A/N! First, thank you so, so much to my Boss Iggs, denise134! I've had people edit my stuff before, but I've never had an editor who worked so hard to help me turn something alright into something I really think you guys are going to love :)

Second, here's the story. It's out of my comfort genre, but like I said. i had an amazing editor of magical awesomeitude.

Why are the benches and stools so damn uncomfortable whenever we're at war? It's like the only seats we can afford are missing a leg or sticking my sexy ass with splinters or just too fucking hard. And of course the beer had to practically boil in the barrel. It's August. But we're German- to not drink our own beer is pretty damn close to blasphemy. My ass itches and the beer tastes like piss. And even though it's only been six weeks, you have to breathe through your mouth so you don't get a whiff of the decaying flesh and unwashed man smell. Welcome to war, right?

Still. There's something kind of... peaceful? I'm not sure if that's the word and we aren't exactly shitting dictionaries out here. But something about the way the sun sets. When the sun sets on a proper battlefield, when the blue sky turns pink and orange and that giant ball of fire touches the blood-soaked dust again after fourteen hours escape and time holds its breath for minute, that's when I hear them.

The screams.

The moans.

Men crying for their mothers and wives and brothers.

They mingle and dance with each other, the country noises. It's a symphony of hopelessness, an orchestra of blood. It's grave curses at me and my dreams, dying vinegar wishes that I burn in hell for what I've done. Petty curses at me, because there's nothing else to do when you're holding a gaping wound in your stomach and you're waiting for your vision to close in on you and the blackness to encircle you. Everything I have to hear, because even a state as awesome as I am has no choice when my people die for me. It's bitter and helpless and dying and bleeding and weeping. It smells like bile and blood and it stays with me until the embers of the sun die into twilight and smoke and the men who held their dying, bleeding, cursing comrades under the ignorant sun drift into restless moon sleep.

It's not peaceful... what's that word? When you know something awful has happened, is happening, will happen again, and you take a breath and take it all into your soul where it creeps into your nightmares and makes you wish you could die?

Tranquil resignation.

I dunno. I prefer piss beer.

The smoke of the twilit clouds drifts along the beaten horizon and I stand up. Sort of. Earlier today the camp medic had to get three soldiers to hold me down and make me bite a strip of dirty leather while he pulled bullet shrapnel out of my abdomen and patched up a few holes.

Yes. Bullets. I can stop bullets with my sexy body. What now, Austria? Come at me, bro!

So it's a little hard for me to stand up right now without my bannered pike. And yes, it has to be my bannered pike. Not because I'm a show pony. Because I like people to see that whatever you shoot at me, the awesome Prussia does not go down.

Please don't test that theory.

Plus, for all the pain right now, at least it's gonna leave a few awesome scars. Chicks dig awesome scars.

I stretch out my legs a little. They're bloody and filthy. Instinctively, I know that open wounds and filth don't mix, but it's not like we have a freaking spa out here. This is Austria, for God's sake. We're lucky if it even rains.

Wait, why did I stand up?

Am I going to bed? The sun just went down. I don't want to go to sleep yet. Besides. If I don't wait for the screaming in my head to stop, I'll have night terrors again.

Am I going to the fire with the other soldiers? I should, I know. But I really don't want to. The other German states are great and all, good soldiers, but... They seem kind of, I dunno, aimless. I think bringing Specs off his high-horse and German blood are about all we have in common. It's a very, very loose unity.

So if I'm not going to bed, and I'm not going to the fire, and I don't want to be alone with the screams... where does that leave?

Ah! New kid!

There's a little tent near mine that Romano, the southern half of Italy, stays in. He's just a kid. He used to live with Spain, until Spain got tired of his bitching and gave him independence. Or maybe not because Romano bitched. Spain doesn't get annoyed by a lot. He probably gave Romano his independence because he's just a sweet guy who like to see his friends happy.

With a total hard-on for Romano, I bet. Antonio totally would.

I limp over to Romano's tent with my awesome pike/banner/crutch/staff of win and tap the flap. Romano's young. And a country. So he gets the screams, too. And the first time you get them, it doesn't matter how badass you think you are or how many enemies you've killed with your bare hands. The first time you get the screams is maddening and heart-breaking and humbling and makes you want to give up on everything and just cry forever. I still get that way on the bad nights.

