he she it
i.
my name is prussia is the first thing hungary hears from his mouth when he's face down with grass in his mouth and dirt caked in his nails; the heel of prussia's boots dig into his scalp, and hungary makes a low, growling noise under his breath, the humiliation making his ears turn red and his tongue taste bitter with defeat, it's bad enough to have to go through this with turkey, but at least he could use turkey's age and experience as an excuse for his own weakness. this boy, on the other hand -
fuck you, he mumbles and spits out the grass in prussia's face when he leans closer to hear him, and hungary finds a sick satisfaction in seeing prussia's face twisted in irritation, even if he does get a black eye for it.
if there's one thing hungary knows well, it's that bruises heal, but pride is a different story altogether.
he makes sure it's prussia who has his ass in the air and his cheek against a field the next time he sees him.
ii.
it's fun, for a while, to kick prussia's ass as he pleases, but war tends to get repetitive for him, sometimes, even if he does find it exhilirating to see blood on his sword, prussia's turkey's everyone who's ever wanted his land his people him; he'll never give them the satisfaction of knowing his geography as well as he does.
sometimes he'll let prussia come within three meters without letting an arrow fly into the air, conveniently aimed at his forehead, and sometimes they'll take trash like all little boys do, all male bragging and insults and there's no hope for diplomacy, really, because hungary doesn't trust him enough and maybe prussia doesn't trust anyone else, not with his territory.
hungary respects that, at least. it's the fundamental thing that makes them states, after all.
iii.
he feels strangely jealous when he sees other men naked - even france, although he'd rather die before admitting it. he finds himself peering down at the general area of his lower regions, wistfully waiting for his manhood to grow just so he could compare sizes with prussia and maybe laugh at him later.
it's around the same time the chest pains start, and he feels like there's something very important about it but he can't be bothered to care because he just feels so cranky and pained and no one understands him, not even his servants who look at him with trepidation when he wails.
prussia, at least, is the only thing he could count on as a regular source for entertainment. there's something therapeutic in wasting valuable time mocking the other boy, and it's cheesy and maybe girly of him but he's made a promise with prussia, a promise between men, and he expects secrets to be kept, weaknesses to be unnoticed, unless prussia wants the next arrow to get lodged in his brain permanently, or at least until the world ends.
iv.
the first time hungary knows of austria, it's the worst day of his life and the best day of hers.
i'm a boy, he tells his king, i can't get married i'm a boy i'm a boy oh please believe me, i could prove it to you-
it takes five servants to knock him out, and five weeks of an existential crisis before he gives in and lets the servants dress him her with something more proper. austrian diplomats come and go, and she gets drilled on etiquette and culture and how to be a woman how not to be a boy. they take away her armor, her weapons, her favorite horse; she loses the things that make her feel strong and ready to take on the world, for the sake of austria's notions of civilization, for the sake of keeping some hold on her land.
politics is a stranger to her, not war.
v.
she doesn't meet austria until many, many years later, and she sits beside her king like a proper lady would, a possession of austria with some degree of sovereignty, at least.
later, austria tucks a flower in her hair, considering, calm quiet cool everything she never knew, and she sinks deeper into her seat, smiling but not quite.
he's wonderful. he's everything she's ever wanted.
she'll learn to love him, in time.
v.
prussia offers his congratulations by waging war, predictably enough.
she shows up at his house and retaliates with her fists, her skirt pinned to her waist and her hair tied back so she could pummel him to the ground without looking the worse for wear, and he catches her fists in his hands, sneering at her and saying, weren't you bored without me around?
i wasn't too lonely, she says, kneeing him in the stomach, and it isn't a lie, not completely.
better me than that pansy, prussia says, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and hungary presses shaking fingers to prussia's chest, feeling prussia's heartbeat under her palm. you went to me anyway.
don't patronize me, cretin, she hisses, all startling anger and bruising force, and prussia grins, showing teeth; her blood hums at the sight.
it's the only time she lets prussia map out her body with his fingers, and it's not soft not sweet not beautiful not how she'd imagined making love to women when she was a boy-girl-not-man-not-woman-oh he she didn't know. prussia is never gentle, can never be expected to be gentle, but at least he doesn't hurt her heart, not when this is what she expects from him and he follows through.
there is no guilt, no regret to speak of. there is only prussia teeth tongue calloused fingers marred skin - things she'll miss when she would make love to austria, later, the telltale signs of battle, the roughness in his touch, the string of profanities she'll whisper into his skin while she laughs at him in the darkness, and perhaps once is enough.
she would find some danger in welcoming him more than she should.
vi.
you don't have to pretend in front of me, she imagines prussia to say, but she will never have the heart to admit that there is no pretension. they're still the same, inside.