hetalia_kink

Something happens that makes Germany's borders change significantly. Maybe there's another German-Austria thing, maybe they make Prussia a country, make there's an invasion, it doesn't really matter. What does?

Oh, hai, guess what: our blond haired, blue eyed German does that memory loss thing. Again. (Obviously, going off the HRE->Germany theory.) Either lulz or angst insures. Bonus for the Prussia/Austria/France custody battle.

(And, aww, poor NItaly.)

1. Prologue: “Gestern Nacht lag ich noch lange wach”

("Last night I lay long awake")

-

“…And so it comes to this.” The man before him is shaking like a rabbit before a snake, though he tries not to show it. He can see it, and it makes him feel dangerous. He shifts and the blade touches skin- the feel of it jolts up into his arm. “You would do this to me.”

As if it were not his fault in the first place. “Stop speaking.”

A grin, warm and fiery like a supernova. “But words are all I have before one such as you. Alas, it seems, you would betray me.”

“Stop speaking,” he mutters curtly, wrist uncertain now. He grabs it to steady it, pushes it forward again, eyes cold.

“I thought you were going to die. That’s what you told me.” He laughs, jittery with a weapon so close to the soft flesh under his chin. His armour clinks as his chest rises and falls. He wishes it wasn’t a sound so familiar. “Didn’t I mourn? I did. I cried. I cried, and you know why I-“

“Shut up!” he snarls, and this time, nerves frayed under the stoic veneer, he actually does thrust, and there’s blood on the bronze of his legion’s uniform, red blood on their sandals, red like the scarlet of the Empire. Blood. “As if it’s not your fault!”

But he can still talk. Always talks, this scatterbrained fool of a man- he talks without thinking. Acts without thinking, and that’s why they’re both here in the first place, isn’t it? Because one had never stopped to think, and the other had never stopped thinking. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t. I just didn’t think- I only wanted you-“

The fear there is almost fond. Fond. And just maybe he loves him. Him, not those women, not the perfect-

He can’t do it, he realises.

It’s too late now. As he feels the sword slip from his fingers, he falls backwards and closes his eyes.

-

It is very hard to breathe like this. The blood keeps seeping into his windpipe, so it requires a violent cough to dislodge everything with a wet tearing bloody sound. It fits the battleground he lies on. Wet and muddy and bloody is he.

He wonders if he is about to die. He wonders if a country can die, like this. He hasn’t seen anyone die, not even…not even when…back in the House…

The rain isn’t hitting him. The raindrops aren’t striking his forehead. Pulling himself back into reality he can only just make out a shape looming over his small body. Out of the gloom, there are red eyes that are looking at him.

Too tired, too far gone to care, he thinks he can smell a field of red flowers and the sky and freedom, and smiling, he closes his eyes.

-

“He’s going to kill himself.”

The man fiddles with the pen, staring blankly ahead.

“If you don’t do something we’re going to starve. Please. Just this once, I swear.”

But he’s not allowed to. Is he?

“The UN wants your help. We need your help. Please.”

So be it.

He signs the papers, trying to recall where he’d kept his uniform and if it still fit him. His head hurts like it was splitting.

He closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward on the table.

-

“Wei?”

“Kiku?” The voice on the other side of the phone line is buzzing and crackling with interference, as if from somewhere with bad reception. Japan listens, gabbles some words in quick English, nods. He cups the receiver to shield the sound.

After he murmurs a gentle goodbye, a voice is raised. “Who was that?”

“Alfred.” Japan sets down the phone with all the refined practice of a geisha. A performer in his own right. The man sharing his bed is an actor too, and he stares at him from the tatami mats, picking at a band-aid.

“Poor bugger. Can we-“

“Yes.” He swallows down the now-familiar lump in his throat and stares out into the garden. “We can afford it.”

Neither of them sleep particularly well.

-

He opens his eyes.

The ceiling is white. That is the first thing he thinks. The ceiling is unbelievably white.

The second thought is a query as to why the ceiling is white, and more importantly, why he doesn’t remember it ever being white before.

His third thought is a realisation that he doesn’t know where he is. The foreign ceiling is probably just an extension of that. Well, if he didn’t know, he’d just have to try and follow his actions he could remember from yesterday in a logical and precise order.

And that’s where the problem is reached. There isn’t anything there.

No matter how he gropes for a memory his mind can find only air. There isn’t anything to remember. Everything before the ceiling is dead to him.

Panicking, he pulls the covers off of himself and strides to the door. The room is alien. His feet are alien. When he reaches out an arm to turn the doorknob the angles of his wrist and the knuckles of his fingers feel like something mechanical. Stumbling through a hallway and through room after room, he finally finds a bathroom and shuts himself inside.

The man looking back at him from the mirror above the sink is a stranger.

The shock makes him dizzy. As the world swims, he dry retches and coughs up phlegm that tastes like bile, and after that, he opens his eyes again. His reflection stares back at him, blank, frightened face telling him something very important.

He has no idea who he is.

-

DYK?

This little baby may just turn out EPIC. Is roughly planned out for approx 10 parts, although not really sure- we'll see.

Confused? Please do be. Hopefully this will unfold in the ensuing parts. Like a mystery novel. lawl.

The title merely references a wonderful German song by Farin Urlaub, "Abschiedslied". Am I the only Farin U./die Aezte fan out here? :3

Oh my, this is a promising start.

Looking forward to more; your style is something I enjoy reading.

neat, can't wait to see what happens next <3

Even though there isn't much yet, I already love it! I sense this is going to be great.

(FUCKYESÄRZTEFANSINAPHFANDOM /dead from awesome)

This promises to be so epic! I'm in awe of it already. Can't wait to see where you take it.

Also much love for Die Ärzte~

... This anon offers you her firstborn child.

Also, is the partner in Kiku's bed Australia by any chance? (bugger being a staple of Australian slang and the whole bandaid thing and all...)

2. “Ich wollte immer weg von hier”

(“I always wanted to leave this place”)

-

He likes the next frame. It’s a picture of a blond man with three dogs- he likely wasn’t prepared for the shot, because one of the dogs, a German Shepherd, is frozen in the act of jumping onto him, and the other two are coiled around his legs. He looks, in all honesty, as if he is about to fall over and be licked to death.

But he’s smiling. In the other photos on the wall he often isn’t smiling, but in this one he is smiling as if he is about to laugh. Seeing yourself smile for the first time in photos you don’t remember taking is an oddly uplifting experience.

