I follow the idea that since there is no longer a Prussia, Gilbert is referred to as 'Gilbert' as opposed to Prussia. It makes sense in my head. Stfu.

ALSO: ELWON MADE ME POST IT. FOR HER. /loves

Gilbert Beilschmidt shivered. A cold breeze had come sweeping down from the north, nipping mercilessly at the skin of anyone who dared to venture out onto the streets of Berlin. It would get worse after the sun had set, but Gilbert was in no hurry to get inside.

He was content to simply wander the streets of his city (West's city, a traitorous little voice within him sniped, West's), wasting time, and doing nothing in particular. He did not stop to look at landmarks that were as familiar to him as his own hand, nor did he speak to the people bustling past; people whose blood ran in his veins, keeping him alive despite everything.

Instead, he just walked, face unusually sombre. He considered briefly heading over to Potsdam and spending the night there, before dismissing it. He would go tomorrow to pay his respects, but today, on this day he would spend his time amongst the living. He would walk in and out of the lives of his people, reminding them of his existence if only for a second. Sighing at the thought, he chastised himself for sounding more and more like an old man.

Setting his face into an angry scowl, Gilbert stomped onwards for a few moments, before slowing back down to a slow stride. What was the point? He had no one to prove himself to; he was just a man to those rushing past him, trying to get home. A tired, downtrodden man that mothers shied their children away from instinctively.

He was tired. The realisation left a bitter taste in his mouth and left him missing the days when he felt invincible. Pausing for the first time since he had lost track of the hours and minutes, Gilbert stared up into the darkening sky. Hesitantly reaching out, he placed a gloved hand against the rough brick of a wholly average wall.

Seconds later, he smirked. It was far from the expression he had used to carry in his glory days –a malicious slash across his face-, but it still contained the smallest hint of satisfaction because it was still there. Beneath his fingertips was the smallest thrum, but he felt it as if it was the beating of his own heart. His city. His people.

He allowed his hand to linger a moment longer, before he continued on his journey. The transformation was small, but it was noticeable in shoulders that were less hunched and eyes that were less dulled and far away.

Fuck it, he thought. Another year that he'd lived had gone by; another year that part of him had not expected to have. The least he could do was go out and get wasted. Still, he killed some time before heading to a pub, finding some enjoyment in watching the very heart of his nation beating ever strong and steady. He even indulged in some memories, smiling faintly at the still clear images of the faces of countless enemies, stunned as the horror of their defeat set in.

Gilbert was considering finally standing up from the bench he'd found, and moving on for a well deserved drink when he felt his mobile phone vibrating against his hip. He smirked as he retrieved it, adding it to his list of reasons why he was glad he hadn't kicked the bucket yet. If there was anything that he'd loved the latter part of the twentieth century, and the twenty- first century for, it was this stuff. Stuff that he'd never needed before but now couldn't get by without. Briefly he was reminded of a slogan of some car that West made, 'progress through technology'? Whatever it was, it made him wish he'd hit his stride a century later than he had.

But then, he backtracked as he flipped his phone open, who would have wanted to miss out on all of the war? The Europeans were fucking pussies these days. Where was all the fun?

The message was from England. Actually, it was from "Arschloch" (which was one of the nicer nicknames in Gilbert's phonebook)- but that was a minor detail- and as usual it displayed the Englishman's technological ability in stunning fashion.

'GILBERT COM ETO MINE ASAP THAT MEANS N OW.'

Confused as to why the other would even be contacting him, Gilbert was all for flipping his phone closed and ignoring the order. However, as he looked around at the steadily emptying streets, he shrugged and his thumb pad set about tapping a response.

'Dnt tell me wat 2 do. ud beta hav beer.'

He really did have nothing better to do, after all, and at least seeing that idiot would make him feel less like an old man. So, with a grunt, he heaved himself up out of his seat and began to set off across the continent with a measured, plodding stride.

The sun had gone down by the time Gilbert reached England's home. He lingered around outside the front door for a while to make it look a little less like he'd hurried over, before finally growing too bored and too intrigued to wait any longer.

England answered only seconds after his first knock, making Gilbert jump (though he passed it off as adopting a quick battle pose). 'Fuck,' he said. 'If you were that fucking eager to see me, you should have come to Berlin. I was about to go on a pub crawl.'

England rolled his eyes and leant against the wooden doorframe. 'Hm. Wonderful as that sounds, I'll pass. Ta,' he said, sounding entirely insincere about it.

'Whatever,' Gilbert shrugged, shouldering past the Englishman to step into his house. He stilled when he noticed a couple of steps later that it was almost pitch black. 'Jesus. Either you're having a problem with your electric, or you're planning to rape me, and I gotta tell you, if it's the latter, I won't go down easy. Got to keep up appearances, after all, you know how it goes,' he said flippantly.

'Gilbert?' England asked, as he clicked the door shut.

'What?'

'Shut up.'

Though his eyes narrowed, Gilbert did just that, curiosity overwhelming his irritation when England's hand fell on his shoulder and started to guide him down the hallway with a gentle pressure.

'Here.' England stopped, moving around and in front of him to take the handle of the door. Gilbert watched as he swung it open stepping into a room that had was even darker than the corridor had been. 'Well? Come in.'

'I don't know if this is kinky or just plain creepy, England. It's asking a lot you know. I mean, I know we allied more than we warred, but really, what this all boils down to is trust. Is it there, England? Do we have that-'

'Gilbert,' England snapped. 'Come into the fucking room.'

Not one to be a coward with a shrug, he did so. And then the world erupted into light, colours and sound.

'Happy birthday!' the crowd roared.

He blinked, and then blinked again for good measure, frozen in stunned disbelief.

West, Spain, France, Austria, Hungary, America, Poland… everyone. The entire world seemed to be crammed into a single room, grinning at him like lunatics. If Gilbert hadn't caught the congratulations, he would have feared for his life.

'Wh- what the fuck?' he gasped, eloquent as always.

'Well, you've seemed a bit… irritable recently,' West explained carefully. 'And what with the economic crisis we're all in, it seemed like a good time for a celebration. I know you don't like… socialising, but since we missed your three- hundredth we thought it was a bit overdue to celebrate the fact that you're still around.'

Gilbert crossed his arms. 'I'm older than three hundred, brat,' he joked. He probably should have shown some gratitude, but instead he just felt vulnerable suddenly. He felt overwhelmed; he was remembered! He was still alive in their eyes. Maybe not as Prussia any more, but as more than just a man named Gilbert. To his horror, tears pricked at his eyes and the realisation stoked a joy in him that he had long since forgotten.

They all saw it, he knew they all saw it, so he turned his head away from the group and forced a laugh. 'Wow. At seeing all of your stupid faces I am just so happy that I don't have to deal with you all every day that I could cry.'

Someone drew alongside him, nudging him in the arm. Hesitantly, Gilbert slid his gaze towards them and was unsurprised to find that it was England.

'Happy birthday, Prussia,' England smiled as he passed him a bottle of beer.

Prussia stared at him for a moment, before a slow grin stretched across his face. Spinning around to face the rest, he raised the beer bottle defiantly. 'What the fuck are you all just standing there for?' he boomed. 'I'm not going to let my birthday party be some shitty little shindig, so you'd all better start drinking because I don't know about you, but I plan on getting wasted.'

His grin widened further at the answering cheer.

Happy fucking birthday indeed, he thought with no small amount of satisfaction.