stands, dumb, Italy fluttering in and out of his field of vision, making coffee and finding some cake. There are pumpkins and potatoes and tomatoes heaped on the table like a renaissance painting; this is very different to anything that Ludwig has seen in his short memory.

He turns to look at a picture frame on the wall near the windows, but before he can Italy laughs beside him. He pushes him towards a seat looking out into the yard and presses a mug of hot coffee into his hands. “Just the way you like it. Strong, milk, no sugar,” he recites.

“Aah…Grazie,” he fumbles, overwhelmed. He sips at it, turns the mug a few times, leaves it. Ludwig is not used to exchanging pleasantries, and it takes him very little time to get to the point. Presently, he forces himself to take a breath and look Italy in the eye. “I know that…this is sudden. I’m sorry. I just felt that I needed to apologise for what happened last time…”

Italy cocks his head and the sun catches his hair. His own espresso remains untouched. “No, I was being silly. I know that Germany is very busy now, because he has to look after his family. I shouldn’t have gone. I should have known better. Were you in trouble from Roderich?”

“I…I just don’t want you to think that…I hate you. I don’t. I think. I’m just confused- I don’t even know why…”

Italy doesn’t answer for a long while. The two of them stare out in comfortable silence at the garden and at a squirrel jumping through the branches of a pine in the middle distance. Ludwig places his coffee down on his lap. The Italian fairly jumps up. “Germany- the coffee?”

Ludwig can’t help but feel that Italy has danced around the point. “It’s rather bitter,” he admits nevertheless. “Do you have some sugar?”

Italy scrambles to the kitchen, apologising over and over, the frantic sounds of kitchen cupboards being slammed sounding behind him. Ludwig, left alone with his thoughts, finds his eyes wandering back over to the picture frame next to the window.

“Italy?” he tries. No answer. Feeling a little bad for prying but unable to stop himself, he rises to his feet and adjusts his glasses with a finger.

It’s a blond man and a brunette waving at the camera- the blond has his arm raised in something that could almost be a wave if it weren’t so embarrassedly half-hearted. It’s Italy, obviously. He looks almost deliriously happy; the sky behind him is a shade of blue that Ludwig didn’t think existed in nature. Written underneath in loopy pencil is a caption: “Gelato day, July 1938, taken by Kiku. Me and Germany on the way to Gelato store.”

Me and Germany.

He leans closer, disbelieving. His hair was longer than this- he had glasses. The familiar way that they stand together isn’t something that Ludwig remembers. He follows his arm with his eyes and his stomach sinks- his hand was on Italy’s hip. This intimacy is alien to him. Shaken, he whips around, a million questions on his lips. “Italy, I-“

He stops.

“I-Italy?” He stumble-trips towards the figure collapsed at the cupboards. “Italy! What…what’s wrong?”

Italy’s…crying. The man’s crying, for Heaven’s sake- a ceramic pot between his knees and kneeling pathetically in front of the shelves. Confusion chases through his mind as he slides down beside him, hands hovering uncertainly in the air between them. “Italy!” he cries. “Italy, are you hurt? What’s wrong?”

Italy hiccoughs and shakily wipes the tears from his eyes. “Oh Germany!” he wails. “I…I don’t…”

“…Yes?”

“…have any sugar left!” he fairly sobs.

…What?

“I…I just…Only Antonio ever takes sugar…and he hasn’t been here for so long, and…oh Germany!” He throws his arms around his shoulders and begins sobbing theatrically into Ludwig’s shirt.

…What?

“Wait,” he interjects, the feeling of Italy’s body pressed close against his own throwing him off balance as much as the absurdity of everything. “You’re crying because you don’t have any sugar left?”

Italy pulls back to speak to his face through the tears. “Germany never takes sugar! Never! Not once in 100 years!”

Ludwig just stares at him. “All this over sugar?”

He nods. Sniffs. Nods again.

“…Why don’t we just go and purchase more sugar, Italy?”

The other nation lets out a cry of joy at his idea. Then, Italy kisses his cheek. Ludwig feels his eyes widen and his face grow hot.

He came to find answers, but Ludwig just shakily pats Italy’s hair to calm him and can’t help thinking that things have only become more complicated.

