(no subject)
Wrote this by hand at some point or another... it takes place sometime after the Dinner and Oops parts after the 1996 addition...
"I'm not going and you can't make me."
Germany sighed as he continued to pack not just his own but his brother's bags. Prussia was curled up i the arm chair in the corner of the room that had been set aside for a reading area nearest to the window originally. Now it was where his elder brother sat in his long-sleeved, long-legged pajamas, clutching a throw pillow to himself, legs drawn up off the floor (he kept complaining about the cold and it was barely fall), glaring miserably at the luggage on the bed. The look on the Prussian's face clearly indicated that Germany was to blame for the whole situation. The truth of the matter was that Germany wanted to call off the whole thing.
But Russia had insisted.
And during these times, even with Russia severely stretched thin in terms of economy and looming--or rather, with known issues throughout his home, it was unwise to spurn the northern nation. What Germany needed, he told himself, was to continue to build good relations with the giant nation. Europe was still in need of his resources, to start with. And beyond that...
Germany pointedly refused to look at his brother. "I won't say it again," he stated firmly, shoving some sweatshirts and long-johns into one bag, predicting that the complaints of the cold would start early.
"You're not the boss of me," snapped Prussia irritably from behind the floral pillow.
"No, if theory stands to reason, that would be the one who invited us in the first place." He inwardly cringed as soon as he said it. He outwardly flinched away toward his own bag as the silence continued. "Don't do this now, Bruder. My hands are tied in the matter. It's really for the best--"
Prussia snorted. It was a suspiciously thick and wet sound. "Best to let used up baggage get taken in by the current king of has-beens."
Germany sighed again. "I am not letting Russia keep you there--"
"Then why even go in the first place!"'
"Because it's your right to see what's been done to the place since then," said Germany heatedly as he stuffed the red underwear Italy had gotten him into his bag. "If Russia's theory is true, the condition of it determines your own condition and I will not--"
He halted his rant as another suspiciously wet sound came from behind him.
Germany closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to remember how to breathe, to keep calm in the face of the emotions that were quietly but quickly spilling out of his elder brother. It was one thing to deal with a shouting and angry Prussia. Completely different from dealing with a Prussia that curled even more into himself, turned away as though denying Germany was even in the same room. A fundamental sign of weakness as a hiccup shook his frame, though he clutched the pillow tighter to try to keep it from being noticable, Prussia was likely mortified that he was breaking down like this in front of his younger brother.
Even if Germany did not find this to be shaming in the least, the fact that the idea of how small and helpless he seemed entered his head at all would be justification enough for his brother.
Prussia truly loathed the idea of being vulnerable. In the past, this mentality had made the former kingdom seem impervious to all sorts of terrible things. It made Prussia appear confident, dangerous, and larger than he actually was. It had aided him with building an empire.
It had been used against him more times than either of them could count since the war.
"He'll just call me that fucking annoying name all day," said Prussia eventually, a touch of angry defiance in his tear-strained voice.
Unsure how to respond to that since it was likely the truth, Germany resumed packing the bags.
"I'll punch him," muttered Prussia darkly, dully.
"I'll let you." Only once, but Germany decided to leave off that condition.
"I don't want to see it, West."
The pleading tone made Germany falter a bit. "... avoiding it won't help you--"
"The hell it won't," was the swift retort, defiance returning just as quickly as it had left.
The former empire side of him wanted to simply grab and drag the Prussian to the plane just to get passed all of this. Kicking and screaming, even. Germany pinched the bridge of his nose and reminded himself that this was a self-defense mechanism, that there was a hell of a lot more to this protest than Prussia resisting Russia's word. "Bruder--"
"I'm not," snapped Prussia, his words edging toward hysteria. "I'm not going back there! That bastard destroyed my Konigsberg, so whatever's there is just some shitty Soviet work and I don't want it!"
The outburst had Germany's heart leaping into his throat, completely at a loss. He had completely failed to see the reasoning behind the protests.
"... have you not seen it since...?" he asked quietly.
Prussia viciously spat out in a quickly growing hoarse voice, "Why the fuck should I have? I avoided it all that time because it was just Russia rubbing it in! He's a vindictive bastard and after Leningrad and Stalingrad--!"