I tap the flap again, expecting the sort of hollow whimper I made the first few times.

"The fuck do you want?" comes the Italian voice.

"Woah," I say, shocked. "What?"

Then tent flap opens on a gangly, skinny, honey-eyed bundle of adolescent moodiness. My heart stops for a second and I suddenly want to cry. My brother is the same age. Is he this height too? This skinny? Is his voice deep yet? I wonder if he's as moody and pimply and Romano?

"I asked what the fuck you wanted."

"I'm... uh."

"You potato sucking bastards are so eloquent."

Asshole! I know sarcasm when I see it! "I'm just checking up on you, little dude. Making sure you're alright."

"Suck my balls."

Now, the first time I heard this, I took it personally. Luckily, I hung out with Spain enough when we were younger to be able to translate. "Suck my balls" is Italian for "I'm alright."

"That's good," I smile. "Mind if I come in?"

"Yes."

This is Italian for "Sure, come right in, my good buddy." So I do.

I almost laugh walking into the tiny tent. Most of the tents I've lived in in my days on the battlefield were exactly what you'd expect. Gross, smelly and disgustingly manly. I let my filthy bandages rot where they drop. I toss my sweaty clothes over a chair to dry so I can wear them tomorrow. When my bread rations turn out to be moldy hunks of maggot nursery, I toss them in the corner for the rats. Most of my soldiers live this way too, except they have to sleep practically back to back on their cots.

So I have no idea what this is. Romano's cot has a freaking sheet. And his ratty army pillow is fluffed. And the dirt floor is swept to an even layer of smooth dust I'm afraid to walk on. (Where did he even get a broom?) And there's a freaking vase on the table! With freaking flowers! And a painting on an easel!

"What the hell?"

Romano scowls at me. "I don't care, I'm not cleaning up for you."

I look around in amazement. "You mean... this isn't clean? I thought Spain said you were messy."

Romano pulls a chair out at the table and sits down, mussing the dust of the ground. "I am. Normally. But when I'm fighting, I like to be a little cleaner."

I look at the kid in amazement. "You mean, you've done this before?"

Romano shoots me a look that suggests that I'm some Austrian pig farmer who just tried to tell him that ice is actually frozen water. "Of course, dipshit. Did you think this was my first war?"

I sit down across from Romano. "Well, can you blame me? You're so young!"

Romano scowls harder, but I know this is just Southern Italian for smiling. He's secretly pleased that he surprised me.

"So why do you clean here and not at home?" I continue.

Romano shrugs. "It keeps me busy. Keeps my mind off things. If I don't keep my hands busy, I tend to..." Romano stops himself abruptly, sudden awareness painting his scowl. "Wait, why am I telling you this?"

I shrug and smile. "I don't know. I guess I just have that kind of face."

"Stupid face."

"Hey! You leave my face out of this!"

"You brought it up in the first place!"

I puff out my cheeks mockingly and grin. Kids are awesome.

Romano sighs angrily and stands up to grab two empty steins from a neat little cubby and a metal canister of water. He fills the steins and hands one to me. It's hot, but I sip it gratefully.

"So how are you dealing with the screams?" I ask as Romano sits back down.

He jumps. "How did you you know about that?"

"We all get them," I shrug. "It's your people. You feel them when they die."

Romano glares into his water. "They hate me," he murmurs.

I nod sympathetically. "It's not you they hate. It's dying. They don't want to die, and they don't know who else to blame for it. If you start blaming yourself too, it gets really hard to sleep."

Romano looks up at me. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"You should do what I do. Blame Austria."

A smile curves the side of Romano's lips. "I like the sound of that."

I laugh. My awesome wisdom is always helpful to lost souls in need.

"So what brings you out here, buddy? Why fight at all?"

As quick as the smile on Romano's face appeared, if fades into a dark scowl. I don't know what that means in Italian.

"You wouldn't understand," he murmurs.

I smile. "Maybe not, but venting usually helps me. Give it a go."