-

The first time Rome kisses Germania it is an accident. He’s drunk, Germania’s drunk, and with his long blond hair and the fact that he determinedly tries to braid his hair into plaits with an unfocused, dreamy sort of a look on his face, Rome forgets that his friend is male and just softly leans in and runs his tongue against his lips.

Germania punches him in the face. He has a hell of a hangover in the morning.

-

“Ve! And Germany, look at this!” He indicates another photo with a giggle. He has the photo album opened on his chest so he can look at it as he sprawls on the sofa- Ludwig has to lean over Italy’s head to see properly. “The first EU meeting! I fell asleep, and you told me off for drooling on Vash’s papers- remember?”

He doesn’t. Wordlessly nodding, he drowns the feeling in another sip of red wine. Italy’s breath on his chin smells like sugo and alcohol.

“I wish,” Italy says softly after a pause, “that we could spend more time like this.”

He swallows dryly. “…How so?”

He becomes dimly aware of Italy’s hands snaking up to the back of his head, tangling in his hair at the base of his neck. “Like we used to. In World War II, and then in the EU…”

“World War II,” he says after him, musing through the alcohol. “When Japan…when Prussia was part of me.”

“When you lived with Austria,” Italy titters, subdued and eyes half-lidded. “I’d ask him about Hungary, and then you’d scold me, and then I’d try extra hard to make up for it…”

The sun is setting in Italy’s garden, bathing them in comfortable redness that makes Italy’s cheeks seem flushed. Ludwig can’t look away. He doesn’t want to look, but he can’t help himself. “Hungary?” he says thickly. Italy smiles at him and leans into him purposely, but he grabs his wrist and pulls him away firmly. “You’re drunk.”

“Mmhmm.” He turns languidly through the album, looking for something. He finds it, tilting the page back so he can see. “See? There she is. With you and Roderich and Gilbert at the official conference 4 months ago. She’s very pretty- Germany?”

He’s frozen. A heavy sweat breaks out on his face and his eyes start to dart all over the photograph, and Ludwig drops the wineglass onto the rug. This woman is familiar. She smells like tulips and keeps aprons and makes scrambled eggs, and… “…Who-“

“But that’s Hungary, and there’s Belgi-“

The atmosphere and the sunset and the wine and Italy’s smile is vanished in an instant. No matter what Ludwig had felt a minute before- now it’s as if something has broken free and split his mind and this is like a trigger on a gun. The world closes off until all that matters and all he can see is this photo and the girl that Italy’s finger still rests upon.

He tears it off to look closer. Italy protests, ve-ing worriedly; Ludwig grabs him, hard.

“Who?” he demands. There’s nothing in his lungs and there’s a vacuum in his mind where the memories are, but Italy’s just pushed a switch and he can’t breathe. “Who…who is this..Belg…Who?”

“Nothing, Ger- please-“

“Who is it?”

“-Belgium! Belgium! Germany, you’re hurting-“

“You’re lying,“ he hisses out, defensive for no reason, feeling threatened. “There…there is no Belgium. It’s just me, and Austria and Prussia and Poland. I don’t know any Belgium. I…I don’t- you’re lying!”

The album thumps to the floor. The sound makes Ludwig jump, and then he blinks, sudden spell broken, and suddenly aware of his fingers around Italy’s throat and pressure against his palms. Italy is choking.

He jumps back to his feat, looking at the scene with terrified eyes. “Oh God-“

Italy, still, smiles at him, holding his neck, shaking; Ludwig did this. “It’s…it’s alright. Germany would never hurt…never hurt me-“

He snaps.

“Then I’m not Germany, then!” he bites. Immediately his voice starts to shake as he voices the fears in the back of his head. “I…I don’t know who I am. Maybe I used to…used to be…But that’s not who I am! Austria, Poland and now you…If Germany was so wonderful, then I’m not Germany, am I?”

Italy just looks at him, and the hurt is plain to see. It’s painful. Ludwig knows abruptly that they’re both as shaken as each other. As panic rises in him, one thought flashes clear in his mind.

He has to get out of here.

“Don’t be silly, Germany,” Italy wavers. His neck is red with his handprints. “Don’t say that. I…Germany loves me, right?”

“Don’t ask me!” he forces out. It sounds like a plea. “I’m not that man in those photos, Italy, I don’t remember- it can’t be me, I’m Ludwig- I’m not Germany-“

Italy interrupts him, tears in his eyes threatening to fall. His voice is uncharacteristically hard and cold. “Then, does Ludwig love me? Does the GAAEN love me?”

