Partition (Russia, Prussia)
Title: Partition
Warnings: Prussia's bad judgment, innuendo
Summary: Prussia feels regret, Russia doesn't
Characters: Prussia, Russia, mentions of Poland, France, Lithuania
Year: 1793
Unsteady on his feet after enough beer to knock out a horse-- he found that his tolerance was unpredictable; none of them had ever really understood their own biology-- Prussia banged on his neighbor's door. “Op'nup!” he shouted. There was no answer, so he banged harder. “'pnup, I said, it's freezing out here.”
Finally, his new neighbor opened the door, a pleasant smile on his face. “Gilbert.” Prussia twitched at the familiarity. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Got lost,” said Prussia, unconvincingly.
“On the way back to your own house?” the other man inquired.
“Yeah. Got any booze?” Russia inclined his head, and stood aside to let Prussia enter. “'S cold in here.” The other man nodded agreeably. “So, whatcha got?”
Russia gestured towards a long row of bottles on a nearby sideboard. “Help yourself.”
Prussia stared at him in disbelief. “You know I can' read that shit.”
Russia hmm'ed, and picked him out a bottle. Sniffing it, Prussia made a face. “'S nasty.”
“You could always go see France.”
“You think he'd give me booze? After how our last conversation went?” Russia shrugged. It was true that there weren't many nations outside of his own regions who'd welcome him now.
Resigning himself to the taste, Prussia took a deep drink from the bottle he'd been given, already too drunk to notice the burn. Soon, soon he'd forget the look on Poland's face after they'd burned his house and taken his brother, how he looked lying broken in the snow. Even after all their history together, he couldn't quite help-- He looked at Russia, wondering if he still felt it after all these years, all the nations he'd broken, if he still felt the guilt. Looking at his pleasant smile, he wondered if he ever had.
All of a sudden, he wanted to leave. He stood up, too fast, and the room spun around him; he sat down hard.
Russia had reached out to steady him. He was very close now, silhouetted by the light from the gas lamp and smelling faintly like liquor and tobacco. He had forgotten how very big Russia was-- how solid, stable. This was nothing he hadn't done hundreds of times, and when he met his eyes, he saw none of the confusion he felt. He didn't let go of the other man's arm.
“You're drunk,” he said, softly.
“You're sexy,” said Prussia, wonderingly. What the fuck was wrong with him?
“Yes,” was the agreeable answer. And when Russia leaned in to kiss him, he didn't move away. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was a predatory look on the other man's face.