Romano stares at a scuff on the table and I press my stitches in my stomach to beat down the sudden wave of pain.

We sit in silence for a while. I'm about to open my mouth when Romano suddenly breaks the silence.

"Feliciano..."

"What?"

Romano shakes his head violently. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand."

"Well, of course not. Not if you're speaking Italian."

Romano glares at me. "Feliciano is a name, dumbass."

"Oh. Whose?"

"My brother's."

"Ah," I say. "Now that I do understand."

Romano's face softens affectionately as he speaks. "Feliciano is my twin brother. We were separated when our grandfather died. Austria didn't want me, so he gave me to Boss Spain. Now I'm free and I'm going to get my stupid brother back."

I smile and sip the hot water. "What's Feliciano like?"

Romano shrugs. "I haven't seen him since we were both very little. He was a happy little kid, kinda spacy. Grandpa Rome taught us how to paint and sing, but Feli was always better. So he became the favorite. Idiot."

I smile. Kids are so cute when they get jealous.

"Boss Spain told me a bit about Feliciano from when he visited Austria," Romano continues. "Apparently, he's happy, talented, sweet and good at cleaning. Spain made sure to emphasize that last one."

I snort. "And you still want that goody-two-shoes back?"

Romano smiles. "Well, it's not like I have much of a choice. Austria still makes him wear a dress."

"The horror!" I gasp.

"I know, right?" Romano laughs, a dry and crackly little melody. I've decided I like it when he laughs. It's awesome.

"So how about you?" Romano asks. "What are you fighting for?"

"Didn't you hear?" I shrug. "We're kicking Austria out of the German states. He's not cool enough to play with us."

Romano rolls his eyes. "And that's the reason you tolerate the screams? That's what you're comfortable letting your men die for? That's kind of sick."

Ouch. That hurts. Just when I thought we were getting along, too.

"Come on," Romano smiles tiredly. "You're not that bad a guy. What's the real reason?"

A face flashes through my mind. An empty face. Emotionless. Haunting. It pricks my eyes so they threaten to cry, even though I'm too awesome to let tears wash my face. Because I love that face, but I don't even know if it's able to love me back. Not when it's been raised to only hate.

"Ludwig..." The name slips out on accident, sounding like a prayer. I bite my lip.

Romano snorts. "What's that, a type of sausage?"

"He's my little brother." My voice sounds drained and colorless. "He was taken away when he was just a baby. And I want him back."

Romano falls into an embarrassed silence and nurses his water.

"I see him every now and then." I can't stop the words from slipping out of my throat. "But never off the battlefield. Romano, have you ever seen someone who knows nothing but war?"

Romano shakes his head lightly. "Not up close."

"They're different," I say. "Angry. Empty. Unless you're an enemy they have to kill, they won't look twice at you except to ask for another sword when theirs breaks. They don't have friends, they don't know family, they don't know love. That's what my brother has become. Just a vacuum of blood and terror and empty rage. A monster at Austria's command. And it kills me. I know what that world's like, and I don't want my little brother to be part of it."

I stop and turn to my water. I don't know what made me say all that. Maybe Romano just has that face or something.

"I thought you liked war," Romano says quietly.

I sigh and stretch, minding my stitches. "It has its own charm, to be sure. But if all you do is fight, then you're not really fighting for anything. You don't know that other world, the one with the art and the jokes and the people, so you can't really understand why you're killing human beings. And maybe the other guy is fighting for something he cares about. And you took that away for nothing."

"What are we supposed to fight for, then?"

I smile. I remember asking that question. "I never got a good answer from anyone I asked," I say. "France always says "for love" or some fruity shit. Spain says "for God." England's kind of practical, he says he does it "for money." Worthy enough causes, I suppose. But for every instance I can think of where I'd be willing to die for love or God or money, I can think of ten more that I wouldn't. I guess it's something you have to find your own answer to."

"What's your answer?" Romano's voice is barely a whisper.

I puff out my cheeks grimly. "Things that make us smile. Friends. Family. Ideals. Things we want to protect."

A warm smile spreads across Romano's face. "That makes sense."

I laugh.