Looking at the faint reflection of his face in the glass of the photo frame, he tries to lift his lips. It comes out more as a grimace.

The next picture frame is hung above a small mantelpiece, and is at once so busy and so colourful that it makes his eyes rather dizzy. He has difficulty focusing on one thing and leans forward to peer closer, but only succeeds in bashing his shin against the furniture.

One of the objects to fall to the ground is a pair of frameless glasses. Automatically, he lifts them to his eyes and blinks. Everything is suddenly clearer- so clear, that he doesn’t know how he had managed for so long without them. Looking back at the picture he now recognises his blond image once again, this time standing with his arm around another man, thousands of people behind them in a crowd. There’s a concrete wall some distance behind them, but the people are swinging hammers at it, dressed in the most lurid colours he could imagine. The man has red eyes, tiny red pinpricks behind the glass.

He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t hear the loud herald of footsteps behind him. “West? Come talk to him, the fucker won’t sit still and he’s wearing us out-”

He wheels around, feeling like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. He has no idea why, but he has the feeling that he’s done something horribly wrong by standing there and looking into this man’s life. His life.

There’s a man standing in the doorway in black jeans and a crumpled shirt, and when he sees him all of his previous thoughts vanish. He has white hair. He’s an albino- his brain supplies him with the term even though it’s foreign to him.

It’s the man from the photo with the wall, except now he’s looking at him with an odd expression. “…Why the hell are you wearing those?”

“…What?” he asks, feeling stupid.

White-hair closes the distance between them with a few brisk steps. “What do you mean, what? Those aren’t yours.” He reaches for the glasses. He ducks out of the way.

“But…they…” He really felt as if everything was moving too fast. “They fit…me. I just thought…”

The other stops, looking at him hard and impatient. “You thought they were yours? Ludwig, you don’t even wear glasses.”

Ludwig. His name is Ludwig, unless it’s West. Ludwig West? No, just Ludwig, because listening to the man before him mouth that name feels right. He has confidence, at least, that the man in the photos is this man’s Ludwig. Even if he is not.

Ludwig takes a breath. “I’m…I’m sorry. I thought that they were mine. I apologise. I…” He takes them off, and now that they’re gone he really does think that he needs to find his own pair very soon. Everything is slightly out of focus as he hands them to him. “Here.”

Albino doesn’t take them. “Ludwig? These aren’t mine. They’re Roderich’s.”

“Who?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“Ok West- what the hell were you drinking last night?” His tone is careful. “We’re at home. Berlin. I’m Gilbert. Prussia. You’re Ludwig.” He seems to think that short, sharp sentences are better for penetrating a hung over and disoriented brain.

“Oh,” Ludwig offers. He doesn’t even realise that he’s pulled the glasses back onto his ears. “…I know you, don’t I?” It’s not really a question.

Prussia looks at him and feels something sinking in his stomach. He needs to find Austria.

-

Austria, young as he is, does not remember Rome. More’s the pity- he’d heard wonderful things of him, and the stunning culture in Italy certainly warranted a closer look. Perhaps with an army in tow. One of these days.

The boy in his care, sitting sedately and nervously in his parlour, is another matter all together.

“The Holy Roman Empire?” The boy nods his stubborn little jaw. Roderich doesn’t know what to think. “Rome?”

No, he says in a child’s voice surprisingly low for what Austria assumes to be his age. He tries to explain Charlemagne and then Otto the first, and the succession of the Emperor now that Rome is fallen so long ago, but it doesn’t make much sense. It’s all broad brushstrokes of ideas.

“You are most certainly not Roman.” Austria has seen Rome, or what is left of it, in the care of the young Italy brothers. This ragamuffin obviously has delusions about his place. “I asked you instead who you are. Were.”

“But I am,” he insists, twisting his cape, all sincerity in blue infant eyes. “I’m the Holy Roman Empire. That’s all. That’s who I am.”

“Yes,” Roderich thinks he feels a headache coming on. The boy simply couldn’t make sense, could he? “I meant before that. Before all of that.”

“I don’t understand.” A quick shake of the head, too small for the hat. “Nothing.”

Austria dislikes losing his temper, but he can feel adolescent anger creeping up inside of him. “Then why do you know, you little fool? You’re not the Roman Empire at all! Holy? Roman? I’m asking you is what you really were before you got this foolish delusion into your head!”

The room falls into silence. Roderich curses under his breath and forces himself to count to 10 before opening his eyes. When he does, he thinks that he’s made the boy cry. With guilt swooping low in his stomach, he realises that he’s trembling and looking down, biting a child’s lip.

“But he…told me. He told me. That I won Rome. My boss…”

“While you are in my house, you will not be caught entertaining such lies. Understood?” Austria turns away. The door slams behind his back and when he wheels around again, the boy is gone, tramping up the staircase to his new bedroom.

It is only late into the night that Austria makes himself open the door and peer in. The clothes are thrown around them room and the child’s head in buried in a pillow. For a while, Austria just sits and watches him sleep.

“What am I going to do?” he utters under his breath as footsteps echo on the marble floors.

“Austria, sir?” Hungary calls softly from the doorway. She approaches slowly, respectfully, still a maid in her washing apron. Roderich doesn’t raise his head.

“He says he doesn’t remember. But surely that’s impossible. What am I going to do with him here? A ruler and a nation can’t just-“

“Why not?” Elizaveta’s voice is low and hushed with cautious emotion a little like gladness. “Why not? Why can’t we just be like this?”

Austria stiffens.

“They say that people suppress memories of bad things. Maybe,” she continues, hand only barely brushing against his, timid, “it’s not a bad thing that he doesn’t remember.”

Roderich wonders if she speaks from personal experience. In the half-light of the room, as they watch the boy curled defensively up in the blankets, an almost foreign feeling creeps up into Austria’s war-sharp mind. It’s anything but sharp. Like the curve of Hungary’s tentative smile next to him, it is something small and soft and gentle.

He’s here now. The Holy Roman Empire is here, right now, and something in Elizaveta’s fingers and in Roderich’s heart tells Austria that maybe that’s all that matters.

He takes the cape and the hat and hangs them carefully up next to the bed stand. Perhaps he could get used to something new.

