A/N: Hey, y'all! I'm kind of surprised that I haven't posted this here yet, but this is what I wrote after Himaruya BASICALLY said Prussia now equals Kaliningrad in Volume 3. Or, at least, I saw it that way. And then I wrote this. Which will turn into a drabble-a-chapter type deal about Russia/Prussia during their "time together" throughout the mid to late 20th century. Can't really say there's no plot, but still, this is just small stories stringing along a vague concept of chronology. lol, that sounds weird. Anyway, please enjoy. Each chapter will vary in rating, so I'll probably keep this rated at M. Please enjoy!

And I own nothing. There are vague historical references tossed in this opening chapter. :D

"Bruder…"

Germany stared on into the dark room, its only inhabitant dying on the worn out cot. He could hear, feel, smell his brother's hitched breaths, the breaths of a Kingdom long dead. All that was left was the hollow shell of a man who only grew paler every time the sun set. Germany stepped inside, regret invading his pores the second his shoe tapped on the cold, cement floor. "Bruder," he repeated, watching as red eyes flickered dim before him.

"He will die."

Germany turned, surprised that anyone would bother to walk down this hall. Violet eyes smiled at him, a look the blonde couldn't stomach to trust.

"But you know this. It was your boss who dealt the first blow, da?"

Biting his lip, Germany turned to look onto his brother once more, that horrid feeling of guilt on his shoulders. "Yes," he struggled to say, tears daring to pour out from his tired blue eyes.

"And you did nothing." Russia sounded a tad more cheerful than was appropriate for the occasion. But he stayed at the doorway, never once entering the cold room.

Germany couldn't admit aloud that Russia was right, not when his brother looked like that.

"Will you do nothing today?"

A shaking hand to the cold one on the cot, Germany wanted nothing more than peace for his brother. But the thought of his inevitable, belated death…

Germany couldn't part from his own selfish wish, to keep his brother alive. But what good was that to Prussia?

"I can help you," Russia cooed at the doorway. "I can keep him living. And in much better condition than he is now."

He could almost feel the tears dissolve from his face, Germany's hope for his brother returning. He ran to the door, clutching Russia's coat, his hands shaking from a torrent of emotions. "Y-you…"

Germany tried his hardest to ignore that look in Russia's eyes, violet orbs that reeked of pity. They stung through Germany like a burning blade, but he had to keep Prussia alive.

"You will take my offer?"

"Yes…YES! Please! Anything…anything to keep him alive…"

Russia smiled and wrapped his gloved hands around Germany's jaw, cradling the nation's face in his palms. "We will sign Law 46 soon, Ludwig. He will die…"

"RUSSIA, PLEASE! SAVE MY BROTHER! Please…"

Violet eyes grew deeper and Russia placed a gentle kiss on Germany's forehead, sealing the deal. "It is done."

...

The wheels of the wheelchair creaked on the pavement, cracks endangering the vehicle's trip. "I swear, once I get out of this chair, I'm getting the fuck away from you, Russia," the former nation spat, embarrassed by his wheelchair-bound weakness.

"But, Gilbert, you still have so much energy to regain," Russia nearly sang, guiding the wheelchair through the zigzags of the broken street. "We are almost there."

"Almost where, asshole?"

"Kaliningrad."

The former German-state tilted his head back in confusion, unaware of that name. "Kaliningrad? What the fuck is that?"

"Your home, Gilbert."

The wheelchair-bound man grew more confused, previous conversations of his Cold War era home reeling in his mind. "I thought I was going to live in Berlin…"

"No. Berlin is part of East Germany. You will live in Kaliningrad."

"Yeah, but I thought I was 'East Germany' or someth…"

The wheelchair stopped short, nearly propelling Gilbert from his seat. "No. That is Germany."

"But…"

"Gilbert. You are not Germany. And you are no longer Prussia. Prussia is dead. You are mine, now. And you will live in Kaliningrad."

Gilbert hated that phrase, Prussia is dead. Bullshit, Prussia was dead. He was still there. True, he was reduced to being pushed around in a wheelchair, but that was only temporary. Gilbert was sure to regain his status as a proud nation, and show all those Allied jack-offs just how dead he was.

"…or perhaps you will recognize it better as Königsberg, da?"

Gilbert's dimmed red-eyes widened and stared straight into the closed lids of Russia's eyes. "Wh-what..?" His body shook. Black spots disrupted his vision, only stopping when a gloved hand traced his neck and grabbed hold of it.

"You are mine, Gilbert. Königsberg is mine. And that is all that is left of you. Although, I'd hardly even call it you. The people here are Russian…"

The gloved hand tightened around Gilbert's neck, pushing it up for a poisoned kiss. But Gilbert couldn't resist, too weak to fight back. Or was that an excuse, to keep the horrid thought of being owned by Russia out of head? No, he wasn't Russia's property, he would never…

"Good boy," Russia said, pulling back and loosening his hand before brushing it though silver strands. "I will stay with you, of course, until you are well enough to travel from here to Moscow."

Gilbert nodded, against his own will. He wanted to spit, to kick that bastard and run back to Berlin, run back to Germany, back to his brother. But there was something keeping him from doing so…

"D-da," he responded, feeling his tongue tainted by that Slavic sound, just like his precious Königsberg, destroyed and rebuilt. For Russia…