Disclaimer: Well, Hima and I live in the same city, so it counts, right?
Another shriek stormed through the mist, shaking Hungary to her marrow. Of all things to do, she ducked—a smart move as the blood of her man rained on her. As she dug herself from the trench and darted to the next, she swallowed back what felt suspiciously like a sob. That had been her last companion, but she had not the time to even bury him in his trench. This war had done half the job for her, digging the grave, and she had not the time to even cover it up.
Nor even look back at what probably remained. Poor boy. She should have dragged him down with her.
Another explosion of dust and grit blinded her a moment. Almost there. Through the gray and death she saw a speck of red, though it was all in her mind. One speck became two, two brilliant lanterns of the glossiest cherry crimson. It was like dreaming, but this vision would soon come true, she thought, and rolled into the next grave, thumping a body on the way. Who was this boy, she wondered, as she kicked his body aside, draped in a cloak and the bluest, deadest eyes? But he mattered even less to her than her lost companion did, fighting for a country who could not take care of even one of her people.
Five trenches, she counted, as her ears picked up the cry of another daisy cutter, high and eerie. And twenty trenches more to reach him.
Many years she had leapt through hell—battle—for other countries, other men, but it was the first time she could remember leaping for him.
She blinked at the thought of the red eyes, and they blinked back, closing one last time as she counted. Ten trenches. Fifteen. Twenty. She hunkered down, waiting an infinity for all she knew before the last bomb quieted and she crawled out again.
As the smoke cleared, the sound of a man's voice grew with the death of the battle and hundreds more of their men. As she neared, Hungary wondered vaguely if he would shoot at her next.
"Hinlegen!" thundered the voice, and there was a mess of shuffles as Hungary rose, unfolding from the pit like a flower.
"Porosz," she said.
There was no shock, only relief as he had recognized her immediately. "Ungarn," he said like he was breathing anew, and beckoned at her, bracing one foot over the trench before seeming to remember that leaping forward was a bad idea. And then, more frantically, "Kommen sie hier."
As soon as she joined him over the wall of unforgiving earth he pulled her down with him, pressing her flush against the trench floor with one arm and the other clinging tight to his rifle, its bayonet pressing dangerously close to his face. "Wie ist die Idiot? Alles gut?" he mumbled through a mouthful of the ground.
Hungary forgave him for saying it as she breathed back, in English, "Yes."
"Und mein Brüder? Alles gut? Is he safe?"
She lifted her face from the dirt, ears ringing with the silence after the battle. "Ja."
Now that she could see him clearly, face inches away, she could see his unkempt hair glinting like silver in the din, hanging straight and untangled from his pickelhaube, all its gleaming steel and Preußen Gloria wrapped in drab cloth. And the dreamlike red of his eyes now purplish in the haze. The thought of the familiarity, a permanent friend after so many days running with men who died one by one at her side, made her heart ache.
"Three men started the journey with me," she whispered to him, "now there is only me."
His eyes seemed to soften, the creases around his eyes fading. "My aide-de-camp has gangrene," he confessed. And then, softer, in Hungarian, "Régebben az utolsó a penicillin. He is probably already dead."
She pressed her lips together and mumbled a prayer. Prussia regularly sought comfort in prayer, she thought, once daily, then yearly, now by decade. She tasted dirt.
That was when he tensed.
He barked a command that was lost in the scramble as he slammed a mask over her face for her, and she found herself looking at the matching hollow yellow eyes and trunk-like filter covering his face. "Don't breathe," he told her. "And lie down."
I won't, she thought, if you don't. But it was hard to breathe through her own mask, there was such an odd, clenching feeling that made her feel like breathing in the winter—sharp and breathing, but like you were not breathing at all. The air was thin.
Then a high-pitched hiss bordering on screaming. Something filled the air as Prussia's men ducked, at which Hungary followed. A yellowish smoke filled the air as there was a collective gasp Hungary only picked up with years of practiced hearing; an odor passed over her nose, and she was determined not to smell it.
They held their breaths for what must have been twenty minutes, or at least she did because that was how long she could do it. She heard choking after those twenty minutes when they breathed out and gulped in another breath, holding it again. This happened over and over again for what must have been hours in the same position; it was only what must have been two hours in when she shifted position so her leg would not cramp against Prussia's so hard, and another three before he called them to take the masks off.
More gasps as they were finally freed. Heart hammering, Hungary looked to Prussia, his cheek still resting in the dirt. Oddly, it looked like crushed snow, but that was perhaps the gas talking. "Poison gas?" she said, half in wonder, half in horror.
"Don't act like it's a new thing," he replied, gruffly, and rose to his feet impatiently. He showered dirt as he stood. "West and I are just perfecting it."
"To do what?" she said. In sudden defiance she refused to move—she stayed sprawled on the ground, craning her neck to face him, outlined against the gunmetal clouds. "You're not saving anyone by making killing easier, you know."
His jaw stiffened until she could see how tightly the skin stretched under his chin. "It gets the job done," he said. "Unless you'd like to fight this war alone."
She was ready to get up and punch him in one swift motion, the smack of his flesh resounding in front of all his men, when there was a shout down the line.
"Hauptscharführer!"
Caught in the beginnings of getting up, Hungary changed her mind, following Prussia as he dashed left. They sank deeper into the trenches as the walls grew beside them, and Hungary, triggered more than anything, found her breath growing shallow. She hated being underground. Romania liked to tease her about it, the mongrel.
The sky seemed sealed away.
And the trench broadened, narrowed, then broadened again. And once more narrowed until Prussia shouted over his shoulder that they were in what they called the Needle. Somewhere along the line, a thought occurred to Hungary—that my footsteps—
Prussia choked.
She very nearly ran into him as he dropped to his knees, silently crying without tears, it seemed. He seemed stricken, eyes wide as he gasped for breath. He reached out, the motion sharp, for the hand of the man slumped against the wall with green eyes pointed skyward.
Hungary suddenly felt self-conscious, mind seeming to numb as she, too, knelt beside Prussia; at only an inch behind him, she saw the eyes and, when she turned her head, the way he set his face, dead and forward. The other soldiers shuffled awkwardly away.