Germany felt sickened, remembering all those reports on the sieges and destruction. It had only been reports for him as he had been occupied with the Western and North African campaigns. Prussia had taken the Eastern Front.
It had been a mess. A complete mess. There had been reports of the Eastern Front collapsing after the strong push into Russia's capitol.
At the time, Germany had demanded to know what the hell Prussia was doing to lose ground so quickly.
Then, there was the push from the west, and there had been word sent from Prussia during that time... had he even read that dispatch? Everything had been meant to go to the Fuhrer for orders, something Prussia had always complained about in a low mutter.
He couldn't remember if he had read the dispatch.
What he did remember was the way, after the Anglo-American push and recovery of their French ally, the trio had chased him down back into Berlin--beaten and defeated... the Russian had arrived after "freeing" the Balkans. Behind him, he had dragged a man by the boot, bloodied and soiled by the debris.
It had taken more than a minute to realize the man was still alive.
It had taken even longer before he realized that the man Russia was cheerfully dragging along by his own bloodied-bandaged-wrapped hand, using his pipe to support his halting, limping gait... was Prussia, his own brother.
It was several years later that Germany even began to truly appreciate what damage had been wrought on the Eastern Front. He should have known, really. Prussia had always been thorough with his work. So when the order to kill indiscriminately came at some point or another in the confusion...
And it wasn't until Germany had a full grasp of the war itself that he realized just why Prussia, years before, had given him that look, a crooked, sharp, toothy grin as he stated with oddly-toned humor, "You're hilarious, Reich. Hell, I'll lead the campaign myself."
Being well over seven hundred years old and having fought in the Baltic region long before Germany was even a concept, Prussia had known the fight the Eastern Front would devolve into.
Prussia had spared him that as much as he could and took the full brunt of the Russian's fury after the sieges. Knowing this, the first place Prussia would have run to was...
Silence was ringing in the air, and Germany had the feeling that Prussia had gone into a rant until he realized his younger brother wasn't listening. The younger German looked to his brother, feeling pale and shaken. His eyes met Prussia's stare, eyes red from lack of sleep and the tears from earlier.
Stupidly, he opened his mouth. Closed it.
"... I'm sorry," he said quietly after that indecisive moment. "I didn't--"
Prussia continued to stare for a moment before looking away. "Knock it off, West," he said tiredly.
"But--"
"Just shut up already!"
Germany instinctively let his jaw click shut, simply watching his brother who stared broodingly at the wall, face half-covered by the pillow he now had in a death grip.
"... just pack the fucking bags already," was the eventual mumbled response.
Germany almost began to object but stifled all arguments at the glare he received from the Prussian when he opened his mouth again. So, with that resolved, more or les, the larger German turned back to packing.
"... you owe me so damn much beer and drunken antics when we get back."
There was a sign. It cheerfully had the names "Ludwig + Kalinin".
"So. Much. Beer." gritted out Prussia through clenched teeth as he tightened his hold on his backpack's strap over his right shoulder.
"Behave," murmured his brother in what he probably thought was a soothing tone.
"You said I could punch him."
"Not in the airport. Do you want to deal with security and make this an international incident?"
Prussia considered it for a moment. "... I could take 'em," he said confidently.
"Bruder..."
"Relax, West," he broke in, letting his expression fall into a scowl as they approached the Russian who held the sign. "Even I can be diplomatic from time to time."
The uneasy silence from his younger brother just confirmed that Germany knew him too well by this point.
Before Russia could even get out a greeting, Prussia snatched the sign, ripped it in half, stomped on it, and would have spat at it if Russia hadn't commented, "Ehhh... did you not like it? Should I have used glitter? I know your brother likes the cuter things, Ludwig--"
"Fuck off and die!" shouted Prussia.
"--but I didn't think it was offensive to go with something simple," finished the Russian, nonplussed.
Germany nursed his forming headache while Prussia cursed at Russia, who simply laughed.
The tears had their own mind.
Prussia wished they'd choose a better time than in front of Russia.
Germany thankfully, possibly purposefully most likely, took the attention off of his brother's sudden failure at composure by quietly asking of the Russian, "You preserved this?"
