"You have got to be kidding me."
If Austria appears to share similar sentiments of disbelief and exasperation, he doesn't show it. Instead, the Hapsburg nation swirls his tea around in his cup and watches Prussia pace - no, stalk - around the kitchen with perhaps the tiniest degree of satisfaction.
"It's perfectly normal for someone his age," he remarks offhandedly. "It's a phase, like Italy and his Renaissance, or France and his politiques. We all have been through it at one point or another, or will eventually."
Prussia jerks his head sharply to glance over at his (enemy? how many years has it been since Silesia now?) fellow nation with distaste. "I didn't."
"Yes, well, you are a special case," Austria replies, hiding his scowl with the teacup as he raises it to his lips. "Not all of us can be as...culturally lacking as you are."
"I have culture, just 'cause I don't go prancing around and waving it in people's faces, like you..."
"What your king copies from Francis doesn't count either."
"Bite me, Specs." Prussia snaps, only further proving the Austrian's point. He seems to realize this as well, and therefore scoffs and resumes his pacing.
Some part of Austria wonders exactly what he's doing in Berlin again when he should be in Vienna, except there's not really much to do in Vienna right now in the winter when its too cold for war and he's getting a little sick of dancing. Not that he'd prefer war, mind you, but out of everything he could be doing at this very moment in this day and age, subtly insulting Prussia and watching him become more and more flustered ranks very high on his list of enjoyable activities. So he ignores the part of him the questions what he is doing in Berlin and instead focuses on the part that is enjoying his tea and thinking of passive-aggressive ways to make Prussia's life needlessly harder.
If you can't beat them on the battlefield, insult them in the kitchen.
"This is all your fault, you know!" Prussia ceases his pacing once again to slam his hands on the table, sending a fruit bowl and several candlesticks rattling. "You and your prissy composers, Haydn and Mozart and Bach!"
"No, Bach is Saxony's. And Thuringia's."
"How the hell can he be both?"
"There's several of them, you moronic imbecile."
Prussia groans in exasperation and pulls out a chair to sit down, running a hand through his hair as he does. "Christ...I didn't think raising a kid would be this fucking hard!"
"Yes, because England and Spain looked like they were just having a grand walk in the park." Austria sniffs. "Might I remind you that this entire situation came about while you were away helping that upstart across the ocean?"
"I come back and the little shit's barricaded himself in his room, won't come out, won't talk to me, writing poetry all day..." Prussia moans and buries his head in his arms, his voice slightly muffled. "What did you do to him?"
"Funnily enough, this was the kind of thing I said I was prepared to deal with when we found him. But you insisted on raising him yourself, despite the fact that you have yet to actually successfully raise a plant without it dying in the process."
"Oh, verpiss Dich, and how would you have kept him in one piece when you can barely tell one end of a bayonet from the other, huh? Remember how he died the first time?"
There's a strange sort of silence that reigns, after that. Austria lowers his eyes and taps his fingers against table, trying to ignore the sudden jolt of guilt that runs through him and clenches his jaw. Finally, he finds the words.
"That wasn't my fault, and you know it."
"You were a part of the war, weren't you? You fucking dropped the ball on that one, let me tell you..."
"Fine. Then don't do the same." The words are almost bitter. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose, reaches for the sugar bowl near the center of the table. "Help him through this, whatever it may be. Culture may not be your strong point, but you have to at least try. For Ludwig's sake."
Again, the long quiet. When Austria opens his eyes, Prussia is staring over at the wall, eyes focused on a distant point. For once, he is not laughing or scowling, just merely thoughtful in a way that is almost out of place for the usually crass kingdom.
"That's probably the best thing you've said all day, Specs," he finally says, standing up and pushing the sugar bowl across the table toward Austria. "Which ain't saying much, admittedly."
Austria scoffs. "But you still came to me for advice, so obviously you must hold what I say in some kind of regard -"
He doesn't get to finish his sentence. Prussia has already left the room.
Knock. "Hey, West."
Silence.
Knock knock. "Hey. Kid."
More silence.
"Hey, kid, it's snowing outside. You wanna go build a snowman or something?"
Prussia feels like he's talking to a brick wall. Close enough, at least. West's door remains firmly closed and locked.
"Are you mad at me for going to help America and leaving you here with Prissy-Pants aristocrat? 'Cause, y'know, I told you I'd be back, didn't I?"
"Go away!"
