Walk in the Sun

by Jacquzy

Prussia, Austria, and Kugelmugel. The rise and fall of the Berlin Wall, and what it means to be a family. PruAus Secret Santa for Roemenie.

The highway's jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive
Everybody's out on the run tonight
But there's no place left to hide
Together Wendy we can live with the sadness
I'll love you with all the madness in my soul
Oh, Someday girl I don't know when
We're gonna get to that place
Where we really wanna go
And we'll walk in the sun
But till then tramps like us
Baby we were born to run

- "Born to Run", Bruce Springsteen

i.

When Prussia thinks back, he can never recall the date Kugelmugel first appeared, not exactly, though he knows it was in 1984, because he is good with years. What he does remember from that time, though, are visas and papers, and a wall being chipped away bit by crumbling bit, and the smell of paint, and later piano music and cake, and Bruce Springsteen.

The order of these things is not as clear as his recollection of how they made him feel – how they make him feel, now. But he remembers them, or at least, the impressions of them, and he can fit them together, if not in a linear order, at least like a jigsaw puzzle, jumbled yet interlocking.

Sometimes the long years of his life get to him, and he wakes at night, in a cold sweat, old scars stinging as though newly opened by a thin, sharp blade – but there is always the scent of paint, and the music, and the world continues to spin, and sometimes he is very glad he no longer cups bullets in his hands and hitches guns across his shoulders.

When it all began – that's the thing – when it all ended, perhaps, is the better way of phrasing it, but really, what is the difference? When one thing ends another begins – when it all ended – he was across the border for a visit, with his brother and Austria.

It was hard to get over, in those days, even for someone – thing – like him, so he thanked the good Lord often for the business of politics.

He'd handed some documents over to his brother, and the official purpose was fulfilled.

They'd decided to go out for coffee and cake.

Austria had insisted on a particular café, and neither he nor Germany had seen any reason to argue. He thought that Austria had seemed distracted that day, but maybe that came with hindsight; later Austria had told him he'd seen the boy around that place a number of times before.

They had taken a seat by the window. Germany asked for his coffee black, with no sugar.

"Vile," Prussia had said.

"It matters a lot to me, your opinion on my coffee," Germany said.

Austria was squinting out of the window.

"What's up, little master?" Prussia asked.

Austria shook his head. "Nothing," he'd said, slowly.

"Well, it can't be nothing," Prussia had said – but Austria turned back to face the table, and began stirring his own drink slowly.

About ten minutes later, he'd stood up.

"What?" said Prussia.

"That boy," said Austria, "do you see that boy?"

Prussia and Germany had peered through the glass, out onto the street. Between the colourful shapes of shoppers, a small figure was barely visible.

"Where?" said Germany.

"There." Austria pressed a pointed fingertip against the window. Germany and Prussia stood so as to gain better vantage points.

"That's a girl," said Germany.

"It's not," said Austria. He paused. "I've seen him before." Another momentary pause. At the time, Prussia had thought nothing of it, but looking back, he wondered if it was significant. Perhaps it was only over time it had acquired significance. Austria was biting his lower lip. "Do you think there's anything…about him? I mean…special?"

"I think there's something special about you, little master," Prussia said.

"Be quiet," Austria had said. "I mean…" he trailed off, turned his gaze on Germany, who was sitting stock still, staring at the child. His eyes were open a little wider than usual, Prussia thought. "You feel it too," said Austria.

"I don't know," said Germany, but his voice was lower and quieter than usual.

"What should we do?"

Germany blinked, seemingly rousing himself from the trance into which he had briefly fallen. He turned slowly towards Prussia, looking hesitant. At the time Prussia hadn't known what it meant, the way his brother had looked at him. Now, he wondered if it was because of the Wall. East Germany. Everything that was happening. Back then, nobody had been sure of his future. Perhaps Germany had feared that Prussia facing the new child would be the beginning of the end; a fated, fatal meeting.

But back then, none of this had occurred to him. Instead, he had said, "Do you want to go and talk to him?"

Germany hesitated. Austria had looked out of the window. Prussia looked too. The child had moved behind a small family and vanished from sight. Austria stiffened.

"We could see," said Prussia. "Just see. Keep our distance. See…" See what, he did not say.

"Yes," said Austria, breathlessly.

They had hurried outside, leaving their coffee only half-finished. Austria darted ahead, wrapping his jacket tightly around his middle. Prussia had looked around, and been unable to see the child – and he had thought, he's gone – and then Austria had grabbed his arm – and the child reappeared, a small, bright smudge floating like a dust mote in the light spilling from the shops and cafes lining the street.

"What shall we do?" Austria said.

"Hang on," Prussia said. "Don't stare, it's creepy."

Austria huffed a little, but remained at his side. Prussia walked up to one of the shop fronts, and peered at the display inside. A number of mannequins were posed absurdly in a line against a glittery backdrop, modelling an expensive range of coats. Austria fidgeted a little, but did not let go of Prussia's arm. The child hovered somewhere in Prussia's field of vision.