Ludwig just stares at him, breathing rapidly as though cornered. And he has flashes, of Italy smiling, of war and worry and love and Rome, and a little girl, and love perhaps, but it’s all gone and it’s not his-

“Does the GAAEN love Belgium?”

He’s not even saying it as an accusation. It’s just a question, but hearing that, and seeing Italy, and being confused out of his mind and wanting nothing more than to just run away from everything, Ludwig flees.

He runs, stumbling out of Italy’s house into the rosy evening, ignoring the cries that filter after him.

-

The second time Rome kisses Germania is also an accident. Rome is drunk with victory and good strong wine, enjoying the lovely company of a few young slaves after a great conquest. He’s not even sure if Germania is around, but he’s still there at the entrance to his chambers, keeping a stubborn eye on the door with his sword at his hip.

Uncertainly, Rome rises from the litter and saunters over to his friend. He clasps his arm around his shoulders very suddenly, leaning in close to the junction between his ear and his neck.

Rome is drunk. Germania is not.

“Drink,” he says loosely. “You should be celebrating. Rome…is victorious!”

His friend doesn’t say anything to that. This is obviously a personal insult of some kind. Germania’s eyes are hard as stones and his mouth is set in a weary frown.

“Come on,” he coaxes so that his lips brush the hairs of his nape. “We won. Don’t you love me?”

He can feel him stiffen underneath his fingers. “We?” he echoes faintly.

Alcohol messing with his inhibitions, Rome is an inch from his friend’s lips and his eyelids are lazy and hooded. He opens his mouth to say, ‘Yes, We,’ and it’s only then that he realises that he is closer than an inch because his lips are open to say words but they’re also open and on Germania’s mouth. And then he’s kissing him.

Germania pulls away, face barely coloured, mouth set in an impassive line. “You’re drunk,” he notes dryly, but his voice shakes ever so slightly.

Rome laughs. “Of course!”

He sheathes his sword and steps away, but not before telling him in perfect monotone, “You’re Rome. Everyone loves you. Of course I love you.”

When Rome returns to his orgy, Germania watches for a while.

“I am become Rome, as far you are aware friend,” he mutters. “I must love you.”

-

He’s not aware of where he’s going. He just runs, because he needs to. And he thinks that he’s run like this before, shaken by shame or fear or some other emotion like that. He has, away from somebody like Italy, but exactly who it is has his mind muddled. As he sprints down a cobbled alley he’s sure it is a man who is dying with a sword in his neck; minutes later he remembers it being a little girl with red flowers in her hair; and then it’s Italy himself in a uniform holding a machine gun.

It is inevitable that he runs into someone. He’s knocked down onto the pavement and suddenly, suddenly, he doesn’t really want to get back up because he’s as confused as fuck.

“</i>l’Allemagne?</i> What are doing at this time of night?”

“Nothing,” he whispers out, momentarily mad. “I’m not Germany.”

The man kneels beside him and gives him a kind but quizzical look. “Well, of course you are not, technically. You are the GAAEN. But that does not answer my question.”

Ludwig stops and looks up at him. He’s unfamiliar. “You know who I am?”

“I would not be much of a neighbour if I didn’t, non?”

“I…I just…I just need to get out of here. Please-“ Ludwig’s only borders are with Switzerland, Italy and…

France eyes him for a moment. A distinct look flutters through his expression- he nods sympathetically. “Come,” he offers. “Strasbourg is not far.”

Ludwig does not know how he ends up kissing France, or even if he is. They’re in Strasbourg one moment, and then Ludwig is thinking of what Gilbert and Roderich will say.

“Don’t worry.” France traces his shoulders from behind, kneading the stress out. “You can stay here, if you want. It’s close to the border.”

Ludwig wonders what he has done to deserve this treatment. Whether France is a friend of Germany's- after Italy Ludwig cannot be sure of anything.

It could be the confusion that Austria puts him through. It could be that nameless distance that suddenly exists between Prussia and he. It could have been Japan, and belonging, and secrets, like World War II. It could be the smile that Italy had showed him, that face when he’d told him that he wasn’t-

It could be the whispers in his ears as Francis leans in with a stooping motion and his hair curtains the damn, damn world out of everything. Whatever it is, it makes Germany close the distance between their lips and then he swallows deep in his throat and deep in France’s throat, and everything is warm, warm, warm. It calls him to forget the past and to forget Italy, forget Prussia, forget Belgium, forget everything but you and me and now.

