Roderick never cried. He wasn't allowed to. As a young country, he had been taught this through pain and discipline and fear. Never let it out, they told him. Keep all the pain inside yourself, they would say. It'll make you better for war. But he wasn't good at war. He was good at the piano and at sewing and at reading. He was born for fighting, a babe created by blood. But somehow, he had defied his fate, his predetermined destination and had ended up quiet and peaceable and weak. But still, even through the centuries of acclimating to his new undefiled life, he had never learned to cry. He had his piano, and it was good enough. He could bear it, somehow.
Gilbert never cried. Crying was for girls, and weak countries that didn't last till the next week. If you cry, they told him, you won't be angry anymore, and you will have nothing to fight for. So Prussia stayed angry, and sharpened his sword with his anger, spilling the blood of his enemies, letting out each knot of emotion with each person he felled. But the world had become peaceful, and so had he. No longer a country, putting down the crown of the battle and the diplomacy, handing it all to his bruder, he was supposed to be calm now. It had been what, fifty years? But still, all he had was anger, but a dull sword won't cut through skin and sinew and bone, and so he could only let it simmer, deep down in a part of him he wished didn't exist.
Austria and Prussia hung out a lot, to the disapproval of both Ludwig and Austria's boss. But they didn't really care; after all, they were both older and wiser. And they had been formed for the same purpose, born of the same blood so to speak- they understood each other as much as they annoyed each other.
"You know, sometimes I get really mad" Gilbert says loudly, but softer than usual. He doesn't look at Austria, just tightens his jaw subtly as he looks up at the bleeding sunset.
Austria hums and nods; his eyes half lidded and sleepy. "I play the piano"
Gilbert turns and studies Austria curiously for a moment, then continues. "It gets easier to control, you know. You just have to let your heart empty of all the happiness, and there's more room for all that anger."
"I also bake sweets."
"It makes me feel alive, Austria!" he yells, his voice becoming loud and strained and obnoxious again. "I have nothing left; nothing but anger." He is breathing heavy now, his nostrils flaring, and he's shaking. Anyone else would have been concerned. But not Austria. He is, after all, the same.
"Sometimes I throw parties themed after the renaissance, and pretend it's the past."
By this point Prussia is sitting up, a snarl marking his usually pleasant features. "Do you know what it feels like to be alive, Austria?" he asks, accusing.
Austria stares back at the skies, noticing that the sun had set already.
"I used to know what it felt like to be alive, Gilbert." He emphasized Gilbert, the human name. For he was no longer 'Prussia', not truly.
"but the sun rises and sets," he continues on, sweeping his arms across the heavens in a big broad gesture, as he turns to stare straight in the desperate eyes of his once beloved enemy, "and now, my dear, it is finally night, and we must sleep."
"Goodnight, my love. And I fear we will not awake come morning"