Notes: One of my favourite shippings, it has great dynamics. I just feel sorry for Roderich, sometimes. And sometimes, I don't.

The Time Was Wrong

I can still remember his face clear as day—his mouth (always curled up in a self-satisfactory grin), his nose (surprisingly straight) and in the centre of it all: his eyes (glowing like daggers in the evening sun).

I can hear him shouting for his men to attack, can feel the pain in my nose as his fist collides with it, can taste the blood running hotly backwards down my throat, can sense the air crack against his roaring laughter.

The world became boring when Prussia disappeared.

The world around me is not important. The rain pouring down and flooding the town, the smell of gasoline mixed with the indefinable scent of early spring, the bag with groceries in the left hand of the girl standing in the middle of the street, unmoving in her want to move. All of this is insignificant compared to him. And I know it's him.

There is a thudding, sort of splashing noise. Something has just hit the ground.

I know it's him.

A cold feeling begins to creep up my spine; the rain is grabbing for my arms, twisting its slippery fingers around my wrists, trying with all its might to pull me toward reality. Because—this can only be an illusion, right?

I shouldn't have gone out so late to do my shopping. I should have gotten more sleep, too.

I shouldn't be able to see a country that doesn't exist anymore.

He laughs, probably at me. The sound slaps against the asphalt, hard. It repels and follows my every move as I bend down to pick up my umbrella and hold it over my head so that he won't see my face when I hurry past him.

I know you don't trust me. All of you. They. Everybody. But I am not weak, I am not lying, I am not yours. I am part of the EU and I am mine. I belong to myself.

The EU doesn't want me, not here or anywhere else, and certainly not as their head. So the girl with the flowers in her hair has to stand alone at the end of the table. The others are looking up at her, expecting her to play her role. A role. A role in a never-ending play with switching, replaceable protagonists.

I am not weak, I am strong, and I am not leaving just yet. I belong to myself. I—

am not made for this job. At all.

He laughs at me again. Bet he thinks I'm stupid, that I should stop being such a girl. He's dead and still hasn't learned. Didn't death make him any wiser? Didn't death kill him?

"Hungary?"

The others are still looking at her and the girl with the flowers in her hair and the machine gun at her feet (for safety purposes) looks back and doesn't really see anything, and, and—this is wrong.

Didn't death kill you?

There's breath coming out of his mouth, slipping easily through his grinning lips. I feel it against my skin, crawling at excruciatingly slow speed. He's breathing.

"Hey, Hungary!"

I wonder if I should turn around. I wonder if I should yell at him for standing too close. I wonder if I hate him enough. I wonder if death has ever failed before. I wonder why I'm not answering.

"Oh, I knew she'd be awful at this."

"Romano!"

He's not laughing anymore. I feel a hand on my shoulder, strong and cold, but his breath is still warm against my neck.

"Where you trying to support me back there?"

I don't even know why I'm talking to him. I mean. This is just too weird.

"Well," he drags out, examining his nails. When he was alive he never did that. Maybe it's a death thing. "It was obvious that you needed my help."

"Is that the reason why you're here?"

He grimaces and clenches his hand into a fist, before letting it fall down limply to his side. There's something obscene about him letting anything fall.

"This is a time of peace," I go on, only half-aware of the words' meaning. Their bitterness is numbing my tongue, my senses. However, this must be said. He doesn't belong here. "But the only thing you've ever understood is fighting. Your era is over."

I feel a lurch and then a tug at my jacket; two hands are pushing me to the ground, and it's as if I'm not a part of the happenings anymore but just an observer, watching from the sidelines as the youth with the eyes like daggers pins the girl down, looking stern and uncharacteristically mature. "'Peace' my ass," he says. "The world will always be at war."

The world is not important. The world became boring when Prussia disappeared.

But now he's back. He's back and here and gently removing strands of my hair from my face and the touch of his fingers is doing funny things to my body.

For a second, I think he might kiss me. For another, I hope he does, but then he lets go and within the blink of an eye he's gone.

I'm only mildly impressed when I arrive at home to see him waiting for me in bed.

"Ungarn," he says and stretches himself with much relish. He had the temerity to leave his shoes on, so now, with every move of his legs, he's rubbing more and more dirt into my sheets. "Welcome home."

I turn on my heel and stalk back to the exit. With him in the house, there isn't enough space to think. And I need the space, the distance. The world may have become boring, but I am still accountable to it. I am a country. I need to draw a line.

"Hey! Where are you going?" His feet cause the beech floorboards to creak under their weight as he follows me to the door.

I pause at the stairs, straighten my dress, smooth down my hair, and wait. "Austria's," I answer. I could have gone to Poland's place, too. This is just payback for treating me like a teenage girl or some princess that has to be kissed by a knight in shining armour in order to live happily ever after.

The sound of his teeth grinding against each other isn't very satisfying, though. I guess I wanted to be saved, after all.

Austria is nice and accommodating, and grants me the greatest shoulder massage I have ever experienced. His hands are different from Prussia's, more delicate and somehow relaxing, and they give off a feeling of familiarity. All the ecstasy, the confusion and the raging emotions from before have evaporated.

I let out a deep sigh. Austria chuckles and stops the massage to play some Chopin on the piano. I listen for a while, just let him take me wherever he pleases, until:

"Do you ever miss him?"

The music comes to an abrupt halt. The silence afterwards is as inevitable as his reaction.

"Why would I?"

I stare at the splendid baroque ceiling, golden leaves encircling pictures of bright blue skies, and reach for the primrose behind my left ear. Right at that moment, I can make out Prussia standing next to Austria and the piano from the corner of my eye. He's grinning, swirling something small and pink between his thumb and index finger.

With a haste I would have never understood before, I sit up and open my mouth to say something, anything to keep him from doing what I know he will, but all I can do is gasp and gag for breath. Something is pressing down heavily on my lungs. Something like remorse.

Austria's head whips around to see what's wrong. Closing a hand around the bloom, Prussia dissolves into nothingness. That's what's wrong.

Something is making my eyes sting, making me grab for my heart so it won't disappear along with him. Something like …