“Ludwig,” Francis breathes into his lips as they dip and go again. “Easy. Just breathe, non? Like the Lisbon Treaty. Are you sure-“

Something small and tentative is stirring and waking inside Ludwig, has been stirring in him since Italy. France moves, but he doesn’t care, too focused on that feeling stretching within him, feeling it grow and coil, a great well of heat.

I can’t, he thinks. He presses his forehead into France’s collarbone and gasps. He pulls as his shirt like a man possessed. I can’t, I mustn't-

Francis halts against him, a moment later all warm and liquid and forgiving, holding his face in his hands and saying small things, little comforting trifles. He loves him, he says, and he’s important, and that’s all that matters.

“I’m fine. I just need-” Ludwig’s voice tells him. He feels his mind becoming drowsy, as if passively being controlled by a baser instinct, but his body betrays him and keeps moving, licking. “Just…confused and Germany, and Italy-“

-

The third time Rome kisses Germania, Germania actually kisses Rome, and he doesn’t know if it’s an accident or not. Because, yes, they’re drunk, but maybe that’s got nothing to do with it anymore. Aegyptus is eyeing him salaciously as the two of them sip at their wine. Germania, as always, is across the room watching the door like a hawk, sword at the ready.

“Who is he?” Ancient Egypt asks him, leaning into him and running a nailed finger along the inside of his wrist.

“A friend. Just a friend.” Rome kisses her neck and curls his hand around hers. “But you, my dear, are beautiful.”

Rome doesn’t think to look up over the next few hours, so he doesn’t notice Germania disappear.

He finds him later, sitting out on the steps to Aegyptus’ temple, staring out at the stars. Rome totters forward, kneels beside him. He smells alcohol. “You’ve been drinking,” he remarks stupidly, blinking and muscles aching from sex.

“Of course.”

“I’d thought you’d left me. For a second.” He laughs. “You should have stayed.”

“No.”

Rome looks up at the stars too, and frowns. “What are you thinking of?”

“The sky,” he mumbles drunkenly. “Freedom. My people. Why I’m here.”

“Why, then?”

“Because you’re Rome. I want to…to make a difference. To be…”

Rome blinks, but then when he opens his eyes he’s pushed against the pillar beside him and Germania is whispering something in his own language into his skin, larger body pressed against his, and he thinks he hears the words to own a part of you, to mean something to you, to not disappear-

Then, Germania kisses him gently, hands cradling his jaw and hair falling around them, but when Rome reaches for him he’s gone, and his running footsteps echo through the stone floors of the temples.

-

-and then the next thing he knows is sweat and pain and pleasure, and he’s naked and so is France, and well.

Overwhelmed by the sense of lack of control, Ludwig rolls over away from France. Austria and his warning come to mind and don’t let him fall asleep. Guilt floods him.

Maybe, he thinks suddenly, France loves him. And then that reminds him of Italy, and Germany, and whether France had loved Germany too, or whether this all meant nothing.

The clock is ticking the hours away in the darkness. Abruptly a strange shuffling floats through the darkness, and then a loud curse. Ludwig closes his eyes. “I should have known you would follow me.”

“Why hello there!” Rome pokes his head out from behind the bookcase. “What are doing in France, you poor fool? Why not Italy? You were right there!”

There’s something that he’s been meaning to ask. “Italy…is your grandson, isn’t he?” He goes direct, mind cut down to the bare blades.

Rome squeaks joyfully like a small mammal. “Yes! Isn’t he just adorable? He’s a good boy! Good boy-“

“Then why aren’t you following him? Why me?”

He knows immediately that he’s struck home. Rome’s expression drops directly into neutrality, abnormally so. France shifts next to him, mumbling something small in his sleep.

“Maybe I can’t,” he admits eventually. “Maybe there’s a reason.”

“What is it?”

Rome flinches. But just when he thinks he might get a straight answer out of someone in this crazy world, he’s switched again, ridiculously bright and cheerful, grinning, and it frustrates him to no end- this idiot doesn’t stop to think about how Ludwig feels. Never does, in all the years he’s known him, bastard, bastard. “…Can’t remember. Maybe you could tell me?”