"Hauptscharführer," said the man. The eyes, green and rimmed with red, looked almost emerald. They looked dry. His hand, straight and limp in the concrete vice of Prussia's, was only three shades darker. And Prussia was pale, Hungary thought, paler than anyone she knew. Thought it was dark, his uniform, as dusky as Prussia's, was bulky and detailed. Despite the shrunken look of him, he filled out the coat with an undoubtedly powerful body. It ended at the twisted explosion of tendrils at his knee.
Feeling like a voyeur, Hungary remembered. My aide-de-camp has gangrene...
"Danke schön," said the man. His accent betrayed him; he was from Northern-Westphalia, so he skipped over the "e." With gargantuan effort Hungary could feel even in the air, he rolled his eyes towards Prussia's, locking them in a contact that made her clench her teeth. "Für die...penicillin."
"Nein. Danke schön," said Prussia, "für Ihren Dienst. Für Ihr Leben." His voice was flat and affectionate. The last time she had heard him speak this way had been centuries ago.
"Aber," said the man, and gasped. Prussia's hand was crushing his but the man, if anything, seemed to appreciate it. Breathing was hard. "Aber...es wird nicht jetzt verletzen. Meine Frau nicht haben, um dies zu sehen." Against all odds, he chuckled.
"Ja," Prussia agreed. "Du Ihr sicher gehalten haben."
The man hummed, deep in his throat. His eyes rolled skyward once more, searching.
"Ihre Augen," said Prussia, "sind wie die meines Vaters."
Hungary's nails scraped dirt as she clenched again. Perhaps it was because she had done this with Austria and Italy so many times, but she reached for him.
Her hand stopped an inch from his shoulder as the feeling of guilt settled itself anew. Head light, she shook her hair from her eyes. It had been hanging tightly knotted at the back of her head for the past week and was now straying loose.
His aide-de-camp seemed amused and very much alive as he laughed, actually laughed. "Was ist mit dir passiert?"
"Zwei Dumme, ein Gedanke. Mein Brüder hat sie auch nicht bekommen," Prussia added.
Sluggish images filled Hungary's mind. Violet red eyes, sharp and cunning. Green eyes like leaves reflecting off the Elbe. And Germany's eyes, pulled wide under warmer, but no less dangerous, trenches. A trio of Germans.
"Ist das...so..." Something in the man seemed to stop. His mouth drooped mid-speech (he had a young face). Prussia dropped his hand into his jacket.
Hungary murmured a prayer and gripped his shoulder. If he shook her off now, she would not mind it. But he did not. He leaned into her palm, seeming exhausted.
"We did not," he rasped, "have the proper medication...we should have sent him back...to the...the ward."
Hungary's heart seemed to seize with hatred as she replied, "Your brother is alive. He is probably very proud that he died for him."
Prussia seemed not to hear. He stopped leaning, but stayed on her hand.
Christmas came and went with brittle bones and brittle lives. Hungary felt as if she would freeze to death the entire way—the idea was absurd—and as if her heart cracked with each man she got to know. It was only when they died that nothing seemed to hurt.
They took the night off before New Year's. Prussia knocked a tree out of the way as he approached her now, annoyed that no one had bothered to retrieve the decorations after Christmas was over; he muttered something that suspiciously sounded like, "fucking Bayern."
"Have you ever seen a war like this before, Fräulein?" said one man. He was propped against the trench wall, one leg stretched before him. He was hugging his rifle close, examining its sling swivel.
"No," Hungary replied. Opening her mouth was like breathing in a spoonful of needles, but it was good to talk to someone. Germans were a cheerful lot, they really were, but after Christmas everything had seemed as empty as ever, all energy spent for one night of drinking. Prussia had stumbled into her room at three in the morning singing Die Gedanken Sind Frei in a voice as angelic as a duck with its throat slit. He still sported the bruise on his side. No one saw it, but he winced when he bent to lift a crate.
And besides, there were few Bavarians in this battalion.
After a thought, she added, "This is a new kind of war. I have never seen human beings kill so..." she groped for the words "...efficiently."
"We are making history," the man agreed. His face was lightly lined, placing him somewhere in his forties. "But I would rather be home in peace than make history like this."
Hungary remembered the Crusades and nodded. "I would too," she said softly.
The man turned his rifle over, examining the hand guard, then the stock. "I grew up on a farm," he said, "but my parents afforded to send me to the city nearby. München. I learned languages," he added, smiling. "I was going to be a teacher, but my country needed me for more than that."
"Your country needs a lot," said Hungary with a smile. "I grew up in warfare. I am sad to have to see it more."
"But my country needs a lot." He laughed.
"And you're giving him a lot," said a new voice. It was a quieter day, but by now Hungary had learned to get used to days when she could actually hear footsteps and not gunfire. Prussia's brisk pace towards them seemed almost normal. Hungary locked eyes with him as he afforded a smirk. "Vielen dank, Ungarn," he said coquettishly. "But I will need you to come with me for a moment."
"Tschüss," said the man cheerfully as she stepped around the crates—nearly tripped over a rock as she adjusted her scarf—and followed Prussia towards his quarters. She had spent the first month doing as she had been assigned: Delivering the documents and messages from her bosses to his couriers, but since then had stayed to document the state of his troops. Since then she had only been in his quarters once, to discuss their plans. The couriers were long gone now, probably only one reaching Berlin whole and hale. She had heard that that squad was reassigned to the western front, where Germany had spent Christmas playing football with England.
He had it easy down there, did he not? He had always been a sweet boy, but the sight of Prussia taking the eastern front for his sake...he had always been afraid of icy water...
When he closed the door behind them, the world was shut away. It was just the two of them in a room so orderly Germany would have sobbed at the sight of it. Prussia was neat in war.
"You're going home in four weeks," he said, playfulness all but gone. It was not a question. But there was no reason to say it.
"Yes," she said. "Budapest is less freezing than this."
"Berlin is always freezing," he said. "But it's still less fucked up than the weather here. No wonder that Russia bitch is crazy."
Hungary pulled her scarf down. "What do you want, Prussia?"
She had rarely seen him the past months, too busy running between the front and back lines while he stayed at the front—and she had run too many battles along the way, but not one of them including Austria—so seeing the startled look on his face—mouth agape, eyes slack—made him seem hundreds of years younger.