He was definitely a boy – Prussia could see it in his face – and he bore an odd resemblance to Austria. He had large, serene eyes, and a straight line for a mouth with a puffy upper lip, and he was wearing strange, lurid clothes. His hair, though, was light blond, almost silvery white, rather like Prussia's own, and it was long, too, and a little wild.

"He's like us," Austria had murmured, or something to that effect, "isn't he?"

Prussia could feel it, he thought, at the time. Now, it was harder to put his finger on it, because he saw Kugelmugel so often, had grown accustomed to his presence – more than that, they were friends, close friends; family – and so the feeling between them had changed to one of familiarity, a warm, comfortable closeness. Thinking back, Prussia thought that when he first saw the micronation, it might have been something like hearing a familiar accent, or your own language when you were far, far away from home. Perhaps this was why Austria had been so anxious to confirm what the child was. The world was getting smaller, apparently – cars and planes and telephones and computers – but sometimes Prussia thought it felt a lot emptier. Emptier, yet nothing echoed back. His own history rang hollowly, then fell silent. Most days he felt aimless and melancholy. And tired. He looked at the child. And he thought he recognised something.

"Yeah," he said. "He is."

ii.

"He is worried about you," Russia had said, years before this.

Prussia hadn't wanted to answer. He'd wanted to remain silent; to press his lips together and stand like a rock, like a cliff. It would infuriate Russia, he thought.

But his brother had gazed anxiously at him from across the room, looking young and naïve and frightened, wordlessly begging him to behave courteously, to refrain from doing anything that would aggravate the other nation or his bosses. And so he'd jerked his head quickly. "Yeah," he'd said. "He is."

"He needn't be," Russia had said, and Prussia wasn't sure whether this was meant as a genuine attempt at comfort or a veiled sadistic threat. Perhaps both. Probably both, he remembered thinking, gloomily. He still wasn't sure what Russia had meant by it, and he wasn't about to start asking now.

He remembered how he'd stood stock still and not looked at the taller nation by his side.

A few seats away from him, Hungary had sat stiffly, hands clasped tightly before her. She was wearing a suit that was clean, but ugly, and old. It had probably been repaired a few times, Prussia thought. Her boss sat on her right side; Austria on her left.

Hungary was frightened – he was frightened, so of course she was too – though she did not show it. She'd kept her chin up and stared straight ahead, blinking only very rarely. Prussia wondered if Austria was going to try and hold her hand. (He hadn't. He'd remained silent and not spoken a word throughout the meeting, until the end, when he said something very quietly to Hungary that Prussia could not hear. He's always been a little envious of their shared history; back then, it had been maddening. He'd continued to sit stiffly and had refused to look at them. Later, though, when business was concluded; when he'd stood up to leave with Russia, he'd felt Austria's eyes on his back – and he'd turned, and for the briefest second they'd looked at each other, right at each other, properly, for perhaps the first time in years – and then he'd turned away. And he'd left the room.)

iii.

From the other side of the house, Prussia heard the front door shut. He had spent that morning slumped on the sofa watching television. A few days later, he would return to Russia's house, and he was determined to enjoy the rest of his time on this side of The Wall.

The door into the sitting room had opened, and Austria rushed into the room, closing it quickly behind him. He seemed very out of breath, and his cheeks were red, and his hair was slightly awry.

"What's up, little master?" Prussia had asked.

He can very clearly remember the way the other nation had squirmed at the question.

"What?"

"What?" said Austria. "I…what?"

"You look guilty," said Prussia. He kicked his feet up onto the sofa. "Why?"

Austria had pulled a face. He was terrible at keeping secrets, at acting. He always has been, Prussia thinks fondly.

"I…" Austria had hesitated. Then, hurriedly, he'd said, "The boy we saw yesterday – you remember? The boy who – we thought – was like us. I, ah…" he trailed off.

Prussia had stared up at the other, blankly. Then understanding had punched him hard in the gut. "Oh," he'd said. "Oh, shit, you brought him here?"

"I didn't know what else to do!" Austria whispered. "What else could I have done? Left him out on the streets?"

"Where is he?" Prussia had asked. "What're you going to do now?"

"In the kitchen. And…I don't know!" Austria hissed. He looked desperate. "I just…I don't know!"

Prussia remembered the way Austria had stared down at him, wide-eyed, imploring, desperate. Or perhaps he'd just known that Prussia would eventually do his bidding if he looked at him like that. Prussia liked being in charge. And he liked it when Austria trailed around after him, looking wistful and chastened. (Nowadays, Prussia was under no illusions about who was really in charge.)

He heaved himself up from the sofa. "Alright," he'd said. "Let's go talk to him."

Austria had looked relieved.