-

“Jeez, kid. Give you a hunk of Rye and a Bockwurst and you’re up on your feet already!” Gilbert appears with his hands on his slim hips and black cloak fluttering in the wind. An angular, clumsy youth traipses guiltily back to him through the long grass.

“I’m sorry. I only wanted to see what was on the other side of that big tree. I’m sorry.”

Gilbert’s eyes sparkle. “Nah- just teasing. Take it easy. It’s only yesterday that I was still nursing your sorry arse back to life, kid. By the way,” he claps his hands as if remembering something. “Came to ask you something.”

“Yes, Mister Prussia?”

For that, he’s rewarded with a fierce ruffling of his hair. Gilbert bares his teeth good-naturedly. “I’ve already told you, kid. I’m your brother now. Bro’s fine. Just Prussia. Or Prussia the mind-blowingly awesome five me-“

“Bruder.” He…he likes the sound of it.

Prussia continues, sliding into a sit and pulling the boy with him. “Anyway. You remember anything ‘bout yourself yet?”

The boy looks out onto the swaying grass. He really can’t remember. It’s completely gone. But not wanting to disappoint his new brother by being anything less than awesome, he twists the black hat between his fists and takes a shallow breath.

“I don’t…I don’t know. But it must have been somewhere bad,” he mentions a little shyly.

Prussia’s interest is piqued. If the little guy isn’t flushing a little. Adorable, he thinks with a grin. “Why do you say that, Wessi?”

Something clicks in not-yet-Germany’s heart at the smile directed at him. He lets himself fall gently against Gilbert warm, firm chest and looks up into the sky between the white bangs of his fringe.

“Because,” he whispers, “otherwise, I don’t know how now I could be so happy. To be here.”

It’s one of those moments so softly sacred and overwhelmingly comfortable that Prussia, for the first time in long decades, finds a lump of unsaid gladness building in his throat. He blinks slowly as something like belonging coils in his chest. Then the boy-nation is pulled against him cape and all, and they collapse onto their backs, a tangle of black in a sea of bobbing green all around them.

“Fuck,” Gilbert sighs into the air through his grin. “ It’s an awesome day.”

The sky above them both is as blue as a new beginning.

-

When Ludwig first steps into the room behind Prussia’s back he notices the smell before all else. The room smells like sickness. Not precisely rancidness and sweat, but something a little more abstract. The room smells like industrial smoke, and riots, and a failed economy.

The room smells like a sick country.

Prussia makes straight for a figure sitting next to a bed pulled against the wall. “Oi, Roderich,” he begins, casually. This man is someone familiar. “I think something’s up. Serious.”

Ludwig finds his gaze captured by the figure in the bed instead of the conversation. At first he thinks it’s a woman, but his naked chest is uncovered by the blankets. It’s a man, although his almost bony arms and long hair speak otherwise. His skin is the sallow colour of a man very ill, eyes fevered with political unrest.

Then he sees him staring, and something comes over him. “You,” he chokes. “Oh no. Totally not happening.”

“…What?”

“You think I’m going to take this? How dare you.”

“Poland,” Roderich warns, turning aside. But Poland’s not listening, it seems.

“I don’t want to be here,” Poland coughs angrily, face flushed scarlet. “I’m totally through with Germany, and you, and, like, fucking the economy. Screw DEUtschland.”

Ludwig doesn’t have a chance to hear more because Prussia suddenly growls and grabs the sick nation by the neck, and the man, Roderich, pushes him just as suddenly towards the door.

Sitting in the next room, a library, the pair can still hear Prussia’s rolling, guttural voice raised in angry spikes of what sounds like a one-sided conversation. He thinks that Roderich is talking to him but he can’t hear anything through the one thought that stays in his mind.

Prussia was angry. Because the sick man, Poland, had said something to Ludwig himself. He doesn’t understand the significance of anything that had been said there, and that isn’t really the point. Prussia was angry on his behalf.

The thought rests comfortable in the vicinity of his heart and seems…

…familiar.

“…Ludwig?”

He starts to attention.

Roderich across from him folds piano fingers in on themselves. The look he gives him is an odd one. “Now that you are back on Earth, would you like to explain what Gilbert was attempting to convey?”

How can he do that if he does not know himself? Ludwig lets out an explosive breath. “I am not sure I understand.”

“There is not much to understand, Ludwig. I merely want to know what is wrong.”

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully, lowering his eyes behind his glasses. “I don’t remember.”

A pause. Roderich is a little straighter in his chair, eyes slightly wide. “What don’t you remember?”

“…Anything.” Telling the truth like this to a man close enough to a stranger makes Ludwig feel uneasy, but he tells himself to deal with it. He’s lost, and if he doesn’t trust anyone then he doesn’t know where to turn next.

Roderich doesn’t sound alarmed. Yet. “Nothing? What about yesterday?”

A shake of the head.

“The Depression?” he tries again. “The EU? The Frankfurt Paper? The UN?”

“No,” he replies. The panic and disbelief building in the man’s face is making him nervous.

“You’re Germany.” Roderich takes to his feet and leans over the table. “I’m Austr- the Austrian Protectorates. Gilbert’s East Germany. Felix is Poland, and Elizaveta is…You’re Germany. Germany. The GAAEN. Die DVWE- don’t you remember?”

“No.” Ludwig shakes his head and covers his face in his hands, feeling sick. “I don’t remember at all.”

-

Meanwhile, somewhere else in the world, a doorbell is being rung.

“Holy Hell, Alfred. What the hell are you doing?”

“Loading a gun. What’s it to you?”

“Well, Ni Hao to you too,” he shoots back, cocking his head roguishly. “You’re not going to make any friends that way. God, you’re a temp’ramental bastard sometimes, aren’t ya?”

“I wanted to talk to Kiku.”

“That’s why I’m here. Kiku’s busy right now.” One thick eyebrow rises artfully. “And you wouldn’t really shoot me, would’ya? After all we’ve been through?”

Alfred doesn’t reply, the glint in his eyes somewhat dangerous. That’s the problem really- just when the world thinks that America may be starting to talk sense, along comes a world crisis, and he reverts back into a territorial, gun-loving conservative. Despite what he may seem to be, that’s not what his friend wants.

