Versailles, January 1871

Bavaria doesn't want to be here, obviously, and it's strange, because he should like this place, should like the sparkling lights and the pretty ladies of France, and the rather excessive amount of booze they got here to celebrate. He sits in the corner of the ballroom, a dark look on his face, dressed in his best clothes only because Swabia persuaded him to do so. He looks like an angry old man, but Bavaria has always been kind of an angry old man.

It pisses off Prussia, but a lot of things about Bavaria have always angered Prussia. That and the fact that he can't really be divide his annoyance between Bavaria and Saxony at the moment. Their eldest brother is piss drunk on the champagne and obviously having a pretty good time, and Prussia is actually pretty glad that he's enjoying himself, given the circumstances.

He plops himself next to Bavaria, glass of champagne in hand. Prussia can almost hear his brother wishing he could peel away the protective arm that twirl itself around his shoulders. It's something in the corner of his mouth and the arch of his eyebrows.

"Don't do that face," Prussia says.
"What face?"
"That face. The one that makes you look like Austria when he's pissed at me."

Bavaria is bigger than Prussia, big dumb muscles made for farming and not for war. It used to bother him, a long time ago, but not anymore. He can feel him tense for a split second, because Austria is still a bit of a touchy subject between them, but it goes away quickly enough, and Bavaria sighs.

"The only reason I'm here is because I want to make sure you don't make a mess out of this one right away."

Prussia gives him a look, and he's serious now. "I'm not Austria."

Bavaria has an ironic little half smile, and it infuriates Prussia even more than the angry bored look. Prussia is the one who won, who gets to order everyone around this time, and Bavaria still acts like he's better than everyone else, like he's still that big important older brother they all looked up to. He's not, and he will never be anymore, not as long as Prussia lives, that's for sure.

"Austria wouldn't rub it in our collective faces with that kind of tacky setting," Bavaria says simply. "And he wouldn't do it in France, of all places."
"No, fucking his way through politics is more his style."
"That too."

On that, at least, they agree.

There's a little moment of silence during which Bavaria seems to almost, almost relax. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe they'll manage to sort their shit with each other one day, if they try hard enough. Prussia will never really say it out loud, but he hopes, he most certainly hopes. He tries not to be an ashole, for a very bried instant.

"You like the new kid?" Prussia asks, and it is a genuine question, even though he tries his best to look like it doesn't matter.
"No. I don't like him."

Well at least he's honest.

"You liked the other one better, maybe?" Prussia's voice is bitter. "The constant complaining and the sick child theatrics?"
"I liked the fact that he didn't wish so hard to be like you."

Bavaria's face is once again a carefully emotionless mask as he moves Prussia's arm away from his shoulder in one purposefully slow movement. He rises up to his feet, gives Prussia a stern look.

"The others might think you're doing all of us a great service, but I don't. You're going to break that kid into being just like you, exactly like Austria did last time, and it's going to kill him. I don't want to take part in this."

Prussia looks at him for a moment, tall, blond, old and stupid. Prussia would laugh, he really would, but there's something stuck in his throat. Bavaria is wrong and Bavaria is jealous of him, jealous of Prussia's successes, because Bavaria is soft and weak-willed, while Prussia's blood is the one of a warrior, raised on the harsh lands that border the Baltic sea. And yet. All he can muster is a smug grin.

"Afraid I can't do that, brother." He takes a sip from his glass of champagne. "Gotta look over you and over your stupid sodomite kings that can't manage their own finances. Seems like the little brother from the North has to take care of his dumb older brothers nowadays, uh?"

Bavaria's hand curls into a fist, but Prussia knows that he won't do anything, not tonight, not in front of the others, because he knows that if they really do end up fighting, Prussia will crush him like he crushed France, Austria and the others. It would hurt his pride too much to be humiliated like this, and so he shoots Prussia one last angry glance before leaving for fresh air and a walk in the gardens of Versailles that are now covered under the snows of January.

It's the winter that makes him like this, Prussia will say, and he's only ever half-right when it comes to Bavaria.