"So what makes your brother smile?"

I sigh. "That's the thing. I don't know. Whenever I see him, I ask him about his life or tell him a joke or something. He doesn't even blink. I don't know if he knows how to smile."

Romano's face falls into a worried frown. "I'm sorry."

My fist clenches as the tears prick at my eyes again. "I don't know what Austria did to Ludwig, but I am going to make him pay for it. I'm going to destroy that aristocratic bastard and get my brother back. No one doesn't laugh at my jokes. NO ONE!"

"And you were doing so well," Romano sighs.

"What?"

"This is all about a joke?"

I look at Romano, confused. "No, weren't you listening? It's about my brother's empty soul. I told him this really funny joke once and he didn't even smile. And the joke is a brilliant gauge of how happy someone is and how much of their soul is human."

"Okay," Romano grins. "I'll bite. What's the joke?"

I smile. "Okay. Ready? What's brown and sticky?"

Romano's nose wrinkles in disgust. "Oh, ew, Prussia."

"No, it's not that! I swear it's not that! Come on, guess!"

...

The sun rose pretty early this morning. Suns tend to do that. Usually I'm fine with that, but I was having a really awesome dream involving birds, babes and quality, home-brewed beer. So when the sky started burning with another August sunrise, I wanted nothing more than to beat it back into dark submission. Stupid sky.

But now that I'm up anyway, I'm pretty glad I didn't kill the sun. The battle is going well, at least as well as a battle can go. It's barely noon and already my guys have pushed Specs' men back a quarter mile. The Italians are actually helping today, too! It's like everyone got together today and agreed to bring their A-game. If we keep this up, we'll be done in a matter of days!

The smoke is thick and choking. My eyes burn from watching my men- Boss Otto told me that I had to stay out of the fray as much as possible. Keh. As if. I'm picking off rogue Austrian uniforms as they come, simple stuff. But as soon as Otto turns his back, I'll be out and fighting with my men.

"Man," whines an Italian accent. "These Austrians just keep coming, don't they?"

I turn and smile at Romano. "Let's hope they run out of bodies before we run out of bullets?"

Romano laughs. "That sounds simple enough." He casually shoots a stray soldier in the chest.

"For your brother?" I ask.

"Every one," he answers. Romano dives back into the smoke and I bite my lip, frustrated. I should be out there.

"Nein," Otto says behind me, reading my thoughts.

"Come on," I whine. "Let me help my men!"

"You're more helpful alive than dead, Prussia," Otto snaps. "Remember, these men still need a home to fight for."

I open my mouth to argue, but I know he's right. If I get killed, my men will be at the mercy of Austria. The stitches in my stomach twang again to remind me that so far I've been lucky- I shouldn't push it.

A scream fills my head and my heart sinks. I look pleadingly up at Otto as the dying voice begs for his mother and a bit of water. Otto can't hear it, so he scowls at me and tells me to stay put, even as the voice becomes delusional and screams that crows are devouring his skin.

My brain burns with the effort of rooting my feet and I shoot into the air to release something and feel a tiny bit useful. I take everything in as the voice fades into a heavy silence and I put it all on Specs. The screaming, the uselessness, the dying, the killing- it's all his fault.

Suddenly, another scream erupts from the right. This time, Otto snaps his head toward it as a Prussian soldier runs up.

"Herr von Bismarck!" the young man yells. "We've surrounded the Hanover army! We need you to come quickly, sir!"

Glee flashes through Otto's eyes. He tries to glare at me, but it doesn't work well. "Prussia, stay out of the battle. Do you understand?"

"Of course, sir," I grumble.

"I mean it. Don't you dare try to get in there. I can't have anything happen to you on my watch."

I roll my eyes and nod as Otto mounts his horse and rides away into the smoke. I growl and pace in frustration. The screams revertebrate against the walls of my skull, bouncing off one another in a chaotic dance. We're winning, but my men are dying. More, in fact, than when we weren't winning.

A scream cuts through and cries for his little brother and begs him to get out of the battle, desert, run home to his wife. The scream begs his brother to raise his son to be a good man, to teach him what it means to be strong and how to find his own happiness. The scream pleads his little brother to tell his son that his father died for Germany, whatever that means, and to be proud.