"Berlin," he said, finally. "I need you to go to Berlin for me, at the end of this month."
"Why?"
"My little brother," he said, the words awkward in English. "You need to go to the capital for me."
Hungary had not seen the Reichstag since the turn of the century. "Berlin," she said, certain that the faintness of the word was due to the cold. Her throat felt like a clump of icicles. Biting her scarf—for luck, she thought—she continued through the wet wool, "Your brother is at the borders—"
"No." Prussia shook his head. "No. He is...coming back." He hesitated a split second, and in that rip of time she saw things swimming in his eyes that she felt vaguely she had not seen enough of altogether in the past few months. Fear. Uncertainty. The wranglings of love, really. And Hungary was too smart, too experienced, to ask why he was not happy his brother was safe now. "He is..."
"Being deployed," she finished, "here. Because he played football with England."
Something flickered in those eyes, like fish; perhaps it was the play of light that made it look like reluctant hatred. "Ja." He gave a watery chuckle. "Der kleine dummkopf. I didn't raise him to play football with the enemy."
"But no one does Christmas like the Germans," Hungary added, letting herself smirk into the scarf. Her heart was sinking, in pity, she thought, that poor little Ludwig had to come up here and freeze with them. He was born into blood and fire in the western front, had never in living memory seen the way ice could burn in the east. "Just be grateful he did not play with France."
Now Prussia was grinning, sharp and sly. "He did, actually. Saxony, too. He was with one of their regiments the night after."
"Idiots." Hungary felt for the edge of his desk until the wood of it appeared beneath her fingers. More careful searching and she found the kerosene lamp, flicked it on so the room would at least look warm. "No one likes the war. I just didn't expect this to happen."
"I have never heard of this happening before," agreed Prussia. And, unspoken, Hungary thought it too: Poor West...
"Is he going to Berlin first?" she guessed.
"Ja. I have heard from a courier from Berlin that he is stopping there first. His regiment nearly was court-martialed, but instead they are being disbanded and sent to me. Some of them are joining us at the front. Others are going to be in the east. West is coming here. We cannot let this happen. He cannot see what goes on here."
"We?" Hungary felt a rising indignation in her, one that she had not expected to emerge from her subconsciousness—and yet here it was. It was like flames leaping into her throat, from long nights of too much cold and her searing determination to live well for the sake of Prussia's men keeping her alive, so she was her very own furnace. How many times in her lifetime had she had to stay strong for nations other than her own? When others, like Prussia, had the luxury to guard their own, the rest of the world be damned? Austria darted through her mind, and her mind melted; Turkey followed, and it leapt alive in rage. "We cannot shelter him forever," she snapped, less surprised at herself than she should have been. "He has to face what we have to face."
"He has, Ungarn." Prussia was not quite pleading, but he was applying a reasonable voice, checking rage if there was any, and that was more than she could have hoped for. "You know he has, before he was Germany. He...he..." Struggling for the words, he finished, "Er langsam starb."
The words were still ringing in her ears as she slowly, very slowly, pushed Germany's eyes from her mind, for if envisioned too long a different face would follow—small, rounder, no less determined to build.
There was a pause as they stared, silently, unmovingly, at each other. There was no pleading in Prussia's face, only the second face he wore to battle—cold, dead eyes and a jaw setting his cheeks so they looked like slabs of cut marble. The other face he wore, well...it evolved so it was cold and bright-eyed as he roared through the bullets. But now he was shrewd. Calculating. This was a face saved for diplomacy as well as battle.
Finally, Hungary replied. "Are you sending me to plead on his behalf?"
"No," he said promptly. "Just to demand on mine."
Austria, Hungary thought, would have explained that he could not go himself because he could not leave his men. But Prussia does not need to say it.
"Why me?" she said before she could stop herself. Stupid, she thought, you know the answer but you bait him anyway.
But, thankfully, he did not say it. "You know why," he said. "You can get the job done fastest."
Not directly, anyway. She reminded herself that they were allies.
"I have not seen Berlin in years," she said.
"A lot has changed, Ungarn. You wouldn't believe it," he said, eyes softening. Then grinned. "Once this fucking war is over, we'll go drinking together, all right? That girly husband of yours can come too."
"He isn't girly, Prussia, just sophisticated—" But she was smiling too by the time the knock came. They sprang apart as Prussia barked at his door, "Eintreten."
"Hauptscharführer. Sie—Oh." The soldier was young, blushing instantly at the sight of the two. It happens when you're at war, thought Hungary. Every woman you meet is like Aphrodite. "Ein brief."
Prussia took the letter from the boy's trembling hands, but did not once look at the paper. "Wo sind Sie Handschuhe?"
He dropped his hands, as if suddenly conscious at how naked they were. "In Niemandsland..."
Hungary remembered how cold Berlin was. It was winter, and it was freezing like hell down there. But anyplace was warmer than this.
"Hier." The boy jumped at the woman touching him as she took his hands, stripping her gloves to place them there. "Und hier." She unwound her scarf in a gesture that reminded her chillingly of Russia and added that to the pile.
"It's from Österreich," said Prussia from behind her. "From Galicia."
The boy forgotten, she whipped around. "Mein Ehemann!" She had thought of him much the past months, for the cold days and colder nights, only pushing him from mind when it came to fighting Russia. She had thought of him most when it came to waiting between battles.
"Danke schön," Prussia told the soldier, chipping out the "ke" in proper High German. He betrayed no emotion. Through the commander's presence, stiff and formal, there was a genuine, almost pulsing, grace as he spoke. Only the best leaders in the world had it, the ability to furl care and firmness into one tone. Hungary wondered if Germany had learned from his brother, and Austria, to form it. He was lucky he had the more experienced of the brothers on this front, as young Germany had not yet faced Russia.
Even if it was the annoying one...
The boy gave a hasty danke himself before running off clutching Hungary's things in his hands. She, on the other hand, filled her palms with the letter. It was thin as newspaper; she took delicate care breaking the seal and unfolding it as Prussia pressed the door closed.
Austria's handwriting was curling, exhausted, the words awkwardly flourished as if he had forgotten how to write fluently.