"Mm," answered Russia, looking out over the water where the German architecture in a sea of Soviet work stood. "After all, it would be such a loss of history if all of it was destroyed or remained so. Some of my people have this sort of heritage."
A choking sound came and it took Russia's eyes falling on him, widening in surprise, for Prussia to realize that it had come from him.
"Ah--" said Russia, seemingly startled as Prussia covered his face, mortified. "Ah, Germany, your brother's leaking--don't cry, Kalinin--"
"It's Prussia, damn you!" cried the elder German from behind his hands as the younger one allowed him to retreat behind him--not hiding, no way.
"Do you not like it? I tried hard to keep it as close to the original," continued Russia, leaning to the side to peer at Prussia from behind his brother. If Prussia didn't know Russia so well, he would say the large nation looked earnest. But no, that was part of Russia's plan, a manipulation tactic.
It tore at Prussia to not look at the lone area of what was left of his beloved Konigsberg.
"Russia," Germany was saying, "perhaps it would be best to head back--"
"But so soon?" asked the other nation, disappointed.
"No," said Prussia suddenly, breaking in before Germany could continue. He irritably wiped at his face and glared up at the two of them. Or at least, attempted to do so. "It's nothing. A back spasm or something. I'm fine. I want to see if this asshole fucked it up."
Russia smiled. It was scary. "Eh... somehow, that feels very insulting..."
"Are you sure, Bruder?" asked Germany, trying to keep his tone neutral but was watching him worriedly.
Prussia snorted. "Who the hell do you think I am?" he demanded with a grin, thumper his brother in the shoulder. "I'm awesome enough to deal with whatever shitty mistakes this guy's made!"
"Yes, but, Bruder--"
"Afterward, we hit up a bar!" shouted Prussia eagerly.
"Of course, but, Bruder--"
"Enough of your butts, West! Let's get a move on--"
"First. Would you like a handkerchief?"
The elder German eyed his brother suspiciously, blinking rapidly. "Why?"
"You're crying again..."
"Yes, I can see them, too," said Russia, still leaning, a curious look on his face.
"I'm not going and you can't make me."
Germany sighed as he continued to pack not just his own but his brother's bags. Prussia was curled up i the arm chair in the corner of the room that had been set aside for a reading area nearest to the window originally. Now it was where his elder brother sat in his long-sleeved, long-legged pajamas, clutching a throw pillow to himself, legs drawn up off the floor (he kept complaining about the cold and it was barely fall), glaring miserably at the luggage on the bed. The look on the Prussian's face clearly indicated that Germany was to blame for the whole situation. The truth of the matter was that Germany wanted to call off the whole thing.
But Russia had insisted.
And during these times, even with Russia severely stretched thin in terms of economy and looming--or rather, with known issues throughout his home, it was unwise to spurn the northern nation. What Germany needed, he told himself, was to continue to build good relations with the giant nation. Europe was still in need of his resources, to start with. And beyond that...
Germany pointedly refused to look at his brother. "I won't say it again," he stated firmly, shoving some sweatshirts and long-johns into one bag, predicting that the complaints of the cold would start early.
"You're not the boss of me," snapped Prussia irritably from behind the floral pillow.
"No, if theory stands to reason, that would be the one who invited us in the first place." He inwardly cringed as soon as he said it. He outwardly flinched away toward his own bag as the silence continued. "Don't do this now, Bruder. My hands are tied in the matter. It's really for the best--"
Prussia snorted. It was a suspiciously thick and wet sound. "Best to let used up baggage get taken in by the current king of has-beens."
Germany sighed again. "I am not letting Russia keep you there--"
"Then why even go in the first place!"'
"Because it's your right to see what's been done to the place since then," said Germany heatedly as he stuffed the red underwear Italy had gotten him into his bag. "If Russia's theory is true, the condition of it determines your own condition and I will not--"
He halted his rant as another suspiciously wet sound came from behind him.