“You just need to open up a bit, y’know? Be a little more open to trade. Don’t matter who with. Europe, us- heck, Ivan? Anyone.” Almost sincere now, leans forward with uranium dust in his hair and money at his fingertips. His accent is like sand slipping under a Sidewinder. “C’mon. Kiku wants it too. You know this protectionist crap is only hurting you-“

The click of a shotgun being loaded halts his speech. He curses himself- he’s gone too far too fast and Alfred, clearly, isn’t in the mood for talking.

He exhales and very deliberately places an envelope on the floor.

“I don’t need your shit.” America’s voice chases him out the door.

“Sure,” Australia mutters, checking his watch and swearing in Mandarin. “Sure yer don’t.”

-

DYK?

Ok, if the length of this chapter is anything to go by, then this is going to be LONG. >.<

So! Somethings become more clear! ^^ Please, feel free to include any theories as to what's happened in comments, cause I find them fascinating. And kudos to anon who mentioned Australia in the last part.

Going at this pace, new parts should be up every 4-6 days. At least. Possibly faster. Depends. :)

Sidewinder- species of snake that travels horizontally over sand, some native to Australia

Oh, this is shaping up to be a very interesting fill already! (Australia speaking Mandarin? America's a crazy isolationist? The 'Austrian Protectorates'? So many questions @_@)

Keep it up, this anon is happily looking forward to it. ♥ Also YES, AUSTRALIA.

What is the timeline for this story? Anyway, I'm waiting impatiently for next parts!

3. “Ich träume von der weiten Welt”

(“I dream of the wide world”)

-

The world is a big place. But recently, Germany thinks that it might be getting smaller.

The Internet does that. Global Warming does that. But more than anything, money crushes them together and makes the space between them worth less and less and less-

Money makes people do things that they wouldn’t otherwise do. And nations are simply groups of people, lust and need and desperation magnified. The world is getting smaller, because the air that they breathe is getting cheaper, between Russia and Estonia and America and Japan and Korea and China- they’re all forced together and huddling to stay warm as the stock market drops sub-zero.

Germany does not like to huddle. But the doorbell rings, and it’s cold outside, Ludwig- Ludwig-lass mich rein, sonst friere ich, mein Gott-

So Germany puts on the kettle and tries to readjust. There is cake on the sideboard, and he slices it slowly into thirds-

(Germany, he’s here, isn’t he? Take me to him, please, I need him, I-)

-into quarters-

(Please. I do not want us to freeze, and it is so cold, we-)

-into fifths-

(-need your help. Germany, sweetie…please, I don’t think that I-)

-into sixths-

(-can do this alone. You can help us, can’t you? Only until the storm blows over.)

-into sevenths-

(I don’t need your help. I’m totally fine. I’m fine. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t-)

-into eighths.

And, huddled around the kitchen table, sharing their EU cake on chairs and stools and holding steaming mugs of Kakao, Germany doesn’t think that things could get any closer than this.

But

They

Do.

-

Gilbert Weilschmidt keeps chickens.

Ludwig first learns this when he wakes up and Gilbert is asleep next to him. Which is weird enough. But then, when he splutters and flushes and tries to move away he can’t, because there is an entire flock of sleeping birds perched on top of him. Now convinced that this is some sort of a nightmare, he has no choice but to stay rigidly awake with Gilbert’s face almost pressed into the crook of his neck and one of his hands loosely looped around his upper arm.

Strangely, the only thing that comes to mind as he lies there is that East Germany’s skin is ice cold against him. It really should bother him more, but for some reason sharing a bed with another person doesn’t feel as unfamiliar as it sounds.

One of his chickens turns out to be rooster. A loud one. And so, Ludwig isn’t really in the mood for Gilbert’s whole spiel the next dawn as he lies there next to him under a pile of snowy white chickens and introduces him to each of his ‘girls’. When he is finally freed, he spends a good hour and a half cleaning up every single feather from between his blankets and under his bed with anal retentiveness.

But at least it makes for fresh eggs, he admits after that, chewing through a mouthful of omelette.

“Damn straight,” Gilbert cackles, Gilbird crowing triumphantly on his head. And he touches him again, on his shoulder, and it’s cold but somehow intimate. “If I’d known fucking agriculture was this fucking awesome I’d have done it centuries ago!”

And Ludwig wonders how old this man, this nation- his friend?- really is.

-

“There will be three people you need to watch out for,” Austria warns him as he picks out a tie to match his shirt. He shakes his head and turns back into the closet to find another. “Under no circumstances- absolutely none- are you to talk to them alone in your current state. Do you understand?”

He nods, feeling the gravity of Roderich’s words. Berlitz, the German Shepherd, whines and cocks his head from his place by the door, and Ludwig shushes him under his breath.

Prussia explodes from the bathroom in a bundle of feathers, his crazed menagerie following him. “Austria! We’re out of gel!” Raising his voice over the clucks of half-a-dozen hens, he glances shortly at him. “Not that it matters. I’ve always thought you looked too uptight until now anyway. Your hair’s getting too long for this shit.”

“Now.” Roderich’s words come out in little puffs of air against his collarbone as he loops a deep red tie around his neck and tugs. He stutters and flushes a little, pulling away and telling him that he can remember how to do this at least, but Austria won’t have a word of it. “Recite what I told you last night.”

“Do not provoke anyone by staring, touching inappropriately or making unneeded comments. Wait your turn to speak. Do not rise to any bait that may be laid, and do not make any lasting treaties with people from how they look,” he rumbles out, inwardly raising an eyebrow. Surely this was common sense?

“This’s why I left politics years ago,” Gilbert mutters into Ludwig’s ear, who doesn’t know whether to smile or to be mortified.

“And?”

“-And the purpose of this meeting is to smooth over tensions in the region and present Europe as a united front. I am to treat any representatives from the UEBC, the Middle East or Asia with utmost respect, and am to accept any invitation to cordial discussion.”

Straightening up, Roderich looks severely at him. “Except for Russia. You will not accept any such invitation from Braginski. We need to avoid an international incident.”

“As if he’ll be there. He wouldn’t bother, and besides, it’s that Baltic nut job you have to worry about now. I wouldn’t talk to any of them. Not after Poland.”

Ludwig, in the almost week he has been here, has not been allowed to ask about the man in the spare bedroom.

He seems to consider it before continuing. “Neither will you be speaking alone with France or China. At least until this whole incident blows over. Understood?”

“Yeah, yeah- West gets it. We get it.” Gilbert’s face is a little sour. “And I stay behind and baby-sit. Oh I know I’m going to have the most stimulating time listening to the Pole whine at me.”