There it is. West's voice seems to crack a little when he yells, though it's probably more from growing pains than sadness. Prussia tries and fails to hide the grin that spreads across his face. Little shit's getting taller every day.
"C'mon, West, you can tell me. I can keep secrets. What's wrong?"
"Nothing! Go! Away!"
Followed by several thumps that Prussia guesses is several books being thrown against the wood. He scowls, not so amused anymore. If he wanted, he could probably kick down the door and drag out the little (nation? what is he, even?) entity by the hair, kicking and screaming, but something tells him that would qualify as Bad Sibling Skills.
So instead he lowers his voice a bit, tries a calmer approach.
"Ludwig. C'mon. It's me, Gilbert, your older brother. You can tell me anything, remember?"
Like coaxing a wounded animal, he realizes with a sudden burst of clarity, a memory from his days with Magy - Hungary. Be cautious, be careful, be gentle. Put yourself in the other person's perspective. Even if empathy may not be a strong suit of his (how could it be, with the number of people he's killed, for kingdom, glory, God, there's no way he could handle all that), he tries to remember what it must have been like long ago.
"I know you're feeling pretty alone right now, right? No one understands you. I bet it kinda sucks."
Silence. At least he's not throwing books anymore.
"And I mean, it sucks more cause at least if you were human you'd have people to go through this with you, but instead you've gotta be surrounded by losers like Austria and France and crazies like England and I can see how that can kinda suck too cause a lot of the time we're gonna forget what it's like to be where you are. Christ, kid, you're just a kid."
"Am not," comes the almost reproachful voice. "I'm already a century old, I know I am."
"Yeah, but I'm at least five centuries old, so there."
More silence. Prussia thinks smugly that he's at least won that point.
"But the thing is, even though you've got losers like Austria and France and crazies like England, you've still got me, the awesome Prussia to help you through it! And Bavaria, and Saxony, and all of your other states too! Trust me, you may think that no one understands you right now, and maybe you're right, but...hey, that doesn't mean we're not going to try."
Prussia doesn't consider himself an orator. Not off the battlefield, at least. And he knows that the words sound weak, even to him, but he's no good at language. He leaves that to his king and philosophers.
Hell. Maybe West'll be better at it. That kid's got so much promise.
And the door slowly opens just a tiny crack, and Prussia can see nervous blue eyes peering out at him. West's smile is tentative. Shy. Still, he extends a single volume novel as though it's an olive branch. Something Prussia can understand.
"I guess you can read this," he says in his adolescent's voice - somewhere on the cusp of becoming something older, something greater. "If you do, I'll come out and talk to you maybe a little. But you can't laugh at me!"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Prussia promises, grasping onto the book as though it's something precious. And it is, but not nearly as precious as the real smile West gives him, partly out of relief and partly out of actual happiness of sharing something important to him. And even though he closes the door behind him, he doesn't lock it.
Progress.
...holy shit I am the best older brother ever.
He tucks the book under his arms and strides down the hall, whistling cheerily. It isn't until he's turned the corner that he pauses to take it out again and look at it.
Pause.
"...what the fuck is Die Leiden des jungen Werthers?!"
fin
I literally typed this up on the spot there is no editing or thought put into this at all I apologize deeply but not really.
Inspired mainly by meltedpeep on livejournal with her fanart titled, "Ludwig's godawful upbringing". Seriously, it's so great even if its like five years old. Really great historical stuff, honestly, helped me a lot with the basis of German history. If you haven't seen it, find it.
Anyway, there's this one part where meltedpeep mention's Ludwig's "historically canonical emo phase", aka Sturm und Drang. Which I thought was way too funny not to write about.
Basically Sturm and Drang (Storm and Stress) was a German Romantic movement about Deep Emotions. Angst, angst, angst. Basically this is where Germany hit puberty and suddenly life seemed cruel and meaningless and it inspired tons of art and music and yeah. The Sorrows of Young Werthers, by Goethe, was a prime example. I'm struggling through it right now, and yeah. Angst. Angst. Angst.
The Holy Roman Empire didn't actually fall entirely until 1806 and Napoleon, but the Thirty Year's War was sort of the beginning of then end. So here we have somewhere-in-between Ludwig, not quite the HRE anymore but not quite Germany either. Idk. I'm not gonna worry about it.
Mainly I wanted to write Prussia being a sort of useless but well-meaning older brother and Austria being the snarky motherfucker he is. Plus little history tidbits. So yeah. Thank you for reading!
Mischief Managed!