In the kitchen, the kid was carefully and suspiciously scrutinising a cupboard of plates and bowls. He had jumped when Prussia and Austria entered the room.

"Hey," said Prussia, "how's it going?"

The kid had stared up at him, and said nothing.

"Um," said Austria, "This is Prussia. He's my friend. He won't hurt you. He just…we want to talk to you."

The kid remained silent.

"Okay," said Prussia, "okay. Listen, I'm starving, how about something to eat? You hungry? Little mas– uh, Austria, you hungry?"

"What?" Austria had said.

"I'm going to make us something to eat," Prussia said, and strode past the child to the fridge. This time, the boy didn't move.

Austria had hovered by the door.

"Sit down," Prussia had said to him, "you're making the place look untidy."

Austria seemed to tremble on the verge of protest – then he sat.

The child looked at him for a moment – then, apparently seeing no threat, turned back to focus on Prussia.

"You wanna help?" Prussia had said.

"His hands are filthy," Austria said faintly.

"Boo," said Prussia, "boring."

The child didn't laugh, but continued to scrutinise Prussia closely.

"You like eggs?" said Prussia. "I'm going to make eggs."

Silence.

"You don't talk much do you?" said Prussia. "Can you say anything at all?"

"No," said the child.

Austria had shifted a little at the kitchen table. Prussia had laughed. "Alright, smart-arse," he'd said, and when he'd looked down at the child, he hadn't been smiling – not exactly – but his eyes were a little narrower, and his lips were pressed together, and there was a spot on each cheek that dimpled inwards, and Prussia was strongly reminded of the times he had made stupid jokes, and Austria had almost laughed, but had managed to stop himself just in time.

The scent of eggs – fried, scrambled, baked, poached, flipped into a pancake or an omelette – lingers. Prussia often cooks, these days. Austria bakes. And Kugelmugel, generally, makes a mess.

The day after Austria had brought the child home, and he had cooked eggs for them, and they'd eaten together, quietly, sitting around Austria's kitchen table, he'd had to leave; to return to the East.

"Where are you going?" he remembers the child saying. Or something along those lines.

He'd jumped. He knew that. It had startled him – not the child's appearance; the words.

He remembered struggling.

"Prussia doesn't live here," Austria had said, quietly. Prussia remembers with great clarity that the other nation was not wearing his glasses. He wonders why he remembers stupid things like that, but forgets so much of the important stuff – though, in truth, deep down in the darkness of his heart, he thinks he probably knows why. "He, ah…he needs to go –" Prussia imagines Austria had been about to say "home", though in the end he said nothing, just let his voice trail off.

"Will you come back?" said the child. He didn't have a name yet. Austria had promised to look into it, and to enlist Germany's help.

"Write to me," Prussia had said, "when you find out." And Austria said that he would.

"Of course," said Prussia. "Of course I will." And the child had nodded seriously, and watched him from the door until he disappeared.

iv.

It didn't just materialise suddenly – a thick, high, dividing wall, rending Berlin in two, splitting it like the axe splits the skull – but one of Prussia's most vivid memories (memories? Is it? It is an image, a short extract of film running on a loop, repeating over and over again that he cannot for the life of him shake) is of watching the border between the West and the East of the city being closed like a door; watching what was behind until it disappeared.

At first, there was no wall. The wall came later. The Wall. (He capitalizes it in his mind.) It began, he remembers, not with construction, but with destruction.

Chewed-up streets, swallowed then thrown up again in chunks so as to make the route into the Western part of Berlin impassable. In his mind it plays like the parting of the red sea – the moment the waves rose up, magnificent, and reared back from one another, and stood apart – and the moment normality was restored, and the water crashed back down, a roaring, crushing mass, destroying the path that had never really been there to begin with. Huge, black curtains.

They used barbed wire, too, he remembers, and he can remember how it felt, the prickling of it against his body. Red blood on white skin.

So it wasn't really a wall at all, he thinks, not at first, anyway – it was more like a great gaping chasm, a bottomless dark mouth tearing itself open wide to swallow any trespasser whole, a nothing. But the kind of nothing that in being nothing was actually something – something hot and sharp and oppressive, like that summer back in 1961 when one couldn't actually grasp the warm air but it almost felt possible; it was so hot and damp and it licked and panted at the back of his neck like a giant hungry dog. Something so heavy that somehow tricked the universe into thinking that it weighed nothing at all.

And he would always be able to get past it; he knew that. Of course he would, he was Prussia, or the East, anyhow; he worked with his – the – government. As long as he had some form of excuse – papers that needed signing, a private message that had to be sent, anything, really – he could convince them to allow him passage, even when the wall was taller than he was. It got harder to move past the barrier, yes, but it was never entirely impossible.

Still, the aesthetic of it – the barbed wire and ruined roads at first, then later the concrete blocks, and the soldiers with guns who had always been there and probably would always be there – it affected the way he thought.