Germany closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to remember how to breathe, to keep calm in the face of the emotions that were quietly but quickly spilling out of his elder brother. It was one thing to deal with a shouting and angry Prussia. Completely different from dealing with a Prussia that curled even more into himself, turned away as though denying Germany was even in the same room. A fundamental sign of weakness as a hiccup shook his frame, though he clutched the pillow tighter to try to keep it from being noticable, Prussia was likely mortified that he was breaking down like this in front of his younger brother.
Even if Germany did not find this to be shaming in the least, the fact that the idea of how small and helpless he seemed entered his head at all would be justification enough for his brother.
Prussia truly loathed the idea of being vulnerable. In the past, this mentality had made the former kingdom seem impervious to all sorts of terrible things. It made Prussia appear confident, dangerous, and larger than he actually was. It had aided him with building an empire.
It had been used against him more times than either of them could count since the war.
"He'll just call me that fucking annoying name all day," said Prussia eventually, a touch of angry defiance in his tear-strained voice.
Unsure how to respond to that since it was likely the truth, Germany resumed packing the bags.
"I'll punch him," muttered Prussia darkly, dully.
"I'll let you." Only once, but Germany decided to leave off that condition.
"I don't want to see it, West."
The pleading tone made Germany falter a bit. "... avoiding it won't help you--"
"The hell it won't," was the swift retort, defiance returning just as quickly as it had left.
The former empire side of him wanted to simply grab and drag the Prussian to the plane just to get passed all of this. Kicking and screaming, even. Germany pinched the bridge of his nose and reminded himself that this was a self-defense mechanism, that there was a hell of a lot more to this protest than Prussia resisting Russia's word. "Bruder--"
"I'm not," snapped Prussia, his words edging toward hysteria. "I'm not going back there! That bastard destroyed my Konigsberg, so whatever's there is just some shitty Soviet work and I don't want it!"
The outburst had Germany's heart leaping into his throat, completely at a loss. He had completely failed to see the reasoning behind the protests.
"... have you not seen it since...?" he asked quietly.
Prussia viciously spat out in a quickly growing hoarse voice, "Why the fuck should I have? I avoided it all that time because it was just Russia rubbing it in! He's a vindictive bastard and after Leningrad and Stalingrad--!"
Germany felt sickened, remembering all those reports on the sieges and destruction. It had only been reports for him as he had been occupied with the Western and North African campaigns. Prussia had taken the Eastern Front.
It had been a mess. A complete mess. There had been reports of the Eastern Front collapsing after the strong push into Russia's capitol.
At the time, Germany had demanded to know what the hell Prussia was doing to lose ground so quickly.
Then, there was the push from the west, and there had been word sent from Prussia during that time... had he even read that dispatch? Everything had been meant to go to the Fuhrer for orders, something Prussia had always complained about in a low mutter.
He couldn't remember if he had read the dispatch.
What he did remember was the way, after the Anglo-American push and recovery of their French ally, the trio had chased him down back into Berlin--beaten and defeated... the Russian had arrived after "freeing" the Balkans. Behind him, he had dragged a man by the boot, bloodied and soiled by the debris.
It had taken more than a minute to realize the man was still alive.
It had taken even longer before he realized that the man Russia was cheerfully dragging along by his own bloodied-bandaged-wrapped hand, using his pipe to support his halting, limping gait... was Prussia, his own brother.
It was several years later that Germany even began to truly appreciate what damage had been wrought on the Eastern Front. He should have known, really. Prussia had always been thorough with his work. So when the order to kill indiscriminately came at some point or another in the confusion...
And it wasn't until Germany had a full grasp of the war itself that he realized just why Prussia, years before, had given him that look, a crooked, sharp, toothy grin as he stated with oddly-toned humor, "You're hilarious, Reich. Hell, I'll lead the campaign myself."
Being well over seven hundred years old and having fought in the Baltic region long before Germany was even a concept, Prussia had known the fight the Eastern Front would devolve into.
Prussia had spared him that as much as he could and took the full brunt of the Russian's fury after the sieges. Knowing this, the first place Prussia would have run to was...
Silence was ringing in the air, and Germany had the feeling that Prussia had gone into a rant until he realized his younger brother wasn't listening. The younger German looked to his brother, feeling pale and shaken. His eyes met Prussia's stare, eyes red from lack of sleep and the tears from earlier.