Feeling inexplicably guilty for leaving him behind, Ludwig buries his bitterness and tries to smile conciliatorily at him. “Maybe you…you could show him your chickens?”

Gilbert snorts and flings himself backwards onto the mattress, bringing his head close to Ludwig’s lap. The chickens flutter immediately after him- the bed is covered in a snowdrift of white and red. “That pansy wouldn’t know what to do with a hot chick if she landed butt naked on his face.”

-

Roderich Edelstein plays the piano.

Ludwig learns this within the first few hours of ever seeing him. When nothing makes sense, on that first day with glasses and Roderich and Prussia-Poland next door, Ludwig refuses to believe a lot of things because they couldn’t, shouldn’t be true. After hours of talk Austria presses a palm to his forehead and strides out, rushing past Gilbert in the doorway.

Gilbert slides down next to him and doesn’t say anything. And, in that silence, Ludwig first hears music rising up the stairs. It’s something loud and angry and full of octave scales and minor accidentals.

“Yeah,” Prussia responds when he asks, laughing though Ludwig can hear that his heart isn’t in it. “Yeah. He plays piano. Always has. He only plays Rachmaninoff when he doesn’t know what to do.”

It is only later when Ludwig wakes up to the sound of music that he discovers something else. It’s the small and slightly tinny sound of an electric guitar and a backbeat singing a siren’s song from across the sheets. For a while he doesn’t open his eyes and simply listens to the unfamiliar music.

(Keine sieht mich, bin einfach nur da-)

He turns over and sees Roderich curled up with his back to him. Two earphones lie entangled and abandoned on the pillow next to him and the ghostly light of an ipod screen makes Austria’s hair glow blueblack in the darkness. He’s barely in the bed, pressed so far away, an inch from the edge- as if his body is not sure if he wants to be here, or if he is allowed.

(-so viele Fragen. Krieg keine Antwort-)

Entranced, Ludwig reaches out to touch his back. He’s shivering violently under the bedclothes and his skin under his fingers is like the skin of a dead man.

Watching Roderich’s proud back huddled and hooded an arm’s length away makes Ludwig feel lost, and he does not know why.

(Ich komm nicht raus-)

He silently shifts across, places an arm around him and pulls him close. Presses his face against the pale, freezing curve of his neck, like Gilbert had only so many nights before. They stay like that, and eventually Roderich stops shivering, and Ludwig closes his eyes and listens to the insect hum of his ipod into the night.

(-ein Geisterhaus.)

Austria is gone in the morning. Standing dumb, watching his back at the piano afterwards, Ludwig doesn’t think that he has the heart to ask him why.

-

They’re at the opening of the European Union economic summit, and Austria need not have worried. The turn out is a record low.

Ludwig wonders idly as he watches the small crowd of people in various attires, just how many ‘lucky absences’ constitutes a ‘boycott’.

There are no representatives of the UEBC, Roderich whispers to him with relief evident in his voice. France himself is absent due to sickness, though a representative from the embassy is happy enough to shake Ludwig’s hand and offer him a beer. More important than anything, though, is that China is not present

The only time Ludwig is alone that night is after a hundred handshakes and exchanged business cards and after a rather vocal spat between Greece and Turkey in the corner of one room, when Austria needs to relieve himself in the restrooms. He stands near the bar as he nurses a small beer and watches figures come and go through his fringe. Spain is standing across the room and talking to a rather small man in a dark brown suit.

Ludwig, for no real reason, finds that he cannot look away. He does not recognise the man’s back. He’s certain that he hadn’t been approached by him earlier in the evening. But something stops him from blinking, from drinking even, and the two of them turn their heads, and it may be in his direction-

“GAAEN-san?”

He tears his eyes away in time to see a short man lean into a deep bow before him.

“Nin Hao, GAAEN-san. Such an honour to see you here.” The man’s eyes are black and strangely expressionless as he rises out of his bow with a gentle smile on his face. Ludwig swallows. “I would avail upon you to discuss with me certain matters, if I would not be intruding upon your valuable time.”

“Ah…Of course.” He stiffens and thinks that nodding and acting taciturn for the time being is probably the best plan in Austria’s absence.

“I trust you have been well, old friend? It has been many moons since we have talked,” the man says, watching his face carefully. The next smile directed at him has the spark of sincerity. “The glasses- they belong to Roderich-san, do they not?”

“Well…I…I needed them, and Austria had a spare pair,” he fumbles. But the smile still lingering at the other’s lips is contagious, and Ludwig finds something within him slipping into something almost familiar.

“GAAEN-san,” the Asian man begins again, but he stops him.

“I…I would rather that you just keep calling me…Germany. It is more comfortable.”

“Like your hair?” The other’s tone is light, almost a laugh, and maybe in his own language it would be playful. “I like it, Doitsu-san. The new you. It is refreshing.”

Before either of them can say any more a hand grasps Ludwig’s upper arm. Next to him, Roderich clears his throat ever so slightly. This man is not to be trusted. Smiling now, he turns to address him, hand held out. “Japan- this is an honour. Am I to understand that Australia is here with you?”

“Thank you, Austria-san. Unfortunately,” Japan replies warmly, the warmth not really reaching his eyes, “Australia could not make it today.”

-

“Hello England.”

This is contempt, Arthur thinks, disguised as diplomacy. Unfortunately, he doesn’t think that he has any more choice in the matter. He doesn’t look up from his tea set. “Ah. The prodigal son returns.”

“Aw, don’t be so cynical. I’m here, and that’s what counts, ain’t it?” He flops easily onto the couch next to him, slouched and still taller. The grin he shoots at him is affluent and grating, meant to be annoying to his British sensibilities. “Just here t’ talk about the Ashes this year, y’know?”

“As if cricket is what matters.”

Australia almost falls off the couch. He whips his head around and stares, comically dumbstruck. “Artie!” He pushes a rough palm against his forehead. “You really are sick. Cricket not mattering? You’re not goin’ all European and all that? Joining the DEU? Losin’ it in yer old age?”

The embroidery in England’s hands crumples. “No,” he forces out darkly. “I would never sell myself out like a whore, Australia. I wouldn’t betray my own bloody family-“

“Only mad dogs and Englishmen,” he twists his mouth into a mock British accent, leaning forward to shadow his father’s face with his own, “go out in the noonday sun. And I’d keep that voice of yours down, if you knew what was good for you.”

