[FANFIC] Paris 1947
**
Prussia was woken up in the middle of the night by someone shaking his shoulder. His vague dream of beers and Berlin and Germany saying something evaporated as his eyes snapped open.
“Grgmnaaaargh!!” he uttered intelligently, jerking upright in his bed. “Whazzefuck!”
He started to open his mouth to yell in earnest, but a hand clamped down over his face.
“Shut it, you idiot!” someone hissed next to his ear, and he recognized Poland’s voice. “You’re, like, going to wake up the whole household!”
Prussia answered by shoving him away quite violently, not in the least bit reassured. It wasn’t like Poland and him were chums -they had never been, actually, what with the wars and stuff-, and Feliks could be one proud, stubborn asshole when it came to keeping grudges; in fact, he could be one proud, stubborn asshole full stop. The Warsaw Uprising came to mind.
He wouldn’t put it past Poland to attempt to kill him now they were being forced to cohabitate.
There was a muffled ‘oof’ and a squeak like a mouse being trodden on. Thinking quickly, he seized the matchbox on his nightstand and struck a match.
In the flickering light, he saw Poland glaring up at him from where he was lying on his back on the floor, and a nervous-looking Lithuania trying to help him up. The sight of the Baltic nation eased his suspicions. Poland wouldn’t have brought him, of all people, to witness his murder.
“What’s up, guys?” he questioned with a brave attempt at his usual smile. “What d’you want to see the awesome me for?”
“Watch the match,” answered Lithuania in a small, tight voice.
Prussia narrowed his eyes at him.
“That’s not what I asked -“
“No, I mean watch that match!”
Just then he felt the tip of his fingers getting uncomfortably warm; he looked down at the match, saw it was burnt almost completely out, gave a yelp, and shook his hand like a madman.
The light went out.
“Didn’t I say to, like, shut it?” snarled Feliks in the dark.
“Well, yeah, but I couldn’t really be bothered to listen, you know…”
There was a sound like someone bodily catching someone else, and then heavy breathing that reminded Prussia quite unpleasantly of a bull in one of Spain’s (rather awesome) festivals.
“L-look, Prussia, just lis-listen for a minute,” gasped Toris.
For a moment, he entertained several answers, from the basic (‘No’) to the flippant (‘Actually, I won’t. You see, Poland, I’m rather disappointed by your manners, just barging in and demanding to talk to me like that. You used to salute so well, and wag your tail, too.’) The latter was rather amusing, he decided, but maybe it wasn’t the most diplomatic idea, as Poland probably wouldn’t see the humour in it. Besides, by Lithuania wheezy breath, the Baltic nation wasn’t much of a guarantee for his safety.
In the end, survival spirit kicked in and he settled by answering with a shrug, though he knew they couldn’t see him. “Okay. But I hope it’s worth my precious sleeping time. ”
There followed a rude comment about what he could, like, do with his precious sleeping time, but before he could forcefully protest he had no intention of doing any such thing, Lithuania interrupted them again.
“I only agreed to come with you because you swore you’d behave yourself,” he shot at Poland. “Just tell him already and go before Russia comes along.”
“I don’t, like, give a shit about fucking Russia,” Poland snapped back. “I’m, like, moving back to my own house in a few weeks anyway. It’s not like he’s my fucking boss or anything. Same with that asshole there.”
“Oi!” Prussia interjected, but they didn’t pay him any heed.
“Are you really that thick? Do you think he’ll just let you do what you want even when you’re back in Warsaw? Besides, I could get in trouble for this too! Imagine Russia’s reaction if he learns I’d been helping you forming revolutionary plans -“
“They’re not revolutionary plans! God, Liet, I only, like, want to go to a goddamn conference! I need the fucking money! Haven’t you, like, seen the state Warszawa is in?”
There was a brief silence that, for once, Prussia didn’t feel like interrupting with sudden shouts of ‘banzai’ (Japan had taught him that, and he’d enjoyed saying it so much Germany had finished by banning it in their household.)
He continued listening intently as Lithuania said, in a quiet but firm voice, “A conference hosted by America in a western, capitalist city. To Russia, that’s high grade treason. You’ve only been living here for a short time, so it’s understandable, but you don’t blatantly go around disobeying Russia. It’s suicide.” For the first time, he sounded scared. “Poland. Just ask him, and let’s go.”
Poland sighed in an irritated manner.
“’Kay. So, asshole, the thing is, like -“
“Look, I don’t even know what you’re going to ask,” Prussia interrupted quickly, “But I’m not doing it if it’s not really worth it.”
“You don’t have the balls - man, you invaded me and now you don’t have the balls to, like, stand up to Russia? Totally pathetic.”
“You’re rather less scary than Russia. Must be the whole ‘man in a dress’ effect.”
Poland grabbed him by the shoulders, roughly, bringing his face closer to Prussia’s so that even in the dark, he could make out the outline of it. He smirked, reveling in the fact that as weak as he presently was, he could still successfully taunt the other Nation.
“And you’re meant to be, like, the motherfucking Teutonic Knights!” He shook Prussia’s shoulders for effect, hard.
“Hey!”