Ludwig can’t, because he can’t remember either- not that he has anything to do with this madman at all. He turns to try and sleep, but as he does he can feel him get closer, and closer and-

There’s a shadow of something- a kiss? A good night wish? A taunt?- but he’s too far gone to know it.

-

“Belgium,” Ludwig retorts at breakfast, where France is being entirely too friendly and accommodating. There’s an incessant buzzing noise in his ears.

Francis just fills his glass with orange juice. “She was a lovely girl.”

An electric sizzle in his veins. Like something inside him trying to break free. Discord.

“Austria-“

“Is still as stuck up as ever. Pleasant enough in bed, I imagine.”

“Austria,” he stresses, “forbid me from talking to you.” As he watches, Francis pulls his hair into a ponytail and genuinely laughs. He reaches for the pepper.

“Forbid? How could he forbid the world’s third greatest economic force anything?”

“But why would he-“

“Perhaps,” France quips as he lays a hand on top of Ludwig’s fingers, “he wants you for himself.”

“But why-“

“Because you’re powerful? Because nations- myself included- are attracted to money and influence?”

Ludwig closes his mouth and sees the angles at play within France’s irises.

“…Because we’re all poor, non?” Francis adds after he swallows a mouthful of omelette.

-

The first thing he does when he arrives back home is find Gilbert. He’s out in the yard with Gilbird watching with baleful eyes from the fence.

“You weren’t back last night,” Prussia says shortly, throwing seed to the chickens. “Roderich stayed up for you ‘til this morning, you know.”

That surprises him. A flash of guilt suddenly assaults him. “It was getting late, and…it was too late to get back…He offered to let me…”

The lack of response from Prussia’s emotionless back drives him to silence.

“So you got what you wanted, then?”

“I…” Did he? What was it that he had wanted? “What do you mean by that?”

“So you fucked Italy?” Gilbert concludes with a shaking intensity in his voice.

“No, I didn’t, Gilbert. Why would you-”

“Who was it then?”

He worries at his teeth with his tongue, considering for long moments. “…France.” Prussia’s back is reflecting the sun back into his eyes. Chickens litter the garden between them. He wonders why it is that he seems so far away. “I met…France,” he says, almost challenges.

He’s not prepared for the howl that escapes Prussia’s lungs.

Chickens scatter in all directions. Ludwig flinches and the air begins to swim around him with feathers and sound and the sunlight coming off of them, and up is down is north is south is East is West-

Gilbert falls to his knees, hands gripping at his own hair, something long building inside of him let loose and raw and exposed. Ludwig doesn’t think this is like Prussia- the one who defended him from Poland and Austria and everyone and touched his shoulder in the dark, and slept next to him. Because they’d started out so close, when Ludwig had known nothing else, and there’s a million things left unsaid between them now that he’s gone and his world has widened.

He’s left him behind.

“FUCK!” Gilbert screams with all the air he can muster, collapsed in on himself. “FUCK! Shit-shit-SHIT!”

“Gilbert, what-“

“FUCK YOU!” He whips around, eyes red and full of desperation and madness. “No! FUCK YOU! Always this, Germany! Always this! I’m breaking my fucking back here for you and you never fucking give a shit, do you!? Anybody but me. Everybody but me. In World War II it was Italy, and Japan, and even Roderich, and then all I am is dissolved, like I never fucking existed- and then when the wall comes down you love me, love me, but then you fucking forget that I exist! And where am I then? So busy helping the rest of fucking Europe that you forget your own brother like you always do! And I die, here- East Germany is still dying, you Scheissdrek, because you never remember me! France? Sure, don’t look after your own damn country; I’m not worth it! Well FUCK YOU, Germany! Fuck the fucking Deutsch-Verwaltete Wirtshaften Europas!”

Ludwig takes a few steps away from him. The need to flee assaults him again. It boils under his skin- it’s not natural. He needs to run away from this because this isn’t right, he thinks distinctly as he breaks and bolts. His face is wet because he’s crying, hot because he’s afraid and angry all at once. The dejavu’s there again, like with Italy, like with everything in Ludwig’s life now. His life is leaking, or fracturing, or collapsing like Prussia in the yard.