Curtly—for Austria, anyway—he recounted Christmas, when his chain of command refused to shoot at Russia unless absolutely provoked and, like Germany, had happily exchanged with them in a truce that lasted the next few days.
"Everyone's been doing it," Hungary said, pausing there and adding ironically, "like it's a fad."
Prussia snorted. "Can't do it here. Too cold to be nice."
"I heard some of yours did it too."
"They're down there. We're up here."
"Anyway," said Hungary, going back to the letter. Austria continued by saying that he had deposited three Christmas trees in no-man's land, thanks and regards to Bayern or Germany or whoever sent them. But now they would need back-up in Galicia, please and thank you and love to his wife and long live Emperor Franz Josef.
"Your men are there," said Prussia, flatly, as she looked up and forward, straight at the lamp and the newspapers piled next to it. The New York Times. The Mirror. The Deutsche Kriegszeitung.
Hungary knew that without even a snap of her fingers she could be halfway on her way to Austria, who needed her as much as her people. Who else could take care of him as well as she? But she could not just leave Prussia like this, unable to help his own brother. And their ally.
"My men need me, Porosz," she said. "But I can take care of your brother first, if you move in on Galicia first."
Prussia seemed to sniff, a decidedly Austria-like move. "I will join him, then," he said. "But how long will it take you?"
She thought of the week and three men spent getting to Prussia's part of the front. If she went alone this time, it would be quicker...but what if Germany needed the extra men to represent his brother?
"I can send two with you," said Prussia, but she shook her head.
"I will go alone," she said, simply, an unthinkable thought forming in her mind. She grabbed it and said, "It will be faster. But I will need strong evidence that what I say is what you also want. You cannot leave the front, but..." Her eyes strayed, just a moment, downwards, but it was enough. She was unsure whether she let it happen or had just slipped a moment but she knew from the tilt of Prussia's eyebrows that, for a moment, his Iron Cross had been reflected green in her eyes.
Unconsciously, she thought, his fingers strayed to flutter at his throat, where the scarred metal hung. It was unmistakable; she had never seen him without it, and it matched Germany's down in Berlin perfectly. What if the Cross, she thought, was Berlin, like her flowers were Balaton? She had never thought of it before. Or she had and forgotten.
"Das Eiserne Kreuz," said Prussia, a little reverently, a little ruefully, all possessively. How could she ask that of him?
"It would be the best proof," she said, "unless you find a better one. Perhaps a letter. It would probably get the job done just as fast. I will have to leave immediately."
Watching him take the Cross off was as odd and normal a sight she had ever seen. She did not extend her hand until he had done his. "It will be faster," he said cheerfully. "This is kind of like bringing me with you, so we can all represent for West!"
"Porosz," she said, watching him drop the cross, a warm lump, into her palm. Her arm seemed detached from her at the elbow. Looking up at him and his idiotic grin, as if it made the situation any better, made her want to punch him and throw her arms around him at once. "Idióta," she snapped without sparks. "You had still better be here when I get back."
"I will, liebchen," he said, and now she just wanted to punch him. "Though it does look like you've killed me at last and taken mein Kreuz as a trophy."
"I think that would be doing Germany the ultimate favor," she said drily. Without hesitation she slipped it around her neck, lifting her hair so the chain fell against her skin. She would have liked to take a seat as she reknotted her hair and adjusted her collar, but sitting down would mean not wanting to get back up. Hesitating now but not showing it, she dropped the cross down her shirt, safely compacting it against her chest. "Köszönöm, Porosz," she said, reaching for the door handle. "I will see you in Galicia."
Before she could pull he was stopping her, telling her to wait. When she turned, impatient, he plopped in her hands another set of scarf and gloves. The gloves were obviously too big for her. And they were obviously his. "I have more," he lied. At her look he added, "I mean, Four-Eyes will have more for me soon, so it doesn't matter."
Relenting more out of impatience than anything Hungary repeated her thanks, pulling the gloves on quickly. They bagged around her fingers but they were warm.
"Tell West I said hallo," he said as she opened the door and the warmth seemed to suddenly die. She nodded blankly, too focused on the road ahead of her as she trudged through the sudden dusk. She did not look back but knew somehow that he was looking skyward. "Tschüss!"
Austria hummed tunelessly under his breath as he sat, partially occupied with the oncoming battle, partially with the thought of Vivaldi's Spring. The only thing this cold weather would be good for was his instruments, but the trench could hardly fit a violin, let alone a grand piano. Still, he knew his men were hoarding violins and violas, some of them. There was definitely a few Salzburgers here.
For all his militarism, he could never fully throw himself into the battle. But that was just him.
His men were moving on, but he was staying. He had not seen his wife for months and Galicia—Galicia was going to be messy. General Winter was all but subduing him for when Russia would come. To think they had, for a moment, held the upper hand in Przemyśl. He was beginning to doubt now, but was too eager to meet Hungary again. And his men could handle it; they usually did.
Galicia was cold year-round, its people quietly hostile. There was mistrust in their eyes, something he pointedly ignored. Of course there was mistrust. In war, there was always mistrust. Hopefully the war would end soon. Just a little longer at Przemyśl, he thought.
There was a shout above him from one of those German soldiers he was working with. Really, he could have stayed in Przemyśl and sneaked a song or two with his own men, but Germany was taking care of him quite nicely. And his wife was coming.
Speaking of...
The German's words were drowned out by the reckless thunder of Prussia's.
"OI, ÖSTERREICH! VERMISSE MICH?"
"NA!" shouted Austria, daring to get up and peek over the trench wall. Nothing. Had the damned albino become a chameleon? "WO IST MEIN FRAU?"
Cold hands were then squeezing over his glasses, his eyes. But most importantly his glasses. He yelped and sputtered blindly as he was pulled down from behind to land in an undignified heap in the dirt.
"Careful, there," came the croon as Austria sat up. "You don't want that to have been Russland."
Prussia's appearance had not changed a whit. "I'd rather him than you," he snorted, batting uselessly at his smudged lenses. How could he clean them without taking them off?
"That's not polite, Österreich," Prussia chided, mock hurt. "After all the trouble I went through to fight this war with you?"