He can remember lying in bed at night, thinking of his brother, thinking of his friends, thinking of Austria – and thinking about how it would feel to see them again. Then in the daytime, if he was free, he would walk through the city towards the border and stare – at first through the wires, at the slivers of West Berlin that were still visible – and then later, at the endless grey slabs.

He remembers knowing that beyond The Wall West Berlin hummed and vibrated and roared with traffic. And he remembers standing there, looking at the blockade, thinking, my brother is just beyond there, and France, and Spain, and Austria. And sometimes he thinks that he used to squeeze his eyes shut and picture them all – sharp blue eyes and a straight mouth, long, wavy hair, tanned skin and laughter lines and bright eyes, and long, slender fingers and a puffy upper lip, as though it had been stung by a bee, and that big dark freckle, and a pair of glasses with the weakest prescription lenses he'd ever seen nestled in the thin wire frames. He thinks he closed his eyes to picture them because The Wall was so huge and solid and fierce it was impossible to conceive that he would ever see them again.

But time and memories are fickle, and sometimes he thinks that this never happened, and that in fact he stood staring at the huge slabs for hours, unable to think of anything, not even his friends, because it was like staring into empty space, like staring into a black hole, and the endless solid grey Wall purged him and pressed against him until he could see nothing at all but

It.

The Wall.

And he thinks it was about this time – not quite when the wall stood, immobile, a rock of ages – but back in the late summer of '61 when the first blocks of concrete started to be erected and they pressed on every citizen of the East's mind, not quite a constant drone yet but an irritating buzz that everybody had yet to become used to – it was about this time, he thinks, that he began to think of Austria again, the way he had before the War.

v.

He remembers the debacle with the stamps. It was funny, really. Actually, he still finds it hilarious. Sometimes he like to bring it up, and Kugelmugel and Austria roll their eyes and let him get on with cackling away to himself.

It is odd, to think back on things now. Occasionally others will accuse him of living too much in the past. Prussia doesn't think that he does, though; yes, he still uses the name Prussia but that is because it is his name, it is the name he feels most strongly in his gut, it is the identity that stirs something within him.

Prussia doesn't live in the past. He does think about it a lot, though; that he will admit. He has a lot of time to kill, now. And besides, he likes looking back. It's logical, tactical. He likes being able to mentally retrace his steps, pick a path through events that at the time were terrifying or horrific and just plain baffling. Really, it's the only way they – as nations – can deal with the things they have seen, and the things they have done, he thinks.

He thinks about Austria a lot, still.

Obviously.

And he thinks of how he used to think of Austria, and how he used to think he used to think about Austria, and so on, hundreds and hundreds of years back, fathoms deep into their relationship.

There has always been something between them.

When he thinks about the stamp thing now, he thinks that perhaps that was a turning point. One of the significant moment in their rocky road into the future together. Or – if not a turning point – perhaps a checkpoint. A moment where they seemed to stop, and look at each other, and back at the way they had come, and where they were now. And they had been startled – he certainly was – by their surroundings. It seemed incredible that they were still there, and after it all, after the War, after everything – there was still something between them.

There still is something between them.

He remembers he was visiting when the stamp incident occurred.

Kugelmugel had been living with Austria for a little while, and this suited Prussia just fine. He liked having the kid around. He felt that it livened up the airy rooms, brought the lofty ceilings down a bit, warmed the place up.

Austria had some colour in his cheeks.

He remembers arriving, letting himself in as usual. He remembers pulling one of Kugelmugel's braids.

"Nice hairdo. You do it yourself?"

"Austria did it for me," the kid had said, apparently pleased by this fact.

"Jesus," said Prussia.

Austria had appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, arms folded. "Don't speak like that in front of him, please," he said.

Prussia had straightened up, tugged his jacket off. "I was just praising our Lord and Saviour for your impeccable taste in men's hairstyles and your excellent hairdressing skills."

Austria had raised an eyebrow. It's habit he still has – he's always had. Whenever somebody says something funny but he doesn't want to laugh he raises an eyebrow. Prussia finds it kind of endearing, truthfully.

"It's practical," he'd sniffed. "I don't want him getting paint in his hair."

"You still painting?" Prussia had asked.

"Painting's my favourite," said Kugelmugel.

"I remember," said Prussia.

Kugelmugel had disappeared into the kitchen.

Prussia hung his jacket up in the cupboard. "So," he said, resisting the temptation to stick his hands in his pockets, "What's up."

Austria merely looked pained. "Bloody nonsense, as usual," he said.

Austria had updated him on all Edwin Lipburger's latest exploits. "Now he's printing his own stamps," he said.

"His own stamps?"

"Yes. It's driving my government up the wall. You can imagine."

Prussia had laughed raucously.

Kugelmugel re-appeared. "What are you laughing about?" he'd asked curiously.

Prussia had grinned. "Austria here's just telling me about your Lipburger and his stamps!" he'd said. "The guy gets screwier every day, doesn't he?"

