"You must be fucking kidding me."
There's a hint of anger, a hint of tiredness and absolutely no surprise in East's voice. It's to be expected. Russia and he haven't had the best relationship, as far as relationships between their kind go. At the same time, East has never had anything anyone could ever classify as a good relationship with anybody. He's just not that kind of person. He's just not like West, dear, conciliating West, with his filthy money and suffocating guilt.
East doesn't give fucks, not anymore anyway. Somehow, he manages not to kick Russia in the nuts as the asshole just sits there next to him as if he had the fucking permission to do so. Russia doesn't have his permission to do anything. In fact, he wouldn't even be allowed to step a foot in Berlin, had East the slightest influence in West's gestion of the place. East doesn't have a say in whatever happens in West's office, though, and so Russia is there, and he's smiling like a cat with a dead bird in his mouth.
East realizes that the reason he's not kicking him away is because there's a paper tray with currywurst on his lap that's waiting to be eaten. If there's any rule East will ever respect, it's not to waste perfectly decent meat.
"It's that time of the year again, isn't it?"
Russia has a weird accent in German, but at least he's not trying to get East to speak Russian. East, who has always hated Russian, half-heartedly appreciates the effort.
"Fuck you," he answers simply between two bites of sausage. "Is this one of West's attempts to make himself feel better about how utterly fucked our great brotherly relationship is?"
"Would you like it to be?"
Russia's question isn't a question, and East knows it. He doesn't answer, picks another piece of currywurst from his cardboard tray, munches it purposefully. Russia keeps on smiling, that stupid empty smile of him. It's awkward but it's not as awkward as spending the day with West would be, and so he stays there, sitting at this ungodly hour of the morning on Alexanderplatz, eating junk food next to the guy that had reduced this whole city into nothingness so many years ago.
Russia's there on his own, obviously, now that East thinks of it. West wouldn't ask him anything out of pride, mainly because he hates him for a thousand of different reasons, most of them, East has to admit, are valid. East knows that his brother had he somehow brought himself to face their current situation, would have misguidedly sent Austria to deal with him. The whole thing would have ended up in angry, awkward fucking, so it's better this way. East wouldn't even think about fucking Russia in his current state.
"You know, if you're looking for a new bitch because Lithuania left twenty years ago, you're really fucking misguided. I'm not going to trade whatever piece-of-shit of a life I have right now to go back to Königsberg."
"It's Kaliningrad," Russia states calmly.
East just looks at him with a half-eaten piece of sausage in his mouth and he remembers why he hates Russian as a language so much.
"And I am not here for that. I'm not that desperate yet, you know."
Russia's words do sting a bit but East won't admit it out loud. He looks at the potatoes in his tray, grabs one and puts it in his mouth. They're a bit too salty, but potatoes are potatoes. If he hurries up in finishing them, maybe he'll get to get to beat up one of his ancient enemy on an empty berlinese public place before the sun rises. He'd probably get shit from West for doing so, and somehow that fact makes the prospect even more tempting.
"I had some time off and it's been a long time since I've seen one of us die. I was wondering how you would do it."
At this very moment, East's thoughts go blank. He was expecting some kind of retarded mind-games everybody plays with everybody in this stupid, stupid new way of dealing with problems everyone calls diplomacy, but it's not, and Russia's words are honest to the point of being blunt. It's surprising to say the least, and East wishes he feel anger, white-hot, real, living anger about it but he doesn't. He realises that what he feels right now is thankfulness and it's an odd sort of relief. Russia might be an asshole, but he's the honest kind of asshole, at least most of the time. They're both monsters and they're both very much aware of that fact, unlike West, unlike America, unlike fucking France, hiding his head in the sand and pretending that everything was alright.
East looks at Russia, looks at the bench they're sitting on, and suddenly a thousand years come crashing before his eyes. There are the elegant balls in Paris, where everything ever gets decided, and then there are the thundering battles in the sun and in the rain, and blood, always blood. The horses scream and the bombs fall and East (Or had he another name? He doesn't know anymore.) laughs with madness making his whole body shake. He remembers the taste of cheap coffee and Russia's mildly surprised stare as he came to greet him in the airport with blood under his fingernails and screams of despair hanging around his ears. He remembers West face, and then suddenly gravity shifts, drags him back to earth. It's over.