He passes Austria who’s at the door, staring at them, lost and with a thousand angry questions, but he just pushes him aside and doesn’t stop until he’s locked in his room, flat on his back on the floor with his heart pounding and staring up at the forming cracks in the white plasterwork of his ceiling.

-

Dark. Dark, creaking floorboards, creaking door, so old, everything in this house, this house, he is so old.

Somehow there is…Prussia. Here.

Gilbert. Asleep. Skin under fingers is so cold, like ice. Part of him. Warm him up. Warm…last thing that-

Fingers warm. On neck. Warm. Warmer, warmer, so red now, redder, redder- Prussia awake or asleep or dead- is he dead?

Scream. Chickens. Barking. Barking-

-God.

Warmth.

Ludwig doesn’t want Gilbert to be angry with him.

He does not remember this.

-

Too long.

DYK?

Next part up in few days!

Oh, wow! This is just amazing, Anon...

More soon, I hope?

I'm just as confused as Ludwig but I LOVE it!

ugh, anon.
I'm so glad I randomly decided to check out this fill. It's deliciously well-written, the future is imaginable and believable, and the suspense of this chapter is just AWFUL.
I'm terribly confused as to what's all going on and how it will end up. Gilbert is breaking my heart, as is Italy when Ludwig can't say he loves him. I'm not usually a huge gilbert fan but farmer!Gilbert gets major props from me. I hope you touch more on Lithuania and Poland if only because that little scene with both of them worried about disappearing really made me bawwww. I can't say I understand the sudden flashes of Rome, but seeing as I think he's a bamf I definitely don't mind.

tl;dr WAY TO GET ME HOOKED

I'll admit it. I teared up. Poor Italy. Poor Germany. Poor Prussia.

"was"? Belgiuummm /sobs

CAPTCHA: N.J involve; why yes CAPTCHA, America is involved

This. That other fill. Is this- oh god, I'm not sure if I can stand it, as it's beautiful and brilliant. And I want to ask after so many, but I'm sure they're already gone. And Germania, Germania... OP feels stupid, that she didn't get that now or in the request post. But maybe I'm not getting it at all. I'm not sure, but regardless: this is awesome. After you're done with it all, I'm sure I'm going to have to read it over ten times to make sure I catch all these small things you're slipping in that make so much sense.

And, in a moment of levity, recaptcha believes 'MATTHEW slacking'. Actually, I think he's probably working pretty hard.

7. “Falls wir uns nicht mehr wiedersehen”

(“In case we never see each other again”)

-

The next morning, Ludwig wakes to find bloodied feathers strewn all over his room, in the sheets, on the carpet, in Berlitz’s fur especially. Damn it, he growls in his mind. This has to be…

This has to be…

It’s his fault. It’s…It has to be. It’s…God, why couldn’t he…Him. Him. It…

Well.

“Austria?” he calls down the hall. “There…there are feathers all over my room.” And I don’t remember how they got there.

Roderich takes one look at the blood and feathers and pales. Closes his eyes as if he is about to be sick.

“Don’t just…don’t just stand there, you fool,” he tells him in a shaken voice. “Clean it up. It’s your mess.”

Austria stares out at the garden for almost an hour after breakfast, almost as if he expects somebody to come in, but no one does.

Berlitz spends the morning retching up feathers.

-

To clean out his sock drawer
Prussia’s Birthday
The date and time of Gilbert Weilschmidt’s (second) disappearance
How feathers ended up all over his room
-Things that Ludwig Weilschmidt has forgotten throughout history (Partial List)

-

Germania often watches Rome sleep. At first he thinks it is a habit; then, he merely assumes that the blond man is taking his bodyguard duties to the extremes, as he is wont to do.

Then, Rome becomes aware that in the darkest hours of the night, when they are all but alone, that Germania talks to him. Into his ears. Against his lips. It is times like this that Rome wishes, very suddenly, that Germania could be nothing more than a friend and an equal. These are the only times, as he listens to him, and his voice is deep enough to send his pulse racing.

