They've been screaming for at least half-an-hour, and Holy Rome wonders if Bavaria will intervene at one point or another to keep them from ripping each other's throat. It's about France (it's always about France) and Holy Rome isn't sure if he should go and try to say something. He knows that his opinion doesn't really matter, and that he'll probably just end up getting himself sick and need a week in bed to recover from a little screaming with Prussia. He simply stays in his room, listens to the clashing between chanting southern swearwords and the sharp, cutting sound of angry Berlinese.
There are a few punches, and a loud, crashing sound. It's probably Austria, because Prussia is always the one that starts throwing punches, and it seems that Saxony will have to glue his porcelain collection back together tomorrow. Holy Rome closes his eyes, tries to think about the summers in Potsdam and the winters in Munich, but it's hard. There are words he tries not to understand even though they ring in his ears way too well. It's about France, it's always about France, and the simple mention of his name makes his head ache.
"You know what's your problem, Austria ?" Prussia's voice has this dangerous, low tone, and it's a bit broken, cutting like glass shards. "It's that you let yourself be fucked by the enemy if it means saving your precious little ass."
It's an odd silence that falls between the two, and Holy Rome can almost see the seething anger and despair paint itself on Austria's face on the other side of the wall. Prussia, with his pride, his boiling anger and his harsh words that cut like swords, doesn't understand Austria, has never done, because Prussia is Prussia, and it's the Polish blood in his veins that makes him the way he is. He can't understand Austria's ways, the fights of soft-spoken words and whispers, the crippling catholic guilt and the souvenir of Spain's warmth on his side in what seems like millenias. Prussia is green and bold, and it makes Holy Rome feel so very old sometimes, stuck in that child's body that is already rotting on the inside.
Holy Rome is dying, has been for centuries, but this time it's final. It's not a nice kind of agony, it really isn't, seeing his brothers outgrow him and his own existence slipping between his fingers. He closes his eyes, tries to forget the sharp pangs of pain that twist his stomach and makes his chest ache. He remembers France's words, the smell of blood all over his clothes and how Austria's face had kept that subtle look of despair as France had caressed his face with a smile.
Holy Rome closes his eyes, and he feels cold.