Arthur laughs humourlessly, even though the dry air in the inches between them is hot and hotter with violent promise. Like nuclear fission, right there- two things splitting with force enough to destroy entire countries.

He’s not quite scared. Not quite yet. “That makes you a mad dog, then. Good thing your master has you on such a short leash-“

England tells himself afterwards that he was expecting the blow, but it hits him with more force that he ever remembers his former colony having. Australia is strong where the rest of the world is sick with fever.

“You ‘ave no right t’ speak t’ me like that. At least I can feed me bloody people and giv’ ‘em a bloody job nine t’ fuckin’ five.” England is shaken by the collar, an entire nation rattling to his teeth. The heat from Australia’s skin is oppressive. “What d’yer have, eh? What did you bloody do when the Depression hit, huh? I worked my bloody arse off, that’s what!”

He throws him down so hard that by the time everything is clear and makes sense again, Australia is gone. And at that very thought Arthur’s insides lurch, because the same thing had happened decades ago except the blow was the economy going boom, and Australia really was gone from inside him. Completely.

Good riddance.

It’s only later when he puts away the tea set that Arthur finds the envelope left on the kitchen table. Australia’s untidy scrawl is on the lines of an international cheque for 50 Trillion Yuan, twice Britain’s GDP. Pressing a shaking hand to his temple, he slumps into a chair and just stares. He turns it over, still trembling.

One line of writing: I don’t miss the Commonwealth. Alfred sends his regards.

-

The man standing next to him is blessed.

Just as sure as he is of this fact, he is also sure that this is a dream. Just hours ago he had been talking to other nations about recession. Here, there is blood and laughter and sex on roads, and he doesn’t hate it though he thinks that they could be spending their time more productively, and he is taller and stronger but weaker and he thinks like this he might just be the one to die, killed by that smile-

He opens his eyes.

There’s a strange man an inch from his face. Ludwig gives a yell.

“So this is the country that Italy wants to ally himself with?” The man doesn’t seem to pay him any heed, instead leaning forward and inspecting his face with a critical air. He shakes his head, which makes the brown locks of hair framing his face sway. A frown clouds his features. “There’s something about you that I just don’t like.”

Ludwig quashes the undeniable dejavu he feels to reach under his pillow for his gun. “Who the fuck are you!?”

His panic is met only with a booming laugh. “Me?’ he asks, eyes twinkling merrily like a paedophile who finds himself in a kindergarten. “You must be some sort of idiot not to know who I am! These statuesque good looks! This steel-like strength!”

He wheels around on one heel in the middle of his insane tirade to eye Ludwig, index finger raised in the fashion of a man who’s just had a brilliant idea. Despite himself, Ludwig thinks he can feel his heartbeat stirring faster, though it’s probably just an adrenal response to the shock of having a stranger in his room at night.

“Who am I?” The man grins, crazy. “Why, I’m the Roman Empire, of course!”

-


DYK?

Lyrics quoted are from 'Geisterhaus' by die Aezte.

Note: GAAEN is the English acronym. 'Die DVWE' is the German.

UEBC- see "The past is a foreign country".

Oh, anon I was wondering where this was going, and then all of a sudden, it's like: aha! And... ow. Oh.

This OP, and OP is happy. Thank you. I wasn't expecting anything like this at all, in truth, but I'm enjoying it very much. I eagerly look forward to more.

Oh, wow! I hadn't realized you updated this...
*Very* interesting.

By the way, have you posted your updated parts in the fill post yet? (Sorry if you did already, but I didn't notice them there, so...)

The Fills post is here, by the way.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/7233.html?mode=reply

4. “Ich hatte immer Angst davor, mir selber zu gestehen-”

(“I always was afraid, to confess to myself-”)

-

“Maybe we’re not getting off on the right foot-“

Ludwig is not impressed and cocks his pistol to prove it. The stranger shuts up, but doesn’t stop grinning.

He wishes that he knew what was so funny. He’s not afraid. Gott im Himmel, he’s not afraid. He just wishes that Austria were within calling distance. “You are only to answer the questions that I ask you. Who are you and what are you here for?”

“I already told you. I’m the Roman Empire.”

“I’m going to shoot you in the forehead for that.” Who was this madman? “Austria!”

“I don’t think he can hear you.”

The gun is trained back on his face with deadly precision. “You just shut up. Why did you break into my house?

‘Rome’ shrugs his shoulders good-naturedly. “Do I need an excuse to visit-“

“Why did you come here? You followed us back from the meeting, didn’t you? Austria!”

Ludwig looks on in incredulous confusion as the man’s expression becomes slowly puzzled. He tilts his head while scratching at his beard. “Why? I…Hmm. I don’t seem to remember.” A likely story. Rome flickers an eye over his scowl and the blond hair falling around his face. “You…wouldn’t happen to know why I’m here?”

How on earth would Ludwig know? “No,” he grits out. “I’m giving you until the count of ten. One.”

“Hmm. Well, my old excuse is that I want to visit my grandsons…”

“Two.”

“That’s it! You haven’t seen Italy here have you?” he asks brightly.

“Thr- Who?”

“Italy! Charming accent, Roman good-looks, cute as a button?”

“…No.”

“That’s funny.” And then, impossibly, the man is next to him, lifting the sheet of his bed and peering in, looking for his grandchild like a few dropped Euros. “I could have sworn he should be in here. At any rate, he wanted to be in here.”

“This…” Disbelief turns to cold realisation. “This is a dream, isn’t it? This is a dream. I’m dreaming that the Roman Empire is looking in my bed for his grandson.”

Rome stops and looks at him a little matter-of-factly. “Come to think of it, if Italy isn’t here, then why is there no one in your bed? You…”

“What?” Ludwig drops his head face first back onto the pillow, hair getting into his eyes. This is a dream. It has to be. Rome is looking at him strangely.

“You…You need to get some girls in here. Have some sex. Some orgies and stuff. You know?”

“I’m going crazy. I’m so glad this is all a dream,” he muffles.

“You’re not like those guys at Naples? Little boys and old ladies-“

Ludwig buries his head with the covers and wishes desperately for sleep to take him. “Just shut up and leave me alone.”

-

Asleep, there are things that Ludwig thinks he remembers, that he doesn’t.