“You ignorant, ignorant fool,” he whispers bitterly, stirring the hairs over Rome’s forehead. A familiar twinge pierces the Empire’s abdomen. “If I am to die, I wish only that I could live again as the sacred Roman Empire! The sacred, blessed, holy Roman Empire…your life story is wasted on such a foolish, childish brute. That you could see, as I do, your face as you deny me. You think you are a friend to me? When you kill my people and draw them away from my homelands and grow fat on the blood of my people- you brute, to call me the barbarian. One of us must die, for this farce of a friendship to end- I am equal to you- I am greater than a slave-”

Germania chokes. “By the Gods, that I was Rome, and you I, and maybe then you would see as I do…what fools we both are become-”

Rome is awake as Germania turns away and chokes again- awake to feel the gentle fingers pulling his hair free of tangles, awake to feel the warmth of his friend as he sits by his bed and begins to hum a song from his land that Rome cannot remember.

“I wish…I wish only to mean something to you. To own a part of you for myself. Is that…” He pauses. “It is insane.”

Rome stays awake long after the other is asleep, an ache growing steadily in his chest.

But he does nothing.

-

“I can’t sleep unless I know you’re safe. I think it’s really silly. Mr Austria always tells me off for sneaking out of my room, but he and Miss Hungary are always awake.”

There’s a break in the talk and Italy can feel the sheets next to his neck being smoothed by little hands. He moves his toes, but stops quickly, because he thinks that the other boy might have seen or heard- the Holy Roman Empire is scary like that sometimes, and Italy doesn’t think he should be awake.

“I wish I could talk like this when you’re awake,” he says. From his voice, Feliciano thinks that he must be looking up out of the window at the stars. It sounds wistful. “I can be…I can be friendly. And nice. You’d like me.”

Italy does. He likes him. He likes him, but he’s too frightened to turn over and look the Holy Roman Empire in the eye and tell him.

The Holy Roman Empire scares Italy sometimes, because sometimes he says things that he doesn’t understand that don’t really seem like things a child should normally say. The way he holds his sword is too sure for a young boy. The certain way he talks about himself, the proud arch of his eyebrows, and the things that he whispers to him on nights like this intrigue Italy as much as they scare him.

“-and you’re not allowed to let your elbow lock, or they’ll stab you in the neck. Like that.” He must be making a gesture. “’Cause that’s the one place you can’t get the armour. If they get you there, then you’re dead. In…in 10 years. Or less.”

Feliciano shivers under the covers and squeezes his eyes shut harder, thrilled and afraid all at once. Countries take centuries to die- he can’t imagine being alive, but then…then just 10 years later, being gone. He never thinks to doubt what the other says.

“But I’ll protect you. I’ll…I’ll kill them if they try and hurt you. I…I don’t want you to disappear. I want you to be happy. I…”

He shuffles, and the sound of his cloak rustling against his covers makes him tense as still as he can and scrunch his face up, trying to look like he’s still asleep. A pause, and he slides off the mattress. Italy relaxes, but then the HRE is close close and Feliciano’s heart is thrumming in his little chest and-

The Holy Roman Empire can’t bring himself to kiss the girl he loves, and he just slumps and blushes and hits himself for thinking such things and being so bad, and he wonders for the thousandth time if this would really be his first kiss, if he remembers how to do it and he thinks he remembers doing it, but he doesn’t because he hasn’t.

He tiptoes out.

“Why am I so…awkward?” he asks Austria, who is stroking Hungary’s hair as she sleeps with her head in his lap and reading with a faint smile on his face.

“Go back to bed.” He turns the page and lets out the smallest of small laughs- a breath of air. “Some things take time.”

-

Ludwig can’t throw the feeling that something’s wrong. It follows him the entire morning- if he had to describe it, he would liken it to the feeling of having forgotten something very trivial that nonetheless gnaws away at the back of your mind.

It prevents him from working on the impossible pile of paperwork on his desk. Surely one country could not accumulate so much bureaucracy? It doesn’t help at all that he keeps turning in his seat and failing to catch the figures in the corner of his eye. He’s pretty sure there’s a girl. And maybe two, but he’s probably just going insane.

At 10 am he writes the word ‘Belgium’ on his pad and circles it in red pen a few times. Then, he finds that it keeps catching his eyes he makes notes on annual imports. He stares for a few seconds. Tears it off and throws it into the bin.

At 10:30 he puts down his pen, takes a very slow, shaky breath and finally asks Roderich, who looks at him uneasily and frowns. “Why would there be anyone?” he answers too quickly. “It’s only Poland and I.”

“Oh.” It strikes Ludwig that he hasn’t, since he can remember, properly talked to Austria alone like this. He wonders why. As Roderich places a mug of coffee on his table, he turns to the next form in the pile. And stops.