The brother is already dead.

It's too much for me. I hold my head and stumble to the ground and throw up. The smell is mingled with blood and sweat and smoke. I feel my eyes prick with tears as the father's screams die off into pathetic whimpers for his wife and water.

I stay on my hands and knees, shaking. My arms quake with sudden fatigue and I close my eyes. Germany. The fragile union, the loose federation. A soldier's dying wish. A ridiculous wish. There is no Germany, just a collection of Germans. Bavarian rivers and a few shared words are all that hold us together these days. Germany is the dream we all wish to come home to. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Slowly, I pull myself to my feet. I wince in pain and look down at the spreading warmth. My uniform is blooming a delicate crimson peony of blood. My stitches have ripped.

My legs quake as I straighten up and shut my eyes in pain. The screams echo between my ears. I want to go back to bed.

I gradually become aware that I'm being watched. I can feel the icy eyes bore into my skull and measure my weakness. I know who it is and I feel sick all over again. I refuse to let myself think the name, but my mouth, as usual, doesn't sync up with my brain.

"Ludwig," I whisper.

I can feel the scowl deepen. "That's The Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation," he says.

I laugh hollowly, trying to mask the pain I'm in without turning around. "That's a bit of a mouthful. I'll stick with Ludwig."

"Do you think that's funny?" Ludwig bellows.

I adjust my blue coat to hide the spreading crimson and turn around. "Kinda."

Ludwig and I stare at each other in shock. It's the first time we've seen each other in years. I can't believe how tall he's gotten! Almost taller than I am, and muscle through and through. His blonde hair, though filled with a generous amount of war-grime, is neatly combed back under a black hat. I smile to see that his face is ridiculously blemish free- Austria probably gave him a special rich-guy soap or something. His voice is still cracking, though, so he's got a way yet until he's fully grown. His stubble is patchy and young, his black uniform tight on his body, his blue eyes tired, yet fierce.

My heart stops. I know that's not exactly good for my health, but I can't help it. That's my brother. My little brother! The reason I put my men through hell and listen to them die, he's standing 20 meters away! I can walk up to him. I can go up and touch him. He's so close! So close...

And so distant.

He's giving me the same look he gives his enemies. And they don't usually live long enough to say "Holy shit, that little bastard is scary!" So I'm not real optimistic right now.

"You've gotten taller," I say. I can't help it. I'm soft for the kid. Even if he wants to kill me.

"You've gotten weaker," Ludwig says.

"Well, that's just uncalled for."

"Shut up, idiot."

I smirk. "I'm not going to fight you, bruder."

"Why not?" he snarls.

"Because family doesn't kill each other. It's kind of against the code."

"We're not family."

"Only because Austria stole you away," I say bitterly. "Please, come home. Join the German states. We have excellent beer."

Ludwig's face is like stone. Cold and immovable. My heart sinks.

"Not even beer, Ludwig? Does anything make you smile?"

Surprisingly, Ludwig reddens. It's not concrete, but it's enough that I get excited.

"Really? What is it? Bruder, what is it that makes you happy?"

"Enough!" Ludwig barks. "Time to surrender!"

In German, "surrender" is a bad word. Very bad. I straighten my back defiantly and ignore the sudden stab of pain in my abdomen. I plant my tattered, filthy, torn banner in the ground and draw my sword, ready to defend it.

Ludwig smiles. But it isn't happiness or mirth or irony; it's cruelty in that smile. Sadistic cruelty and the anticipation of murder. His eyes widen and he draws his sword.

I will not kill my brother. Never. I just hope I stand a chance of knocking his sword away and capturing him when he charges. He belongs home, a German with Germans. He belongs with me, a brother with brother. He belongs in Germany, the dying dream of a father for his son.

Ludwig brandishes his sword at me, as if I should be impressed by a strip of metal. "Prepare to die, bruder."

He runs.

I watch him come and I suddenly see that there is no way out of this. If I was in perfect shape, I'd be able to take my brother easily. But there's bullet in my body and blood in my mouth. And I'm getting dizzy from the screams and the fumes and the blood loss.