He has dreams where he is under attack, or he is attacking, or he is helping somebody to attack, and at any rate there is a Great Bear that leans forward to try and eat him. A wall, just a dream wall, which tears him in two. He dreams of a family, and maybe he is part of it, a mother and a father and a little girl with red flowers in her hair. There is shame, here. A great paralysing sense of shame and despair that overtakes him leaves him breathless. It makes him run (away from a girl) and collapse (in front of the man he loves) and cry (for the parts of him that are now not).

He thinks that he remembers a firm but gentle touch on his cheek, soft lips working against his own and a deep feeling of shame, but hunger and oh, the betrayal- what will he think? What will they say to him? This is wrong, and he’s only trying to keep them warm, and when did everything start to change from that into something uncontrollable? This woman, a mother, but not, not his mother, only a…

Gone.

When Ludwig wakes he feels a presence, as if only until a moment ago there had been someone next to him. He recalls the insane dream he’s had, but this presence is different. The sheets feel warm when he touches them, and he thinks they smell of tulips.

He carries the scent down with him into the kitchen and takes out a frying pan. The apron is not really meant for a man to wear, Ludwig suspects, and it doesn’t fit on his bulk the same way that it cocoons Roderich. He probably looks ridiculous. Nevertheless he looks around the living room for some eggs. The eggs laid in the piano are beyond saving- breakfast will make do with the clutch laid under the sofa cushions. He will, he thinks savagely, tell Gilbert that his chickens need to be house trained.

The crowing of a rooster heralds said nation’s arrival in time for breakfast. Austria is a few steps behind. “Aww, eggs, West? You shouldn’t have-“

Ludwig half-turns to face him, frying pan heavy with scrambled eggs, and Gilbert stops. After this, Austria takes a few sniffs and pales visibly.

“What? Just eggs,” he tells them, shaking the pan a little violently to prove it. “I didn’t burn them.” Gilbird fills the empty seconds with clucks from his perch on Prussia’s shoulder before the two men seem to shake themselves and make uncommitted replies.

Breakfast after this incident is an awkward affair. Roderich turns away, sits down and tries to look interested in the newspaper though his wrists are trembling. Gilbert continues to look at him as if trying very hard to remember something, swinging his scarlet eyes between his face and the frying pan.

“I…I had a dream,” he offers, not looking up from his plate. “Something about…Italy.”

If anything, the silence becomes thicker. Gilbert takes some more eggs.

Sniffing at his fingers, Ludwig wishes that he could understand what it is that he’s missed. Again. He’s getting used to the frustration, but that doesn’t change the fact that it still bites.

-

“You see her? You see the way she was fidgeting?”

“Mm.”

“She’s hot for me. She’s so hot for me. This is fantastic!”

“Mm.”

“A girl with a figure like that, my friend, you do not see everyday. No sir. And she’s rich.”

“Mm.”

“I just want to take her by the hips and ravish her. You know? I swear that outfit has got to be blasphemous. If the Gods had wanted us to see so much breast-“

“Mm.”

“-hey, stop sharpening that sword and listen, will you? Breasts! Breasts!”

“…”

“Breasts! Surely this is the topic of the hour!”

“Did you talk to her about anything other than sex?”

“…My friend, you need to go and have an orgy or two. Come on. The next time I invade someone, we’re going to have some sex with some nubile young slaves…why are you looking at me like that?”

“Did you talk about anything other than sex?”

“…To who?”

“The ‘Breasts’.”

“I don’t talk to people’s brea…”

“…”

“…what was I talking about?”

“…Other than breasts?”

“Yeah.”

“You were lusting after Aegyptus.”

“Ah. Right. That’s right. And where are we going, exactly?”

“…Carthage.”

“Ahahaha. Of course. We’re going to go beat the crap out of that old man. I swear, if it weren’t for you, my friend, I don’t know what I’d so. Other than win wars. And stuff.”

“…”

“… Are you blush-“

“I’m not.”

“You are. You get all flustered over an orgy. That sword has got to be compensation for something, doesn’t it? You know what? You need to have some sex. Settle down. Find another nation to bunk with. Have kids.”

“Stop poking me.”

“Kids are awesome. You know what my grandkid drew for me the other day? He painted this picture, and I swear it almost looked real. Have some kids.”

“I don’t want children.”

“Aw. You just need to find the right girl!”

“I won’t.”

“Aegyptus would so be up for a three-way.”

“Mm.”

“I’m just saying. You’d have to be crazy not to want some of those breasts.”

“Maybe I am crazy.”

“…You’re not like those guys at Naples? ‘cause I could get you some old ones. Or some little boys-“

“Just shut up.”

-

“Doitsu-san?” he had said as the meeting had ended, pulling him slightly aside while Roderich was busy with Vash.

The look in his eyes had been clear to Ludwig. ‘You and I, we understand each other. There is something between us.’

A card had been placed in his hand and gently palmed, Japan’s fingers closing his hand over it.

“Just in case we need to talk,” he had said. And Ludwig had nodded. Something just between the two of them.

-

Everything calms down after that morning. For long days they exist in such peace that Ludwig wonders how he could ever have questioned his place here.

On Wednesday he helps a cackling Prussia haul in a formidably large pumpkin from his garden (“Farming is a fucking man’s job, Wessie. It’s awesome, isn’t it?”). Wednesday night he cuts the beast into cubes and Roderich makes soup, and their cheeks are red from the warmth. Prussia is almost hot then, agriculture pumping in his veins, stimulating, vibrant. Thursday he goes shopping for necessities with Austria. Friday ends with the three of them drinking beer that Prussia had smuggled into the house, and the buzz is so familiar that when Gilbert drunkenly claps his hand on Ludwig’s shoulder and calls him ’brother’ he just sings Bavarian drinking songs he shouldn’t know along with him.

On Saturday, everything begins to fall apart.

Roderich is, as always in the early afternoon, practicing scales. Prussia is hypnotising his chickens in the yard. Ludwig is reading when the door bell rings.

He opens the door and is promptly tackled to the floor.

“Germany! Oh, I’m so sorry it took me so long to visit you, but I wanted to, but my boss he is-a telling me that I’m not allowed, but I wanted to, and here I am! Oh, it has been so long! I missed you so much, and I have tomatoes with me, and pasta! I’m going to make us some pasta to celebrate! Won’t that be nice?”