Austria glances worriedly at him. “What?”

He swallows. “What…language is this in?” He indicates the title of the document with a nod of his chin. His fingers are trembling.

“Hungarian,” Austria murmurs eventually.

“Why…” He’s shaking now, and the nagging has risen to a thud. “Why am I signing documents in a language I don’t understand?”

Roderich simply walks out of the room towards his piano without looking back.

Ludwig suddenly does not feel like drinking at all. He rises without looking down at the papers scattered on his desk and lets his feet take him to the bathroom to wash the taste of bile out of his throat. There’s a painting in the hall- he must have passed it a hundred times on the way to breakfast.

He sees it for the first time. Because Austria’s in it, in finery. And a little girl in a dress. And a little blond boy dressed as if for a funeral. But he sees it this time because there’s a woman in it in a peasant dress on Austria’s arm with long brown hair and kind eyes, and this woman is the woman from Italy’s photograph.

He only saw her for a moment, but Ludwig knows her now to be Hungary.

-

“It’s India’s fault,” Australia says distractedly. He believes it. He would like to believe it.

“India has done nothing wrong. Nothing.”

“Well now, neither ‘as Yao when you wanna talk like that.”

“What,” Arthur asks presently with vitriol in his eyes, “is the point of this visit?”

Australia snorts, then looks up at him through his eyelashes. “India is part of the Commonwealth, isn’t he? This is a perfectly appropriate way t’ talk. Everyone is taking sides in this, you know. They have to.”

And has anyone, England wants to shout, anyone considered what it must be like for the people of Afghanistan? To have your own country used as a chess piece pawn in a war between superpowers simply itching to get at each other’s throats? With money so great that the world can only sit and watch at choose sides?

Germany might have. Cold War, old War- but Germany’s not Germany anymore. Arthur swallows, largely irrelevant.

“It probably all started with Kabul,” Australia muses, odd expression on his face. “You know what they said? This was before I was close to China, mind. They had some sort of agreement. We’ll look after Afghanistan together, right, and then Tibet and Pakistan can, you know…just kinda follow. If you know what I mean. Share the spoils, kinda thing. Didn’t work.”

Why is Australia telling him this?

“God,” he admits presently, “it almost makes me sick.”

Arthur looks at him, not sure if all is lost or not. “Tell China that.”

Australia just laughs at that. “I’m his ally, you dimwit. Imagine that- Hey Yao? You stop pickin’ on Tibet and Afghanistan, eh? And leave India alone? I’m not gonna screw myself over like that. Besides, I’m fine with a war. India’s fault for talking to Iran and stuff. Yao’ll win.”

“If you truly believe that,” he says very slowly to him, stressing each word, “then why do you keep coming here like this?”

Neither of them speaks. Australia remains frozen with one foot shaking on his toes, one hand down to grab his hat at his boots. England’s emerald eyes don’t blink. Time seems to halt for a moment.

“…Pay back. For the colony. I like seein’ you surviving at my mercy,” he answers eventually. The sun coming in through the window is uncommonly bright, and he doesn’t kid himself that Arthur believes him.

“You’re insane,” England declares, defiant and weak in the face of a son grown far too tall.

“I guess.” He rises after a pause. “…War does that.”

-

To Master Ludwig Weilschmidt, the most esteemed Head of the European Economic Alliance,

As the seasons pass us and the plum blossoms begin to bloom, I would like to direct the attention of my family to international relations. Having heard extensively of your recent exploits in Europe, and being long supportive of your efforts to restore and support your neighbours in such a time of economic uncertainty, I would be most honoured if we could partake in bilateral talks regarding several issues affecting our peoples.

I believe that if we manage to combine our efforts it would be able to address many contentious issues, including the current standoffs in Afghanistan, Tibet and Pakistan. I am sure that you are aware of India’s encroachment upon our theatre of occupation, and the many suspicious attacks occurring along the border patrols. Iran’s ever expanding nuclear program, and the Uranium/Fossil Fuel trade that exists between the Middle East and the Subcontinent are also important items of interest. I think it most prudent to talk on these matters and attempt to find common ground, thus opening the matter to international debate. Please consider my offer and respond at your own convenience. Your presence would be a delight and great privilege. Japan always speaks very highly of you at our meetings.