Kugelmugel had been a little annoyed at the time, Prussia thinks, though nowadays he does see the funny side of the event.

"It's performance art," he said delicately, and stalked back out.

Prussia looked back at Austria, ready to laugh again – but to his surprise, Austria had looked rather upset.

"What is it?" he'd asked.

Austria shook his head – paused – then gestured towards him, stepping deeper into the house and into his office. He closed the door carefully behind them.

"What?" said Prussia, again.

Austria had sat down in an armchair, and run a hand through his dark hair.

"That's all he'll say," he said. "It's performance art, it's performance art. What does he even mean?"

"He's just a kid," Prussia said. "I mean, yeah, he's a weird kid, but…y'know. He'll have just picked that phrase up somewhere."

Austria had hummed in response, but his mind appeared to be elsewhere. Prussia watched him for a moment, then turned and crossed towards the large bay window. The light outside was bright and white, and somehow it seemed cleaner than it was on his side of the wall. Easier to breathe. At the time he'd tried hard not to think too much about why.

In his seat, Austria shifted, and sighed. A minute or so had ticked quietly by. "He misses you, I think," he said, eventually.

Prussia thinks that he answered slowly – but perhaps this is just another effect of time and memory: narrativization, dramatization. The pause makes the memory seem more dramatic; more fun to think about.

"Really?" he said.

He remembers hearing Austria get up, though he didn't move any closer to where Prussia stood.

"He asks about you a lot," Austria said.

Prussia hadn't known what to say to that. He hardly saw the poor kid.

"Are you alright?" Austria had asked quietly. "Behind – The Wall."

Prussia was surprised. They hardly ever spoke about The Wall; about the distance between them. The literal and metaphorical distance. Even now, they hardly acknowledge it. Prussia often wonders if this is healthy; but he prefers to deal with things in his own mind, and focus on the here and now with others.

"Yes," he said. He remembers looking at Austria's face then, so he must have turned around. Austria's hands had fidgeted. "Are you alright?" he'd said.

Austria had blinked, confused. "Of course I'm alright," he'd said. "I'm not – I'm not the one behind the damned Wall, am I? I…" he trailed off

They stood silently, and looked at each other. Prussia remembers how desperately he'd wanted to close the gap between them.

Austria had said, "My government wants to send Lipman to prison. Lipman is claiming Kugelmugel is a micronation; that's why he's started issuing his own stamps. My government want to put a stop to it." He hesitated. "What if – what if – they send him to prison? What if Kugelmugel is no longer thought of as a nation? What if – will he die – disappear?"

Prussia struggled. Then he said, "I'm still here."

"Thank God," Austria had murmured – then looked suddenly embarrassed, as though he hadn't meant to say this out loud.

"It'll be alright," Prussia had said, awkwardly – though in truth he had no idea how things would play out at all. He felt so useless, trapped behind those big concrete slabs and rolls of barbed wire and soldiers with guns, while beyond all of this – this – went on. And he couldn't do a single thing to help. He'd still said, "I promise."

Austria had just looked up at him rather desperately.

Prussia remembers being closer to the other nation, then – he must have stepped forwards – and he remembers that Austria reached up and rested his palms on his chest. He remembers the feel of Austria's lips against his own – just briefly.

vi.

He remembers the twelfth of June, 1987. He remembers standing in the crowd at the Bradenburg Gate, just after midday. He remembers seeing the American president.

He remembers the speech. Not all of it – his memory isn't quite that exceptional – but there is one part he remembers in particular.

He remembers this: "We welcome change and openness; for we believe that freedom and security go together, that the advance of human liberty can only strengthen the cause of world peace. There is one sign the Soviets can make that would be unmistakable, that would advance dramatically the cause of freedom and peace. General Secretary Gorbachev, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization, come here to this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"

He remembers applauding.

He remembers that his brother was there, along with the mayor of West Berlin. He remembers catching his eyes through the crowd, and seeing, for the first time in a while, hope.

He remembers gazing through the throng of spectators. He remembers wondering who else was there. He remembers looking for Austria. He remembers convincing himself that the other nation was present, somewhere nearby. He remembers wondering whether or not Austria had brought Kugelmugel along. He remembers picturing the child on Austria's shoulders. He remembers imagining approaching them through the crowd. He remembers how he thought it would feel to hold both their hands.

He remembers how homesick he'd felt when he'd thought of all this.

And then he remembers how odd he'd thought it was when he realised he was not homesick for his own country as it used to be, or even for his brother's house, but for Austria's house, with its high ceilings and the scent of baking and the sound of piano music and the paint crusted on the tips of Kugelmugel's fingers.

vii.

"There's paint on your fingers."

Prussia knows specifically that he said this to Kugelmugel on the nineteenth of July, 1988. He knows this because it was the day the American rockstar, Bruce Springsteen, came behind The Wall.