"Last time I checked, Wilhelm the Second was the Kaiser of Germany," Austria said, stiffly.
"I might as well turn around now," said Prussia, sounding both proud and menacing as his smile slipped. "If you don't need me. I'm sure Poland and Serbia will have a few words before Russia comes along."
"Where is my wife, Prussia?"
"In Berlin, far away from you because she knows where her priorities are," he replied immediately. "Honestly, Österreich, why bother asking when you know the answer?"
Austria ignored the sarcasm. "Why is she in Berlin?"
"Helping Germany. Unlike you. Sure, you've done a good job of besieging Przemyśl, except that little thing on Christmas, but we'll ignore that, right? Now, where are your latrines?"
"Why is she in Berlin?"
"Tell me, Four-Eyes, did you dig the latrines or did you sit and watch my boys do it?"
"I helped!" Austria snapped. "Why is Hungary in Berlin?"
"Because, unlike you, we have discipline in little Deutschland," Prussia explained coolly, infuriatingly. "And we don't really like it when we hold Christmas parties with the enemy. So Hungary is helping me out a bit here, sending him a message. How many of her troops are here?"
"Our troops are here together. What message?"
"Because Germany partied too hard with England and now Hungary has to go kick some sense into our boss. Can you lead me to the latrines now?"
That night they reclined on the trench walls, seated on crates stuffed with helmets. Austria knew his cap was askew, but it was useless to fix it; it would only fly off later. Any day now, a stray bullet, the wind off of flying bomb, would knock it away.
Strumming his fingers along the air, sometimes hitting the earth and snow, he watched the sky. It was too dark and cold to be outside, but he did not want to be inside. This did not go unnoticed by Prussia, who chortled at his expense.
"Ungarn won't get here for a couple of days. She's fast but she's not that fast, even if she did know you were freezing your arse off for her."
Austria opened his mouth to reply that Hungary was faster than he thought, the assuming vagabo—
"You know, I guess it's okay to tell you this because we're allies for some reason," Prussia said contemplatively, "but it'd be cool to fly in the sky for a while." His fiery red eyes seem to flash violet for just a moment. "I might actually go into die Fliegertruppe. Tried one out when West took me to one."
"An airplane?" inquired Austria more politely than he intended. He hoped he choked on a cloud.
"Yeah, those things," said Prussia, not taking his eyes off the sky. There were stars out tonight, reminding Austria longingly of concerts in the Schönbrunn Palace. He and Hungary, on better nights, would spill out the front and pour down the steps with the throng, the light glowing behind them as Franz Josef would catch up with them, once upon a time with Sissi on his arm. "Those flying things," Prussia said, shattering the memory. "You know, Österreich? Those things with big metal wings that stay in the air—"
"I know what an airplane is," he said.
"Kind of like a flying horse," Prussia finished, unperturbed. "Those things. West showed me one, and I'm special and trusted because I'm the awesome Preußen, so I got to fly it."
"Did you crash?"
"I was amazing," said Prussia matter-of-factly. "You would've cried."
Austria sniffed. "The sooner you disappear in one of those, the better."
"Yes, but I'm still here and dealing with you. Tell me." Prussia shifted, always a restless one, so that his leg slung forward and the other crooked the knee under his chin. "What possessed you to celebrate Christmas with those Russian bears the other night?"
Poland was throbbing in her mind, achingly close but not on the way. Hungary instead sidled a glance to her left, knowing that if she kept running in that direction he would be there. But the war came first. And Berlin was coming up, anyway; the streets had thinned and thickened and the woods had thinned and thickened but now they were giving way, the path filling with more and more people as she neared the capital.
Sensing Germany more than anything, she darted towards the Reichstag.
Prying her hands away from her throat, she entered, climbing stairs and reveling in the warmth from window-filtered sunlight—winter's greatest deception—as she reached the door she knew instinctively that Germany was behind. And, by extension (if she was lucky), the Kaiser.
She only knocked once she had begun opening the door, unwinding her scarf and stuffing it into her pocket.
She was lucky.
"Kaiser," she said, hands firmly pinned to her sides. "We have heard from the eastern front what happened on Christmas."
"Quite right?" said the man, recovering quickly. Even Germany was still gaping at her. He looked younger, not older, but tired.
"Prussia and I, we both agree that he should not be on the eastern front," Hungary replied, refusing to look at Germany. Instead she locked eyes with the Kaiser, conscious that she had to look up at him, but in a good way—height notwithstanding, she stood radiating authority. She resisted the urge to grab at her throat.
"And...Austria?"
"All three of us," Hungary lied, sure that it was not a lie. "He belongs on the western front or in the capital, but certainly not with us against Russia."
"Ungarn." Germany spoke like the child he was, voice awkwardly deep as she forced herself to look at him. His blue eyes were shadowed and steely. "Thank you. But I will go where I am needed."
"We do not need you," she said bluntly, swearing that she was making up for the hurt in his eyes. "We need you down on the western front, closer to Italy and England and France. Especially Italy," she added, thoughtfully but not too thoughtfully.
Voice reedy, Wilhelm II said, "Hungary. We are sending him there as a punishment for fraternizing with the enemy. It has nothing to do with whether or not he is needed there."
"On the contrary," she said, raising an eyebrow, "it has everything to do with whether or not he is needed there." Facing the Kaiser, she thought, was just like facing any other skilled orator from history. Maria Theresa had been one herself, and she hoped she could channel her here, facing down yet another German king. "In all practicality, we and Prussia are manning both fronts, but Germany has always known the western front better."
"Too well," said the Kaiser. "Well enough to forget that we should be fighting a war with them."
"That brings me back to my original point." Hungary felt her eyebrow lift again as she stared the man down. Voice bright and level, she applied all traces of candor to her words. "He has always known the western front better. Let us continue manning the eastern front, as we know Russia better than either of you. We know how to manipulate him.
"Germany, on the other hand, can stick with Italy for now," she continued. "If you are so concerned with him fraternizing with France and England, you can send him to the Italian front. They are, after all, within proximity. But he does not know Italy."
Without showing it, the Kaiser hesitated. Years of diplomatic practice led Hungary to press into that crack of weakness. "It is good for your nation to know your southern neighbor better. What is there to fear, that he would fall in love with him?"