He's back on Alexanderplatz, back to the reality of the scarred skyline of Berlin and there are no more potatoes on his paper tray. East sighs, wraps the curry soaked cardboard into a ball he throws into the nearest trashcan with a large move of the right arm. Russia takes out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket with an elegant drawn-out movement, just as if he already knew what East needed right now. The first rays of the sun have risen over the horizon. It's too late to start kicking his ass now.
"I bought them on the way here," Russia says matter-of-factly, placing the filter between his lips and producing a cheap disposable lighter from his breast pocket. "I stopped smoking, you see, but I thought you might enjoy a little souvenir."
East looks at the blue packaging of fresh Gauloises, lets out a snort before taking the lit cigarette Russia presents him. He breathes, and the tobacco smoke is bitter. It's not exactly the same as twenty years ago, though, because Russia's cigarettes don't taste like black market and privilege anymore. They just taste like boring old French cigarettes, and somehow, as he breathes in and out, East can hear the sound of human flesh sizzling and screams reverberating in hidden empty prison cells. He chases the thought and the smoke with a non-descript move of the hand.
"Remember when they told us that the wall would last a thousand years?" he asks Russia, and the corner of his mouth does that funny little thing that isn't a half-smile just yet.
"Yes. Strange humans, were they not?"
"Yeah."
East catches himself staring at that ridiculous clock they just sort of put there in the middle of an empty place surrounded by too large building a few decades ago. He catches himself wondering if the weather is good in Königsberg at this time of the year. It's most probably terrible, because Eastern Prussia has always been a piece shit land where nothing grew.
"Tell me, what did you do when it all fell down?"
Russia's voice has a strange kind of softness to it as he says this. It's almost like compassion, except East knows better than to expect anything of the kind from him.
"Went to see West in Bonn with the old cardboard bitch. Then I came back to Berlin, burned the fucking car with the rest of the files they had on me, drank Kölsch and watched pornography. It's stupid, but I sort of miss that piece of shit Trabi now that West bought me one of those fancy western car. Easily available porn is great, though. I fucking hated the black-market brand of cheap, out-of-date tits and asses."
"The unexpected downsides of capitalism."
East gives Russia a look, blows smoke out through his nose.
"And what did you do when it ended?"
"I drank almost as much as when the war ended. It was beautiful"
Russia smiles and East can see his teeth glint as he does. There's only one real war that they can properly call this way, every single one of them knows that, and it feels weird that he would just mention it like that. West never talks about it, because West is West, and guilt cripples him like an old wound, but for Russia, for Russia it meant eternal glory. It's weird, how utterly different they feel about the whole mess, East and West and Russia and America and the rest of them. It's almost like if they hadn't fought in the same war.
Russia sees his pensive face from the corner of his eyes as he says the words, and he lets out a throaty laugh.
"Is it a sensitive subject, really? I would understand for your brother, but you never seemed to care much about me mentioning it, back in the days. Has time really made you so soft?"
"Fuck you."
East throws away his cigarette butt. Berlin is slowly waking up, and people are starting to come out of the subway and train stations. East doesn't want people, not here, not yet, not now. He rises up to leave and Russia's eyes, just as empty as when he was tearing this city apart, Russia's eyes follow him as he does so. Suddenly East feels stupid, with his jeans and freezing leather coat in the autumn breeze. He feels like the goddamn Ossie he's always been since the end of the war, with no money and no future, and an uncanny attraction to symbols of a long lost era. He can't bring himself to move and fuck if he doesn't hate himself for letting it go in front of fucking Russia of all people.
"I'm not West, not yet. I've never been West. He didn't tear Poland into pieces times and times again. I did this. I created modern warfare. I'm the one who turned you into a bleeding, begging mess and laughed as your precious union and the world burned. Don't you fucking think I might ever want to forget this."