"I do not like rock music," Russia had said, frowning, when he'd first found out about the intended visit. "Especially American rock music."

"I do," said Prussia, defensively. He'd told Austria and his brother about it.

"Come with me," he'd said.

The field was big, and dusty, and by the time they arrived it was already packed. They had stood at the back of the crowd.

"I can't see!" Kugelmugel had complained.

"Here," said Prussia, and he'd picked the smaller nation up, and perched him on his shoulders. Kugelmugel's hands had curled, and he'd gripped tightly onto his hair.

"Careful," Austria had said.

"Let's get closer," Prussia said. He nodded at his brother, and Germany began to push his way into the mob. Prussia stayed right behind him. He can still remember exactly how warm Austria's palm had felt against his spine.

The sea of people had rocked and swayed around them. Prussia stood with his feet far apart. It was hard to breath, and even harder to balance in the churning tide of excited young bodies.

"Where are they?" Kugelmugel had cried.

"They're coming," Austria had said, and Kugelmugel sat up even taller on his shoulders, squinting eagerly towards the stage.

"This'll be an experience for you, kid," Prussia remembers calling. "I'll bet Austria only plays you his stuffy classical rubbish, huh?"

"No!" Kugelmugel had protested, "We listen to everything! Lots of stuff! I know all of Bruce Springsteen's songs! All music is art, that's what Austria says!"

Prussia had stared at Austria in surprise. Austria put his nose in the air and ignored him. Germany grinned.

Even now, Prussia thinks about that concert a lot. He remembers it clearly. It was an important moment, he thinks. He remembers the huge crowd, and how dense it was – dense enough to lift you off your feet – and how it bobbed and surged like the sea. Often he thinks that it is what finally brought The Wall down; all that movement, those pushing, unrelenting tides of young people determined to break free. And the concert, he thinks, is where the dam at last began to break.

By the time they had pushed through the crowd and made a little space for themselves in the centre, even more people had arrived, flooding onto the field, and there was a very real possibility that Kugelmugel would slip from Prussia's shoulder and disappear over the horizon. Prussia had lifted his arms up, and held onto the child's hands.

He'd felt the crusty, powdery flakes straight away.

"There's paint on your fingers," he'd said.

"What?" said Austria, "How? Kugelmugel, let me see."

But then, suddenly, a great yell had risen from the crowd, and it sounded like one of the battle cries of old, when men fought with swords and grappled hand-to-hand, and Prussia's heart had leapt, and Kugelmugel squealed, and Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band were there, and the vibrations of their music pulsed through the ground and shot like bullets up their nerves and sizzled hotly in their brains.

At some point – though Prussia remembers this concert well, so well, he does not really remember it temporally: to him, it exists as an atemporal experience, a few flashes and a feeling that exists in all time and no time, and is always somehow happening, somewhere – Prussia's shoulders and arms began to ache beneath Kugelmugel's weight.

The consistent roar of the people around them was very nearly deafening, and Germany had to lean in close and shout to be heard over the sound: "I'll take him for a bit."

Prussia had nodded thankfully, and, with a bit of wriggling and shoving, they had successfully managed to transfer the smaller nation onto Germany's shoulders. Kugelmugel had seemed even more thrilled by his new, higher vantage point.

The crowd suddenly surged – leapt and fell back as one – as the opening chords of "Born to Run" erupted from the musicians, and Germany and Kugelmugel slid a little further to the right, just out of touching distance, though still firmly attached to one another.

Prussia looked to his left, for Austria. The other nation was flushed, and his skin was damp, but he was smiling. The crowd reared up again, and Austria actually yelped, and laughed, and grabbed Prussia's arm.

"Don't get lost," Prussia had yelled, and he can still recall how his cheeks had hurt from grinning.

Austria had just laughed again, and gripped his arm even more tightly, and the crowd screamed along with the lyrics of the song, and Prussia and Austria were actually carried forwards a couple of feet.

"This is madness!" Austria shouted. He had gestured – or attempted to gesture – at the vast throng of spectators. "I've never seen anything like this before!"

Prussia had laughed. His head had spun. He could only imagine how they would have looked to outsiders – sweaty, and dirty, probably, and most likely completely insane – but in that moment, he felt hopeful, and happy, and Austria looked beautiful.

"Bet you don't get this at your fancy operas!" he had yelled.

And Austria had thumped his shoulder playfully, leaning against him, and shouted back, "I don't just like opera!"

And then he had thrown his head back and proceeded to sing every word of the rest of the song. And by the final "Ru-uh-uh-uh-uuuun," Prussia was certain that he was more in love than any man, woman, poet, or nation had ever been before.