Stupidly, he opened his mouth. Closed it.
"... I'm sorry," he said quietly after that indecisive moment. "I didn't--"
Prussia continued to stare for a moment before looking away. "Knock it off, West," he said tiredly.
"But--"
"Just shut up already!"
Germany instinctively let his jaw click shut, simply watching his brother who stared broodingly at the wall, face half-covered by the pillow he now had in a death grip.
"... just pack the fucking bags already," was the eventual mumbled response.
Germany almost began to object but stifled all arguments at the glare he received from the Prussian when he opened his mouth again. So, with that resolved, more or les, the larger German turned back to packing.
"... you owe me so damn much beer and drunken antics when we get back."
There was a sign. It cheerfully had the names "Ludwig + Kalinin".
"So. Much. Beer." gritted out Prussia through clenched teeth as he tightened his hold on his backpack's strap over his right shoulder.
"Behave," murmured his brother in what he probably thought was a soothing tone.
"You said I could punch him."
"Not in the airport. Do you want to deal with security and make this an international incident?"
Prussia considered it for a moment. "... I could take 'em," he said confidently.
"Bruder..."
"Relax, West," he broke in, letting his expression fall into a scowl as they approached the Russian who held the sign. "Even I can be diplomatic from time to time."
The uneasy silence from his younger brother just confirmed that Germany knew him too well by this point.
Before Russia could even get out a greeting, Prussia snatched the sign, ripped it in half, stomped on it, and would have spat at it if Russia hadn't commented, "Ehhh... did you not like it? Should I have used glitter? I know your brother likes the cuter things, Ludwig--"
"Fuck off and die!" shouted Prussia.
"--but I didn't think it was offensive to go with something simple," finished the Russian, nonplussed.
Germany nursed his forming headache while Prussia cursed at Russia, who simply laughed.
The tears had their own mind.
Prussia wished they'd choose a better time than in front of Russia.
Germany thankfully, possibly purposefully most likely, took the attention off of his brother's sudden failure at composure by quietly asking of the Russian, "You preserved this?"
"Mm," answered Russia, looking out over the water where the German architecture in a sea of Soviet work stood. "After all, it would be such a loss of history if all of it was destroyed or remained so. Some of my people have this sort of heritage."
A choking sound came and it took Russia's eyes falling on him, widening in surprise, for Prussia to realize that it had come from him.
"Ah--" said Russia, seemingly startled as Prussia covered his face, mortified. "Ah, Germany, your brother's leaking--don't cry, Kalinin--"
"It's Prussia, damn you!" cried the elder German from behind his hands as the younger one allowed him to retreat behind him--not hiding, no way.
"Do you not like it? I tried hard to keep it as close to the original," continued Russia, leaning to the side to peer at Prussia from behind his brother. If Prussia didn't know Russia so well, he would say the large nation looked earnest. But no, that was part of Russia's plan, a manipulation tactic.
It tore at Prussia to not look at the lone area of what was left of his beloved Konigsberg.
"Russia," Germany was saying, "perhaps it would be best to head back--"
"But so soon?" asked the other nation, disappointed.
"No," said Prussia suddenly, breaking in before Germany could continue. He irritably wiped at his face and glared up at the two of them. Or at least, attempted to do so. "It's nothing. A back spasm or something. I'm fine. I want to see if this asshole fucked it up."
Russia smiled. It was scary. "Eh... somehow, that feels very insulting..."
"Are you sure, Bruder?" asked Germany, trying to keep his tone neutral but was watching him worriedly.
Prussia snorted. "Who the hell do you think I am?" he demanded with a grin, thumper his brother in the shoulder. "I'm awesome enough to deal with whatever shitty mistakes this guy's made!"
"Yes, but, Bruder--"
"Afterward, we hit up a bar!" shouted Prussia eagerly.
"Of course, but, Bruder--"
"Enough of your butts, West! Let's get a move on--"
"First. Would you like a handkerchief?"
The elder German eyed his brother suspiciously, blinking rapidly. "Why?"
"You're crying again..."
"Yes, I can see them, too," said Russia, still leaning, a curious look on his face.