"Austria himself has fraternized with the enemy," Germany began.
You and your integrity! Hungary flashed irritably, not letting the thought reach her face. "But he has not lifted the siege," she replied, coldly. "And if you're so bothered by him giving them a few Christmas trees, then take it up with Bayern." Too late, she realized the acridity in her last words. Schooling her features into one of appeal, she addressed the Kaiser. "He is better off away from the eastern front," she said firmly. "I speak for the Austro-Hungarian empire and Prussia." With that, she pulled the Iron Cross over her collar.
In a flash, Germany reached for his own throat, clutching his Iron Cross as if to a lifeline. Two pairs of eyes widened across the room as, slowly—for effect or her own nervousness—she lowered her hand.
"How did you get that?" Germany asked hoarsely. His eyes seemed suddenly alive; Hungary wondered if he would cry.
"Where do you think?" she said, softening her voice. Imagine a world where you lived without your big brother? "He brought it up first, you know," she said to the Kaiser, using candor again. "I think you should respect his wishes."
"We deposited three Christmas trees into Niemansland that night. It was cold as usual. And we did not want to shoot at each other on the Lord's night, you know. After a while some of us started talking. Russia actually walked across Niemansland, told me he came in peace, and offered me cake his sisters had made.
"He offered me cigarettes too, but you know how I feel about those. But I had not had cake in months. And as soon as this war ends, when Russia surrenders, I will have to bake with your brother again. Yes, I will help with the baking this time, don't give me that look.
"Russia is a hulking oaf if I ever saw one, but we sat down and chatted about what was going on back home. I asked how Serbia was doing and he asked how my Emperor was doing. We looked at the stars together and at one point he turned around to ask me when I thought this war would end. He said he hoped it would end soon and I said I thought it would end soon.
"We even prayed together, even though he is Orthodox. Let us not forget about Saint Petersburg.
"And then at the end of the night he turned his head at me and my men and said that this was the best night of his life. A stupid statement, because he's lived so long. But it was a very pleasant night. So much that the next few nights we got together again and again. At the end one of our men found a note—it read 'to the heroes of Przemyśl.'
"We may see him here yet. After all, it is the Russians, I think, whom we are fighting here at Galicia."
"I can't feel my fingers," Prussia muttered, burying them in his hair. His scalp was usually warm, but he had reached for it so much it was cold as his hands. He was not sure whom he was telling this to, but he did not care. If anything he could imagine Fritz was listening from above.
Instead he got Austria, returning from his quarters. For all his eagerness for his wife to return he had disappeared into his quarters to retrieve a blanket, which helped but helped little.
"I'm not doing this for you," said Austria as Prussia felt his eyebrow rise. "But I don't want to hear you complaining about how cold your hands are."
"Look who's talking," Prussia muttered as he scooted towards a crate, pressing his side into it as Austria sat in his personal space so his blanket could cover both of them.
"Did you lose your gloves?" Austria asked disapprovingly. Without doing so he seemed to tsk, and Prussia felt a rash of irritation that was gone soon as it came; it was too damn cold to be annoyed.
Still, nothing could stop him from growling back, "We've been over this, Four-Eyes. You are not my mother."
"No," sniffed the pansy, "I doubt Vater would have minded. Probably would have thought it built character."
"He didn't do a very good job on you, but we already knew that," Prussia snarked. It hurt to talk, but it felt so good to sass him through the cold. Rolling his tongue in his mouth, Prussia resisted an instinct to tug up his collar. Damn that Hungary, giving her things away like that.
But you would have done the same, said a voice at the back of his mind.
Ah, shut up.
They had been waiting for a good day, and Prussia could not sleep. It was too cold to. If he wanted to sleep in this freeze, then that would mean dying. And this—this was not his time, though he felt a certain weakening in his life. Some days he felt less alive than he had ever felt, and it was a feeling he could not quite describe but knew was unnatural. He felt faded as his skin.
So he felt afraid. But not afraid enough to turn tail and flee south, never look back. He was waiting for Hungary. And even after she was here he would continue fighting so West would not have to.
This was just another war. He was built for war, and soon this one would be over; his blood would have hummed if it was not so frozen. He could hear his own breathing, nothing more.
"You are joining the air force," said Austria into his breathing. It was a statement.
"Airplanes," said Prussia, breathing shallow, "are those big metal machines that go into the air and fly, so I will be flying, if that's what you mean."
"We've been over this," Austria snapped. He was feisty tonight, Prussia thought, amused. "But you have always fought on land."
"Yes," said Prussia, slow as he pleased. It was like savoring every word on his tongue as he taunted Austria; his blood seemed to warm as he realized, I've missed this... "So you know that we've been flying around, bombing things. Well, I'll be manning my own plane soon."
"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Another rash. But it was still too cold. He shifted his ankles around under the blanket, the wool surely scratchy against his rough trousers. But he could hardly feel his own legs, let alone the next two layers of cloth. Austria was trying to taunt him back.
"Hölle, yes," Prussia hissed. He paused as his breath drifted in front of him. "Hey, I'm turning into steam!"
"Would you dissolve and disappear forever?" Austria inquired politely, but Prussia laughed. He was never sure whether he was trying to joke or mock or both times like this, but he would treat the statement the same any way.
"Nein, nein...sorry, but I am not sorry." Prussia wiped at his eyes. He felt like he was not breathing, the air was so cold. "Even if I turned into smoke I would still reform and haunt you as a ghost. Hungary could not hit me with a pan then, so that's one improvement."
"It's Hungary. She would find a way." Was that a hint of a smile?—not in his mouth, but in his eyes? Austria seldom smiled, he always had to be a prick and be serious about everything. Honestly, he had to lighten up sometimes, Prussia thought, smirking to make up for him.
I would rather be here with you than be here alone.
Austria's fingers were flying over the blanket, reaching for unseen keys, reminding Prussia of his flute back in his barracks. Once he returned from Galicia, he would play it for his men. They were his men's and Germany's, so it was the closest he could get to playing it for his brother, anyway. Maybe his brother could feel it back home, in Berlin, nesting somewhere against Hungary's skin. There were the two people he could trust his cross to.