They had held onto one another tightly, drifting in the crowd, and as the night drew in, Prussia saw sadness creep into the other's eyes. And he had pulled Austria even closer, and kissed his eyelids. And they did not speak about themselves – what they were, if they were, indeed, anything at all, or about where they were going, or where they had come from – but instead they allowed the music to wash over them, and the crowd of fevered East German citizens to rock them, and Prussia had known, suddenly, what he should have realised hundreds of years previously: that with that scatterbrained, stuffy, pain-in-the-arse aristocrat was where he had to be, always: that this was it for him, and there never would be (or ever had been, in all honesty) anyone else for him. And he held Austria tight, and pressed his nose into his hair.

Oh honey, tramps like us,

Baby we were born to run.

viii.

A few years before this – before the highway was jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive, and before Austria proved that he knew all of the words to The Boss's entire discography, and before Prussia pressed his nose into Austria's hair and realised that this was It – he had spent a weekend with Kugelmugel and Austria, having offered to carry some top secret documents across The Wall.

"Prussia!" Kugelmugel thundered down the stairs of Austria's house, and slammed into his legs.

"Hey, kiddo!" Prussia had bent over, and hoisted Kugelmugel up, and spun him around, "far too quickly," Austria had complained. "How're you doing?"

"Good!" said Kugelmugel. "I was drawing! I did a picture of you because Austria told me you were coming! Can I show you? I'm going to show you." And he had wriggled out of Prussia's grasp, and charged back upstairs.

"He's come out of his shell a bit," Prussia had said.

"Just a little," Austria replied. He was smiling a bit, Prussia remembers, and he remembers that it had started that old Austria-induced ache up again in his chest. That ache had returned with an alarming frequency, he remembered, around the early 60's, and had around the time Kugelmugel appeared, spiked.

"You look good," Prussia had said, stupidly, because he was suddenly aware of the quiet space between them, and wanted desperately to fill it. "Uh – good – I mean. Well. You look well. I – not that you don't look, y'know, nice too. Uh."

Prussia still experiences feelings of extreme embarrassment when he recalls this particular moment.

Austria had smiled a little wider, and looked away – and then, thank the Lord, Kugelmugel had reappeared, clutching a few sheets of paper.

"Here!" he said, and held out one piece of paper proudly. "This is our house." He had drawn a picture of Austria's house, and coloured it in. It was pretty good.

"That's great!" Prussia said. "What else have you got there?"

"This is us," Kugelmugel had said, and passed him another picture, this one depicting three smiling figures: one small with its hair in braids, and two taller, one with glasses and dark hair, and the other with a laughing mouth and white hair.

"Ah!" said Prussia, "that's really great! Me, you, and Austria. Why'd you not draw my brother, though? He'll be pretty upset when he finds out!"

"I did draw him!" Kugelmugel protested. "Here!" He handed over the final piece of paper, this one with a drawing of Germany and his dogs on it, and, Prussia was highly amused to note, Italy. He would have to speak to his brother about that. "I just drew you and me and Austria on this one because you're my favourites," Kugelmugel said.

Prussia hadn't quite known what to say to that. So he said nothing.

"They're lovely," Austria had said, after a moment. "You're very talented."

"Thank you!" Kugelmugel had said, beaming. And he'd run back up the stairs.

Prussia and Austria had sat in the kitchen and talked.

"Lipburger has been pardoned," Austria had said. "Thank goodness. But Kugel– the…structure itself has been moved."

"Where to?"

"The Prater Park." Austria had hesitated a moment. "It's…not far from here. Kugelmugel likes to see it, sometimes. We could go, if you like?"

They had gone there that very afternoon. Kugelmugel ran around the structure a few times, before apparently growing bored, and sitting down to poke around in the dirt.

Prussia had put his hands in his pockets, and looked up at the large metal ball, fenced off by barbed wire. Prussia was possessed by a strong urge to tug the wire away. It offended him greatly. He tried to ignore the urge.

"So," he'd said, "this is Kugelmugel."

At his side, Austria had stiffened. "No," he said, sharply, "this isn't Kugelmugel. This metal thing. Kugelmugel paints and draws and likes art and eggs for breakfast and your brother's dogs and misses you while you're not here. Kugelmugel is right there." He gestured at the boy a few feet away from them.

Prussia said nothing, but his chest felt tight. He could tell Austria disliked the artificial construction. And he wasn't about to start suggesting that the structure was the original thing, the child merely a human-looking representation. But he liked it as an art piece. The anarchy of it was ill-judged, he thought, but kind of funny.

Apparently Lipburger lived inside it, or had done. A circular home. A spherical home. It appealed to Prussia, somehow. He liked the idea of self-containedness, he thought. He liked the idea that it had no sides, no edges, yet contained everything one needed to live: a kettle, chairs, a bed, food. It was everything separately, yet still one entity. Kind of like a family, he'd thought, or a group of friends. Him and his brother. Him and France and Spain. Austria and Kugelmugel.

He thought of the picture the boy had drawn. He added himself to the sphere. It made him smile.

"What are you smiling about?" Austria had asked him, a little sharply.

"Us," said Prussia, and Austria said nothing, but stared up at him, eyes wide.