But I'll still stand here under my banner. I'll brace myself and hope that my little brother is quicker than he used to be. I'll drop my sword at his feet and show him once and for all that though there's a million things to kill for, it's the things you don't mind dying for that matter. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I can teach him something and he can find that thing that makes him smile and turn away from this whole bloody mess and spend the rest of his life smiling.

I watch my brother's face and breathe. In my mind, the first time I ever laid eyes on him. He was a baby, tiny and soft and red from screaming. I used to count his little toes and sing him little lullabies and he would grab my finger and babble. I told my friends he was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen, but looking back, he was the most perfect creature I'd ever laid eyes on.

Then Austria came like a bandit and stole my baby brother away. And I didn't see him again until after I'd convinced myself that he was going to be a douche anyway and I was too awesome to care.

A million little moments flash past my mind. Little triumphs over little things. Little lessons half-learned, little failures half-amended, little life half-lived. I see France laughing. I see Spain singing. I see Hungary dancing. People I care about dash past my mind and I run back to the baby I tickled, the brother I dreamed about, the boy who never knew me. And I will die for him.

I am stone. Ludwig is wind. He runs at me, face almost bored, but not quite. The wind rushes through his cloak and for a moment I'm struck by how he looks like the shadow of an angel. I smile. When he finally figures out this whole life thing, he's gonna be a hell of a guy.

My brother is closing in on me. He lifts the sword over his head a lets out a primal shriek of victory. I close my eyes and drop my sword.

BANG.

My eyes shoot open in terror and meet Ludwig's, two feet from my face. His eyes are wide and confused. We stare at each other for a long moment, his sword frozen above his head, our bodies frozen in time. It's the closest I've been to my brother since he gripped my finger and babbled his first word: "Bleuga pbt."

Slowly, the sword ebbs away from Ludwig's fingers toward the ground. As it falls, Ludwig stumbles back in confusion. The sword gracefully and slowly makes its way down as my brother puts a hand to the black fabric on his stomach and pulls it away, scarlet.

The sword clatters to the ground.

Time freezes as my brother looks from me to his hand and back to me. His eyes cannot comprehend what has happened and he turns to me, afraid. I stare in horror, unable to understand what blood is doing on my baby brother's hand.

Time comes back. The sword. The shot. The blood. Ludwig panics and reaches out to me. I rush at him and hold him.

"L-Ludwig? Bruder? Are you okay?" He's not. I know he's not, he's been shot. But I ask anyway, in case he actually does have a sense of humor and this is a joke.

"G...Gilbert..."

"I'm here, I'm right here. Oh my God, I'm here, bruder."

"You're c-crying, bruder."

I nod through my tears. "Please hang on, okay? Hang on. Don't you dare stop breathing."

"It h-hurts so much..."

"I know, shh. Hold on. We're gonna fix this."

I turn around slowly. My army. Otto. They're all behind me, silent.

"Who?" I whisper.

A young man with a smoking rifle steps forward proudly. "Johann Schmidt, sir."

I gently pick up my brother and head toward camp. "Schmidt," I growl. "Run and get the medic ready for surgery. If my brother dies, you die."

The soldier is taken aback. He doesn't move.

"Do it or I'll shoot you now!"

The terrified soldier breaks into a run toward camp. Otto shakes his head at my stupidity, but I focus on Ludwig.

"Bruder," I say to distract him from the pain as I run toward camp. "What's brown and sticky?"

"N-now, Gilbert? Can't you think of s-something OW! Funnier?"

I smile and run. "Nein, this joke is hilarious. Think about it, brown and sticky."

Ludwig's face twists in pain and he gasps. "P-pointless..."

I run faster. "It is not, it helps if you smile! It's healthy, you should try it sometime!"

"N-no," Ludwig pants. "The f-fighting. What was it f-for?"

I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to rip Schmidt's throat out of his neck. But that comes later; right now I focus on getting my brother to the medic half a mile away.

"I k-killed all those people," Ludwig says, bewildered. "I killed them. Wh-why?"