The waiting is almost done, he thought, eyes pointing skywards, where the stretch was clear for the first time in days. He could even see past the clouds. Trying not to think of his aide-de-camp, he followed the trail of a shooting star, streaking like a tear across the cheek of heaven; Gott, he prayed. "Österreich! A shooting star!" he said excitedly, pointing.
"Indeed," Austria murmured tiredly. His body was warm through the layers of clothing, something Prussia sensed more than felt; his soft body had to be warm, unworked as it was.
"Right there, Four-Eyes. There," Prussia said irritably. He wasn't even looking! "I know you only pretend to be blind, you should see it."
"All right, all right..."
And then, clear as a bell, as the star flashed out of existence: "Österreich! Ausztria!"
"Ungarn!" they said—one barking, one crying—as they leapt forth, unafraid of Russia's bullets. Prussia got there first, leaning his frame against the top, and Austria wormed his way up. Honestly, how was he the husband in this relationship? They should change it to Ungarn-Österreich if they want to be honest.
But it was Austria who reached Hungary first—more like the other way around—leaping into her arms as they fell head over heels into the snow, tumbling like puppies out of the kennel for the first time. For all his doubts—and definitely not a twinge of jealousy—Prussia found himself smiling fondly at them.
She landed on top of him, of course, and brought their foreheads together, nose to nose, breathing in the knife-like air; she whispered something to him, smiling, and he actually laughed—laughed—in relief. Her cheeks were ruddy over the scarf, mostly still wrapped above her chin; Austria, with a savage impatience, tilted his three middle fingers into it, pulling it down so he could fully rest their cheeks together.
So this was what love looked like. Like the love between him and Germany—but this was love between Austria and Hungary, the two strangest people in the world.
"Oi!" he yelled. "Are you two idiots going to stay in Niemansland until you get shot? Get back here!" He waved his arms for emphasis, the move letting the blood flow back into his joints.
The couple got to their feet abruptly, almost sheepishly from afar. Coming close, holding hands, however, they seemed so powerful and unperturbed; Austria and Hungary seemed to be born anew, though their breath fogged the same as before. An empire, he thought.
Their footsteps echoed even after they had jumped back beside him; as they landed he caught a glint in the half light.
"Neh wiedr," Hungary whispered, red cheek to red cheek, cloud breath to cloud breath. They had not bothered to get up, coats splayed like skirts as Prussia looked down on them. Never again, she had said, in language that Bayern liked to use and he liked to ignore.
They were so perfect, so elegant, despite—no, even more so in the snow. His heart cringed in envy, if only because now he felt that they no longer needed him. But it did not do to think of it.
They were so absorbed in each other, until Hungary reached heavenwards. And he realized that she was reaching for him.
"Komm," she said, green eyes sparkling at the sky. And he obeyed. By God, he obeyed.
She pulled him down with them so the three of them were holding each other—perhaps out of fear, fear of the unknown, as their warmth filled a small pocket of the trench.
"I smell a battle coming," said Prussia. The most warlike of them all, he was right, and the empire knew it. Hungary nodded. Sometime during the night, they had nodded off; but now it was midnight, and they knew.
"The Battle of Galicia," said Austria, testing the words on his tongue. Awkward, but less so than past battles. They would not mention Tannenberg.
A hand, warm only because it was gloved, slipped into Prussia's; he jumped. "I will walk you to the end," she said. "You have to go back to your own men now."
His feet crunched on snow as they slipped through the maze, Hungary recognizing her trails more than Prussia did; Austria's eyes rolled to follow them, no less wistful than before.
It only after they had stepped foot somewhere, perhaps on German soil because Prussia's skin started tingling, that they stopped. They had long ago left the trench, perhaps an hour ago, but he was in no mood to count the time.
"You don't have to be jealous, you know," said Hungary matter of factly. "We do love you, in our own way." She faced forwards as he looked at her from behind; her hair, knotted tightly at the back of her head, the chain glinting modestly beneath the nape of her neck. It showed under her scarf. "You don't have to feel lonely. We do need you."
Why the motivational speech all of a sudden? Prussia thought, and voiced the thought. When she turned to him, there was thoughtfulness swimming in her eyes, like fish. Maybe green fish. Were there green fish?
"Because we're at war," said Hungary simply, "and I've never seen a war like this before. And we've had our share of wars."
"A war my brother and I helped start," Prussia said, surprised at how bitter he sounded, and even at what he said. Everyone had helped start a war. He had started wars more intentionally before; even his brother had been born into it. But this was no way for a new country to start.
"Your brother is growing. He will learn. Like you said, he died a slow death." He flinched, but she continued, not turning to look at him once. "He will have a slow birth, too. But that's how you Deutschlanders do everything, isn't it? Think slowly, and once you think of something, you follow through with precision even my husband cannot manage at times.
"The Kaiser let him go. He is going to Italy. The Italian front after Risorgimento. Is that not the most appropriate place and time to come alive again?"
"You sound more poetic than Austria," said Prussia, impressed. He was trying to ignore the sudden lump in his throat, the way his heart was soaring. It was hard to breathe, so it felt like he was crying. He was not, though.
She waited. Stood still and resolute beneath his chin. Often he would marvel at how short she was, and how short seemed to equate to power. Because of her.
She waited.
Breathing heavily, then lightly, he threaded her scarf from her neck, where her brown throat was bare and shining, the light off the cross seeming to glow through her collar. She turned slightly, not her neck but her whole body—turning, slowly, as if dancing in the snow, which was pristine and white like so many diamonds powdered into frost.
He dropped the scarf, reached for his chain, which she touched first. A pause as she faced him; and then his fingers were over hers, both of them lifting it together. She tucked it around her bun so he could pull it back.
And he could not say whether it was him or her who moved first—and whether or not it was of cold that it happened—but she touched her forehead to his, rolling the chain of his cross, scarred and magnificent, from her scalp to his cold scalp, her breath a cloud on his face; the familiar weight of the Eisern Kreuz plopped against his jugular, representing life. And then she was kissing him, somehow.
Somehow.