They'd stood there for a while, in Prater Park, looking up at Lipburger's creation. And after a while Austria slipped his hand into Prussia's pocket, and tangled their fingers together. And after a little while longer he rested his temple against Prussia's shoulder.

Kugelmugel had continued to entertain himself quite happily.

"He's a good kid," Prussia had said.

"He is," Austria agreed.

On the way home they both held Kugelmugel's hands, and swung him up into the air while he shrieked and giggled, and insisted, "Higher, higher!"

On Sunday night when it was time to leave, he hugged Kugelmugel, then Austria.

"I wish you didn't have to go," Kugelmugel had said sadly.

Austria's hands clenched in the fabric of Prussia's coat.

"You mean so much to me," Prussia had whispered, and Austria had shuddered. "You know that, don't you?"

They hadn't talked at all about the kisses they'd shared, or the fact that Prussia had slept in Austria's bed the previous night.

It didn't matter. The gentle, still hesitant caresses and half-formed compliments mattered far more than any strict definition ever could.

ix.

The very last time Prussia crossed The Wall, he cried. Not for himself – he was a nation, time for him was irrelevant – but for his people, and their passion, and their newfound freedom.

Austria and Germany and Kugelmugel were there, waiting for him on the other side.

Germany had held him tightly, and said nothing, but Prussia had felt his trembling relief.

Kugelmugel had whooped and jumped into his arms, simply excited to see him, unable to fully understand that The Wall between them was gone forever, that now he could see Prussia as often as he pleased.

And Austria, without hesitation, had pulled him into his arms, and cried, and kissed him hard on the lips, shamelessly.

"Are you going to get married, now?" Kugelmugel had asked mildly.

"No!" Austria had choked, vehemently, and Prussia had kissed his lips and his cheeks and his eyes and his hair and the tip of his nose. And he had laughed and scooped Kugelmugel up in one arm, and grabbed his brother's elbow in the other, and they'd all laughed and sobbed and held one another tight, and Prussia had suddenly thought, this is my family.

And he wondered why he had never realised before.

Perhaps, he thought, now, looking back, he had cried for himself when he crossed The Wall that final time. Just a little.

x.

Now, they live together, the three of them, Prussia, Austria, and Kugelmugel. Germany visits them regularly, often bringing Italy along too, much to Prussia's amusement. Italy adores Kugelmugel, who loves him fiercely in return. They spend a lot of time painting and talking about art together.

Italy often refers to Prussia and Austria as Kugelmugel's daddies, but although they do recognize that their roles are in many ways parental, they do not call themselves Dad or Papa like Sweden and Finland do with Sealand. They are still Prussia and Austria. And this suits them just fine. Their family was not purposefully sculpted, like Sweden and Finland's. They found their family. Stumbled upon it, yet failed to realise what it was for a while. It doesn't matter, though, because Kugelmugel is happy and loved, his future secure, and as a trio they are content.

Prussia and Austria are not married, nor do they plan to be.

You should, Kugelmugel tells them sometimes, Sweden and Finland are married, and I've never been to a wedding!

Eat your breakfast, Austria tells him, and no more talk of weddings. Awful, tiresome things.

Prussia would be lying if he said he didn't think about sliding a ring onto Austria's perfectly manicured finger sometimes, though. Or standing in a church, holding hands, surrounded by friends. It is not something he desperately craves right now, though. But he knows that Austria is the only person he would do it for.

Marry this guy? Prussia says to Kugelmugel, and pulls a face. You must be crazy! Have you seen him? As if I'd ever marry such a boring prissy aristocrat!

And Austria scoffs, and says, well, you're hardly a great catch, are you? Rude, loud, foul-mouthed, and the snoring, oh, Kugelmugel! He sounds like a pig!

And Kugelmugel collapses in fits of giggles on the kitchen table.

Sometimes they go and get coffee and cake and a hot chocolate for Kugelmugel at the café where Austria first spotted him, and sometimes Prussia cooks eggs for them, and sometimes they listen to Bruce Springsteen, and Prussia feigns amazement when Austria sings along.

And Kugelmugel laughs and draws and paints and play-fights with Prussia and learns about history and geography and how to count and add and multiply and spell and accompanies Austria on the piano.

And Prussia and Austria sleep in their bed together, and kiss, sometimes, and hold hands.

And they all mean so, so much to each other.

And when Prussia looks back on the history of his life the ordering of it doesn't matter. All he can think now is that he is so very, very lucky.

Their lives now are bubble baths and television and Christmas presents and baking and weekend lie-ins and birthday parties and stencils and felt-tip pens and Lego bricks strewn across the floor.

And as Prussia trips over the pot of coloured pencils Kugelmugel and Austria got out earlier and forgot to put away, sending a cacophony of colour spilling across the living room carpet and causing him to slip again and stub his toe, he thinks

I wouldn't ever have it any other way.