Russia's laugh softens, but there's something hard still shining in the corner of his eyes. He rises too, as if to fucking stalk East back to his flat on Karl-Marx Allee, takes another cigarette from his pocket, lights it. The first drag he takes out of it feels oddly sexual, and he closes his eyes as if he was moaning. East reconsiders the whole not-fucking-him thing for a moment, throws the idea away. Russia has never had the boyish kind of pretty East usually liked in men.
"I thought you had stopped smoking," East states flatly.
He sort of wants to leave but Russia won't let go. The situation feels painfully familiar.
"I thought you had turned into a hypocritical westerner just like your brother. I have been wrong before."
That answer makes East smile without really wanting to. Once again, Russia is a complete ass, but at least he's honest about it, and East can appreciate honesty. They all have dirty laundry somewhere, they've all bathed themselves in blood and screams of dying men and women, but only a few of them seem to truly realise and acknowledge it. Maybe Russia being here isn't that bad, or at least it wouldn't be that bad if he had a few beers in his blood system right now. He shrugs, starts walking, and Russia follows as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The sun makes the whole city come alive, and the old communist architecture that characterizes the eastern neighbourhoods of the city seems a little bit less ugly in the light of day.
Russia doesn't say a word as they walk, smokes absentmindedly, ashes pilling themselves up on his cigarette between flickers of the hand. East returns the courtesy. He's not sure he wants to hear Russia say another word about how he's about to die.
There's a whistling noise as they get to the car, that ridiculously flashy car West dreams of driving but could never buy for himself, and it makes East laughs. He props himself in the driver seat, looks at Russia.
"Judging the pros and cons of capitalism?"
"You told me that your brother had offered you a car to replace the Trabant. I was expecting something else."
"You don't know West."
It's a shame Russia and West won't talk unless forced to, East can't help but to think as the car starts and old-school punk starts blasting from the Maserati's speakers. They actually have a lot in common, including a love of fine cars and getting shit-faced. The city rolls under the cars wheels and The Sex Pistols scream about England and shit East never really cared about. Russia doesn't comment, because East would probably kick him out without even stopping if he did, throws his cigarette out the window, watches the streets as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world. Maybe they are, somehow, or so East can't help but to think.
"So I take that we are going back to your brother's place?" Russia asks, somehow managing to make himself heard over a guitar riff.
East turns down the volume a notch directly from the wheel. Fancy Italian cars did have their advantages.
"So it's true that you guys all think that I've turned into some sort of basement dweller, huh? It's funny, because West and I don't live together."
Russia only gives him a slightly confused stare. East grins and it tastes sour.
"West fucking hates this place. I mean he comes here to work, but damn if he's not happier in, I don't know, fucking Munich or Dusseldorf."
The moment the words fly out of his mouth, East knows this is too much of a confession.
Russia doesn't say anything right away, his eyes purposefully fixed on the road in front of him. It's almost as if he doesn't know what to do with the information. East looks at him and wonders if Russia has any idea how actually fucked his relationship with West has always been, or so it seems. He probably knows it to some extent, given his own problematic dealings with his sisters, but he's still on talking terms with Ukraine even though he starved her to death and offered her destroyed body for the taking, so he obviously has some kind of magic trick for dealing with relatives. East remember her screams of loathing and pain, and somehow, somewhere, it makes his spine shiver with feelings he's not sure he wants to fully acknowledge.
"I remember hating Moscow, back in the days. I changed my mind. Your brother will change his mind too, one day."
East doesn't know if this is supposed to make him feel any way better, because it obviously doesn't. Russia has always had a hard time understanding that the rest of the world didn't work things out the way he did. He doesn't know guilt, not the kind of guilt that suffocates West and France and the others. Russia drinks his troubles away, rewrites his own history on a whim and never cries over what has been done. East wishes he could be like this too, sometimes. He shrugs, turns the volume back up, and makes the engine roar. He would have stopped by on Karl-Marx Allee for the both of them to get a drink but he's got a better idea now.
Russia closes his eyes as if to sleep and the car flies into the morning sun.