“It’s only, like, going to Paris this summer,” Poland rambled on. “America’ll be there, the bastard, and all the rest of these Western losers - zdrajcy - and your brother is, like, totally going too, and they say we’re going to get money. Like, for the economy and stuff. Warszawa could, like, be rebuilt, and Berlin too. And anyway, whatever Liet says, we’re totally not going to stay here forever. I’m, like, going back home soon. Fucking Russia won’t have any power over us.”
Prussia considered this for a moment. His brother would be going (why was his brother even invited?) - and they were going to be given money - but Russia wouldn’t let them go because they were part of the Eastern bloc now, or whatever that was - and Gott when had this turned so complicated; this had just been a war last he’d looked, and when you lost in a war, you simply got pillaged, right, beaten down some, some of your territory was taken and that was it.
But now… now everything was out of his control, and he was just fucking Russia’s puppet on a string and the worst thing, he was too weak to resist.
“I’ve really stirred some bad shit up this time, haven’t I?” he said with a bitter laugh.
“Damn right you totally have!” Poland snapped. “So now you’re, like, gonna help me get to Paris. Czech’s already agreed. So, what d’you, like, say?”
--
Prussia had to hand it to him, Poland really was one hell of a tough, proud, stubborn bastard. He planned to just accost Russia one day, inform him they were going to Paris, and walk through the gates. In Prussia’s opinion, that was fifty different kinds of awesome (and for him, that was praise indeed) but completely suicidal.
Nations didn’t die that easily, but still.
It was an overcast day in early August when Poland decided to put his plan into action. Prussia, with Hungary, had been pretending to wash Russia’s dirty linen; it was, for the moment, the only act of defiance they dared make not to fulfill all the menial tasks and base jobs Russia allotted them. The window in the laundry overlooked the courtyard of Russia’s home, and they were watching its going-ons (Latvia and Estonia washing Russia’s car, though they knew very well there was no fuel for it to work; Lithuania scrubbing the flagstones) while talking about what they would do once they were back in East Berlin and Budapest, respectively: Hungary was vehement that she would find a way to see Austria; Prussia , himself, thought having a beer, or two, or ten, sounded like a very good idea. He missed beer. All there was here was vodka, and some wine.
He told her, jokingly, that at least living in Moscow would have had one positive consequence: bringing awesome him closer to her again. Like when they were boys. She hit him over the head with the scrubbing board in response, scowled, and said she was looking forwards to having her saucepans back. He laughed, rubbed his head. The corner of her lip quirked up.
Then, as they were sitting in restful silence and looking out of the window, they saw Poland and Czechoslovakia march across the courtyard, heading straight for Russia, who was terrorizing Latvia some way off.
Prussia jumped to his feet and tried to open the window, but Hungary lunged forwards and grabbed his wrist.
“What are you doing!” he yelled at her. “Let go of me, I wanna hear what they’re saying...!”
But she gave him a meaningful look, shook her head and whispered, “Better not draw attention to ourselves.”
Prussia shook her off; and together they huddled at the window to watch the events unfold.
Poland was shouting something at Russia, though they couldn’t make out the words; looking highly surprised, the tall man looked from him to Czechoslovakia, and back again, slowly. Czech added something, and both of them made as if to walk off.
Russia stood still for a moment, then reached for his gun.
It all happened very quickly. He heard Hungary gasp; the gunshot shook the window panes; Lithuania shouted something; Latvia seemed to fall back, as if fainting. Only Estonia seemed unmoved; his face was blank and unreadable as he watched the scene.
Czechoslovakia fell to his knees, hands grasping the reddening material of his shirt. Poland turned and ran to him, yelling again, and this time Prussia could tell exactly what he was saying, though it wasn’t in German nor in any language he had ever bothered to learn.
Russia took aim again.
Another gunshot rattled the windows, and another, and another, until Czechoslovakia was lying on the floor, his blood pooling around Russia’s boots, and Poland was squatting on the ground with some difficulty, face contorted with rage and pain and helplessness, his blond hair turned vivid red where a bullet had grazed his scalp.
Russia fired one last time, and he too fell on his back.
The Soviet merely smiled amiably and bent down to whisper something in Poland’s ear; then he stood up straight again, and motioned to the three Baltic nations to clean up the mess.
--
Later that night, Hungary came into Prussia’s room, jaw set, livid, holding a bottle of vodka and two glasses. She didn’t say anything, just poured them drinks, and listened as Prussia reeled off long strings of insults and incoherent swear words.
Poland and Czechoslovakia weren’t dead, of course; Nations didn’t die that easily. But Nations could be enslaved, and Prussia realized, remembering the horrorstruck look on Lithuania’s face as he watched Poland be shot yet didn’t dare react, that this was exactly what they were.
“I’ve never been good with authority,” he remarked to Hungary as they drank.
“Let me guess - that’s what makes you so awesome, isn’t it?” she asked with a wry smile.
He downed his glass and smacked his lips.
“Right in one.”
**
NOTES
-According to my History textbook, Poland and Czechoslovakia expressed a desire to participate in the Marshall Plan, but Russia refused to let them go.
-zdrajcy means traitors, again according to a English-Polish dictionary. The fact that the Western Powers ceded Poland to Russia is often called a betrayal. Which it is, really. Poor Feliks.