"Sh," I mumble as comfortingly as I can. "Calm down and put as much pressure as you can on your stomach." I nearly trip over a rock and Ludwig gasps in pain, crimson seeping through his fingers.

"They felt this, bruder! They felt this pain! And I l-laughed at them!"

"More pressure, Ludwig, you need to try harder!"

"I th-thought war would make me stronger. How can I be dying?"

"You're not dying!" I scream. "You're not dying, you're not dying! You're going to live and you're going to thrive and you're going to smile! God damn it, smile!"

Ludwig's lips curl and he exhales tenderly, sounding like a prayer.

"Feli..."

Ludwig's eyes close and I panic, sprinting the last few hundred feet. The medic waits at the edge of camp with Schmidt.

The medic takes my brother from my arms and rushes him to a bloodstained tent and lays him on a bloodstained cot. Schmidt bows in apology at the flap and I punch him in the face.

The medic hangs a lamp above Ludwig's unconcious body and cuts the heavy clothes away.

"Who wears this much clothing in August?" The medic quips.

"Fix my brother now," I say angrily. "We'll make fun of him later."

The medic goes silent and works quickly to stop the bleeding. I look at the wound in my little brother's abdomen. It bursts another wave of blood on his pale skin every time his heart beats. Each wave I pray like a madman for another. Each beat of his heart I pray for another.

The medic finally eases the bleeding in my brother. Towel after towel is soaked in it and thrown to the floor. He puts all his weight on the wound and turns to me, gravely.

"He's lost a lot of blood."

My heart sinks. "But... not too much, right? He's going to be okay?"

The pregnant silence says it all.

"No," I say. "No! No, he's too young! You have to save him!"

"I'm sorry, sir-"

"God damn it, he was going to be happy! He was going to smile! You have to keep him alive!"

"There isn't anything I can do, sir. He doesn't have enough blood."

"Give him mine!" I scream deliriously. "Get my blood inside his body! Right now!"

The medic looks at my stomach. I follow his gaze and gasp.

My stomach is gushing now, every stitch ripped out from the run. The blood is dark and malevolent looking.

I look at the doctor. "Can his body take it?"

"Sir, you don't have enough blood for the both of you."

"Then give to him. Give it all to him. Quickly."

"With all due respect, sir," the medic says nervously. "I am a Prussian, so if only one of you can-"

"You are not a Prussian," I snarl. "You are a German. And my brother is Germany."

"Germany?"

"Germany," I repeat fiercely. "It's the air we breathe. It's the food we grow. It's the peace we fight for. It's the dying dream of a bleeding father. It's all Germans under one flag. It's unity and love and happiness and it's my brother. Save. My. Brother."

The medic wrestles with himself for a second. Finally, he grabs a syringe and sits me down next to Ludwig.

"One Germany," the medic whispers as he pulls the blood from my arm. He's crying.

"One Germany," I say reassuringly. "It's our dream."

"It's been an honor, sir." The medic injects my blood into my brother's arm.

My stomach wound belches blood in protest. I pull the skin together to keep as much of my blood useable as possible. The medic transfers another syringe full of blood to Ludwig.

I'm beginning to get dizzy. Sort of like being drunk, but more pain and a general sense of forboding. I know what's on the other side of consciousness, and I'm terrified of it. But I look at my brother's ashen cheeks and his barely moving chest, and I wonder what it would be like to hear him laugh.

And I smile.

...

"See? Look! His eyes are moving!"

"Well I'll be damned. I thought you said he lost too much blood, doc."

"He did! Or, he should have. I don't understand why he's still alive, it's impossible!"

"Remember, men. This is Prussia we're talking about. It'll take more than a few bullets and pints of lost blood to take him down."

I desperately want to smile at Otto's voice, but I have no idea where I even am. I try to open my eyes- it's like lifting boulders with my eyelids and it fucking hurts.

"Look!" a voice says excitedly. "He's waking up!"

"Ludwig..." The hoarse whisper clawing its way out of my throat is a prayer.

"He's fine," comes the medic's voice. "Germany is resting. He's going to be just fine."

I want to sob and laugh at the same time. "Where is he? Can I see him?"

"You have to open your eyes first."