He wanted to pull away, but he had never experienced such a thing, but she would not let go, leathery lips chapped and frozen but gripping his; conscious of the dead skin on his, he opened up anyway, crawling arms around her because she was warm, warm unlike the world dying around them. They sank into the snow together, and something stirred awake in him, so that when she moved down, down, he did not stop her.
She only stopped once, as she circled back up towards his ear, to tell him, "This is not pity."
"No," he agreed, "you are not one to pity..."
She ducked again, kissed his cheek, walking her lips down his jugular, then his clavicle, opening his collar and exposing it to the cutting air.
And she did not stop him as he unbuttoned her greatcoat, even let her unbutton his; was this euphoria? He pressed down on the warmth beneath the coat, until she was beneath him, lying on the snow; almost apologetically, he started on her breasts, running his cheek against the softness there and in between, where his cross had been freezing only moments before.
"Ich liebe—" He shuddered at the way his breath gasped against her, the puff of it refracting back on it. "I love you," he said, because it was easier in another language."
Then he crawled down, down, stripping her as she stripped him, hands running up and down her thighs, her starving flanks, thin and powerful and everything he had ever wondered about. Her abdominal muscles bulged beneath his, stomach flat as his, sinew less large but no less used; he blushed to think that she could feel his ribs beneath the flesh, or maybe it was the odd infusing of heat and cold.
She was holding hands with him by the time he had finished with her flanks, her thighs. He had never imagined that she would ever be beneath him, being straddled by him, like all those times she had wounded him. It gave him pause as he hovered, half with his weight on her and half held up by his knees in the snow.
"I love you too," she said, because it was easier for her to say in another language. Her mouth and tongue and cheek and jaw, they all worked together to form the words. Her stomach, housing the diaphragm, expanded and dropped beneath his. He turned their hands over, pulled the gloves off one by one.
"Keep them," he told her, and she flashed him an irate look, the old fire like sparks over diamonds. He wanted to shrink back and might have, but he was kissing her again—was this what her husband did, when she was mad at him? Did she ever get mad at him?
Don't tell me what to do, she seemed to mouth against him, all teeth and lips but nothing beyond; and he was fine with that. The muscles in her arms strained beneath his; they were small, but years of fighting had taught him that that meant nothing, that she had so, so much power she was not using now. And their lips seemed to dance together.
He broke away, down back on her chest, his cross trailing across her skin like an anchor on sand; he kissed her breasts one by one.
"You're trembling," said Hungary.
"No, 'm not," he mumbled against them, groping at them with his palms, his fingers; it was a carnal instinct that drove him, and he felt as if his soul, rotating from the core of his heart, would burst. But as soon as he realized this he had to stop and ask her, "Why?"
He heard her answer through the vibrations in her chest. "Because I love you, and because we could never do this again."
"You wanted this?" he mumbled through a mouthful of flesh.
"Not until now. It's not fair to Austria," she admitted, "and I love him with all my heart. But I cannot help but feel as if you will not survive this war, and I do love you too."
"It's not pity."
"No," she agreed, and she meant it. "It's love and remorse."
And rapid as a flood he was crying, face crumbled against her collarbones, knowing that she knew. That he was fading and that he loved her. And that he never imagined that she would love him back.
Her arms crept around him, warm and branch like, better than his scarf, his gloves. He heaved, she heaved, as he slid inside her, between her thighs; she clenched; she clenched her teeth around his shoulder, biting back what must have been screams if they had been allowed, pricking him with pain. Her hair ran silkily over his pectorals, the crown nestled softly against the notch between his neck and shoulder. It was a sad euphoria in him as he pulled back, not once breaking stride, and she reached out to wipe the tears from his cheeks. She even smiled, and he rarely saw anything so pretty.
She helped him dress afterwards, winding his scarf back around him, tucking his cross back into his collar so it sat comfortably in its spot, the world seeming uncomfortably normal when there was no such thing as normal, and was always thrusting forward, and nothing was even regular now. He would scream, but he was scared of enemies hearing.
But that after this it was as before—that they both loved Austria too much to take anything away from him. And that they loved each other too much to do this again.
"Wiedersehen," she said, kissing his cheek, his eyelids, even pressing her brow against his. There were snowflakes in her eyelashes, and he swore that after he was gone he would take the image with him.
"Wiedersehen."
When Russia came, Austria was ready, watching Hungary howl commands for him as he pulled stray bullets from his leg.
PT: Just to show you that I am still alive and kicking...have a Frying Pangle fill! For the lovely aphtrashbin who totally agrees that Prussia don't know shit about picking up girls haha why stalk your tumblr of course not why would i do that. Sorry if it's slow at some parts! ;_; Working on making the plot progress while nerding all over the place at the same time. And I'm an action junkie, but I really held back on this one. And, haha. First time writing smut but not actually smut because it's so vanilla haha.
The German—most of it was Google translated. German grammar is a mindfuck for me, so I would willingly correct anything that is wrong. And feel free to ask for translations if you don't want to look it up.
The English—the characters, though they do understand each other's languages, might as well speak it to each other because it was becoming a lingua franca then. Which is why I plugged in German and Hungarian. It slips sometimes.
"He played football with England"—Hima already made a canon strip for it. In 1914 the Germans, Britons, and French along the western front held an unofficial Christmas truce in several different areas. Some of these incidents lasted several days. Also occurred while the Austrians besieged Przemyśl on the eastern front, a long and apparently successful campaign until it was broken in March.
The aide-de-camp—in canon Prussia is very loyal to his leaders and still gets depressed over Friedrich II. Someone as militaristic and tsuntsun as he is probably has that same loyalty to his subordinates, especially if they work directly for him, giving them more individual bonding space. So I slapped the guy in and killed him off with gangrene, which many trench fighters died from. Plotwise it's a good way to make Prussia emotionally vulnerable.
The gas—I'm not quite sure when the Germans first started using gas in the war, but I do know the first few attempts sucked. Big time. One incident included the wind blowing it right back at them.
Tschuess, wiedersehen—"tschuess" is a Saxon-derived way of saying goodbye, which is I picked up in Germany and is adorable and everyone should totally use. "Wiedersehen" is short for "auf wiedersehen."
Thanks for reading! Long note is long, so further references and historical notes will be created in a separate Tumblr post.