Panicking and attempting to push the man off of him, Ludwig tries to pull his head away so he can get a good look at him. All he manages to do is hit the back of his head against the floorboards. Scowling at the brownish blur an inch from his face, he fumbles for his glasses- they were here somewhere, knocked away by this meteor that called himself a houseguest.

“My glasses,” he mutters. “I…I’m sorry, could you find my-“

They are thrust onto his nose by over enthusiastic fingers. Ludwig blinks, and finally he can see the young man with wide brown eyes and brown hair that curls around his cheekbones. That’s all he has time to see- soon the man grabs him around the shoulders and rubs his head into his neck, making odd noises at regular intervals. “I’m so sorry Ludwig! I’m just so happy to see you! Everybody is talking about you since last month and I was worried! But you’re here now, and so am I. It’s going to be fine!”

The man on top of him feels like the sun on his skin on a winter’s day. He smells like daisies, but maybe that’s the bouquet that he only now realises lies abandoned on the carpet. Ludwig also notices, annoyed but bewildered but how-the-hell-is-he-meant-to-feel?, that there’s a single long strand of hair bobbing in his face. His clothes are rumpled and slightly stained at the collar. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone over skin that is a few shades darker than his own.

Ludwig does not find this man’s weight oppressive. Alarmingly, he does not even find it unfamiliar. He scares himself with how attuned he is the body on his own, and how his eyes keep picking out more trivialities to notice.

The stupid grin. The rumpled shirt-sleeves. The voice that should be too high for a man’s but isn’t. The fact that Berlitz is wagging his tail at a speed normally reserved for Ludwig and Ludwig alone.

“Ludwig?”

Why is he blushing?

“Who…who are you?” he blurts out, horrified.

At that, the man pulls backward. Now Ludwig has room to move, he tries to pull himself out from under his weight. He’s half a metre away, holding himself up to stare at the man on his knees in the doorway.

“But…I’m Italy, Germany. Right?”

“You’re Italy?” The spare change in Ludwig’s bed and Rome’s bulk leaning over his. Flash, and then it’s gone, and there’s only Italy, looking lost.

“But you know that, Ludwig. I’m Italy. Feliciano. What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, something deep inside pushing at his throat. “No. No, I don’t…I don’t remember…I’ve never met you before-“

“What are you doing?” Austria thunders in panic from the doorway. “Germany! Italy!”

“Hello Roderich,” Italy begins cheerfully enough. Austria ends it.

“You little fool!” Ludwig has never seen Austria this angry before. Berlitz barks at the commotion, and then there are heavy footsteps and Italy is being lifted up one handed, and all Ludwig can do is watch from his place on the floor. “Don’t you know better than to come here? Didn’t your boss-“

“Ve~, he did, but I wanted to see Germany!” Pitifully, Italy indicates the bouquet. “I brought a present! Daisies! Eight, see- one for each of you-“

“Get out.” With strength that belies his small frame, Roderich fairly throws Italy out of the door. Ludwig scrambles to his feet.

“What are doing? Why are you-“ The door is slammed and locked and Austria holds himself against it, whirling around to Ludwig with acid in his gaze.

“What were you doing? Why were you talking to him?”

“-Let him back in, Roderich! He did nothing wrong!” Italy is still thumping at the door; Berlitz is still barking. “He was just visiting!”

“Germany! Answer the question!”

This is their first argument. The first real one, Ludwig thinks as he tries to reach for the door handle. “Nothing!” he cries. “Nothing! I don’t even know who he was, Austria! He just wanted to see me!”

“Don’t you understand that that is the problem?!” Roderich hisses at him. This is the first time, strangely, that Ludwig realises how much shorter Austria is that him- now, as he looks down on the face pale with shock and anger. “That talking to you like this so soon after…“

Finally, something in him that has building for long weeks bursts. “No, Roderich, I don’t. You never told me. It’s been a month, and I don’t understand why I have to hide like this, or why I don’t remember anything, or why everything is about me! You were going to say ‘after Poland’ again, weren’t you-“

Prussia enters from the hall just as Roderich slaps him hard across the face and sends his glasses skittering across the polished floor. Gilbert growls and strides forward. A look from Roderich stops him.

“Ludwig,” he shakes in a quietly dangerous voice. “Go upstairs.”

The knocking at the door has stopped.

“You better have a fucking good excuse for that Austria. How dare you hit my br-“

“-Just go, Ludwig. Please.”

Ludwig goes. He doesn’t bother to pick up his glasses.

-

"What's wrong...nothing like...Italy-"

"The world, Gilbert! You...let this pass...-gium? Luxem..."

He slams the door to his office as an argument explodes downstairs. He can hear Prussia, angry for him again, demanding something, but Ludwig doesn’t want to listen.

What Ludwig wants is someone to talk to- someone like Italy might have been if he had stayed and they had talked and Ludwig could have learnt something about himself. Just someone to talk to.

If he needed someone to talk to-

-Of course.

He finds the card in the pocket of his suit jacket from where it hangs in the wardrobe and brings it up to eyes, close enough that he can read the neat script without his glasses. He paws hair out of his eyes and sure enough, on the flip side, there’s a number written in precise ballpoint pen.

It takes a few seconds for Ludwig to weigh it up. Roderich would not like this at all.

Who was Roderich to tell him what to do?

“Wei?”

“Hallo?”

A pause. “Doitsu-san?”

“I’m sorry,” he immediately apologises, though he has no idea why. Then a strange sound filters through the receiver. “I…it…it is night there, isn’t it?”

Japan stifles a yawn again. “A…Ah. Yes. It is.”

He curses himself for a fool. Now that his anger was dissipating, this was getting awkward already. He should just apologise and hang up and leave the poor man in peace. “I…Never mind, I-“

“You decided to call after all. I’m most glad.” For no reason at all, he knows that Japan is smiling. His voice is warm from more than sleep. The familiarity there makes Ludwig’s heart thump, and before he knows it he’s sliding into his work chair and smiling too.

“I…I was not busy. I have little to do, and I just wanted…” To talk. To try and hear things that Gilbert and Roderich never told him.

OMGFARINUNDAPHFUCKYEEEESSS!!!!

Sorry about that, but... FU+APH= EPIC WIN!!

never thaught that there were die ärzte-fans in this fandom..omgosh awesome!!!

(oh, the fic is awesome, too..of course.)
Farin and Ludwig...amazingauthor!anon, I love you ♥