The tent gets silent. My breath hitches in my throat at the voice and the half joke.

"Ludwig?"

I feel a hand on my shoulder. "I'm here, bruder."

I grab the hand and try to fight the tears, but I've fought too much already so far. They rush my eyes like cocky little soldiers and storm my face. I grab my brother and bury my face in his shoulder, weeping from exhaustion and fear and so, so much relief.

Ludwig clutches at my back and holds me tighter. His body shakes with silent sobs and I rock him and whisper soothingly. My little brother. At last, my little brother. My Germany.

We pull apart. I still can't open my eyes, so I hope I'm facing Ludwig. I hear the tent flap as half a dozen men walk out to let me sit with my brother for a while.

I can hear the beam in Ludwig's voice. "Bruder, you saved my life."

"Yeah. I'm pretty awesome, huh?" I wipe my face and try to collect myself.

"There's a story around the camp that it's because your heart is twice the normal size so it gave you enough blood to save both me and yourself."

I shrug. "I'm sure there's less gay reasons."

And then I hear it. It's rough and uncertain, almost as if it's never happened before. It's clumsy and ridiculous and stumbling and tripping and I love every bit of it.

My brother's laugh.

I ignore the pain in my eyelids and tear them open, desperate to see what my brother's face looks like when he laughs. The light blinds me and I force my eyes to suck it up and tell me what's happening.

I see Ludwig's face and grin. He looks so happy when he laughs, like he's pulling his smile straight from his heart. His face softens and it's like the killing, the dying, the fighting, the screaming- as if none of it ever happened. I want to lose myself in my brother's laugh, just for a little while.

His chuckles subside and he looks at me seriously. "You gave me a country," Ludwig says.

"I offered you a home," I smile. "You don't have to take it, the German states survived for centuries as a loose federation. But I kind of want you to stay. I think you could make us great."

"I will, bruder. I promise I will."

I look my brother in the eye. I believe him. I believe every word.

"Good," I say. "I'm happy!"

"I'm happy too," Ludwig says excitedly. "For the first time since I left to fight, I'm absolutely happy! Thank you, bruder!"

"What about Feli?"

Ludwig's face falls momentarily. "Ah... I must have been out of it yesterday. I didn't mean to say that."

"Who is she?"

Ludwig stares off into space. "It doesn't matter. I can't go back now. I wonder if she'll forgive me."

I smile and sit up, mindful of my new stitches. "Whoever she is, she's good enough to make you smile when you're leaking guts. I'm sure whatever you did, she'll still love you."

Ludwig stares off. "Do you think i'll ever see her again?" His voice is pleading.

I smile. "It's funny how the people you love always seem to find you when you need them the most."

Ludwig makes a face at me. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"That whole 'wise elder brother' crap. It sounds weird coming from you."

"Hey! I can be wise and awesome! Shut up!"

Ludwig laughs. "I've got a joke for you."

I pause. "Really?" I ask in amazement. "A real, actual joke?"

Ludwig nods. "What's brown and sticky?"

I smile. I love this joke. "What?"

Ludwig reaches behind him and flourishes a large twig. "A stick!"

NOTES! God, I feel like such a hippocrite centering around the stick joke when I hate books that use language inconsistent malaprops for S&Gs. I know they don't speak English, why would I focus around a joke that only makes sense in English? Answer: Because it's funny. And because I love Herr Stick, mein sticky friend :)

Also, I know blood transfusion didn't become general practice until mid 1900's. That's why the process is so rudimentary in here. I was this close from making it an organ transplant, but 1) i'm like 100 years off, and 2) that shit gets MESSY! So I'm cutting it close with the transfusion, but the first recorded successful blood transfusion was in the 1600s, so I feel safe.

AND! I know all about blood types and how incompatible types can KILL you. Doctors back then had no idea. I don't know if Hima-Papa made the countries' blood types cannon, but here we're assuming that Gilly-willy and Luddy-wuddy are absolutely compatible blood types, so they lucked out MAJORLY. Miracle, kinda :)

Some of you already know how special the German bros' relationship is to me. I hope I did it okay :/

Thank you, Boss England! You're amazing!