The phone is ringing incessantly and Germany is taking a shower.
He is sure that it's probably just Italy calling for help again, but he can't help worry that it may be someone more important, like Japan. He wants to answer it just to make sure (and perhaps because he was a little worried about Italy, even though he would never admit to it) but he has only just started scrubbing his hair and he knows he won't be able to rinse, dry, and reach the phone in time.
"Bruder!" he calls, pausing his hands that were busy massaging his scalp to listen for his brother's reply. Nothing. "Hey, bruder! I need you to answer the phone!"
Still nothing.
Germany opens his mouth to shout again but freezes mid-breath.
Oh.
His fingers begin to scrub again, this time harder and more rushed. He has to stop himself from pressing too roughly lest he walk away with a raw scalp and possibly a bad case of dandruff. Once he's finished he rinses and shuts the water off, taking a moment to watch the soapy residue disappear down the drain.
Germany yanks the shower curtain open and grabs his towel. Quickly wrapping it around his waist, he opens the bathroom door and speed-walks towards the kitchen. The phone is silent in its cradle but he picks it up and looks at the missed call.
Ah, it was just Italy. Again.
With a sigh he drops it back onto the cradle and strolls to his room to dress. He doesn't bother to put on proper clothes, just his usual training shirt and pants and a pair of socks. He isn't going anywhere today so there is no one that he has to worry about seeing. A day off was what everyone said he needed, even Japan had heartily agreed. And he couldn't lie – dozing off on the couch with the TV on and a beer in his hand sounded like heaven. He didn't even bother to argue, just walked away with a quiet "okay".
So here he is.
The remote is already on the arm of the couch when he goes to sit down. He knows it is Prussia's doing – that lazy dummkopf always dozes off with the TV on no matter the time of day. But the memory of his brother –feet propped up and head half-hanging off the side of the couch–makes him smile. Prussia may appear lazy but what most people didn't know (or perhaps forget) was that it was this very same man that taught Germany all he knew. About rules and schedules, folding his clothes and making his bed…
Germany chuckles quietly and shakes his head, also remembering the day his brother had taught him to fish. It had been the best day of his life. Just him and his older brother, a few fishing poles, worms, and a basket of snacks while they sat at the edge of the pond, waiting for something to bite.
The TV is loud when he turns it on, and he has to stop from shouting at Prussia to turn the TV down before you shut it off! Instead he just holds the volume button until the voices are lower and lolls his head back, blond hair falling from its usual place and into his eyes.
News. News. News. Aaand…
"A fire in Munich kills ten people–"
…more news.
It's not like he doesn't know what's going on – he is Germany, after all; he just doesn't need to be reminded of the tragedies that happen every day by some monotone man whose toupee is slipping off his head.
Germany turns the channel to a soccer game and settles back into the couch. Prussia loves soccer. They used to watch games together all the time, just the two of them with a beer in hand and the volume to its breaking point. Yes, good times.
Oh, speaking of beer…
Germany almost breaks the fridge as he rips the door open. Jars and glass containers rattle at the movement but he ignores them as he scans the contents for the familiar bottle… He realizes rather vaguely that there is an access of leftovers. Has Prussia not been eating? Or has he been going out instead–
Ah!
He reaches forward and pulls the bottle out, worries over the piles of containers in the fridge forgotten.
Last one! Aha! He finally beat Prussia to it!
Germany grins and admires himself for a moment. He may top his brother in most things, but there was one thing he could never beat his brother at: getting the last beer. Until now.
Oho. That stupid jerk would probably try and twist it on him again. He could hear it now: "You drank the last beer so that means you buy the new pack!" But Germany grins and turns to face the living room because he will not buy the beer. Nope. Now Prussia would have to run to the store and–
"Hey bruder!" he yells, not waiting to finish his triumphant thought. "Guess who got the last beer!"
No reply.
Germany frowns and lowers the hand he had raised above his head in victory.
"Bruder? Don't try and pin this on me agai–"
His words come to a halt.
Oh. Right.
Making his way back to the living room, Germany falls back onto the couch and opens his drink. He doesn't know what team he wants to win, he's just watching for something to do. Prussia used to makes bets with him over who would win. Most of the time Prussia would lose because, whether he liked it or not, Germany was better at judging situations. Although, Prussia was the better soccer player of the two…
He takes a swig of his beer, relishing in the delightful taste as it runs down his throat. How long had it been since he drank? Too long. Far too long. Not since Prussia–
He halts in his thoughts and turns his attention back to the game.
But he's not really watching anymore.
It's too late.
Prussia's large smile fills his head along with the albino's stupid laugh, the sound radiating from his deepest thoughts and echoing through his head. Germany slams his beer onto the coffee table, liquid sloshing all over the wood, as he tries to fight the image.
It hurts too much to think about.
He's been fighting it all day. Again. Every time he realizes his mistake of calling for his brother, he won't think too much about it. He knows if he does, this will happen.
He pushes his hands through his hair, nails wracking his scalp as he tries to recollect himself. Tries to push the memories away; tries to stop remembering why he's alone. His vision grows blurry.
Riiiing
Riiiing
Riiiing
The phone snaps him out of his brooding and Germany jumps from the couch to get it. He doesn't know who he expects it to be, just wants something – anything – to take his mind off the dull throb in his chest.
He picks up the receiver and presses it against his ear. He clears his throat.
"Hallo?"
"Germany! It's me, you're best friend Italy!" Germany swallows thickly, a lump in his throat that he hopes Italy won't hear. "How's your break?"
"I-it's fine," he replies, trying to sound casual. But there's a strain in his voice and he hopes Italy doesn't catch it. "I'm just relaxing… watching some football with a beer… you know, casual stuff."
"Oh, that's good!"
"Ja…"
"So you're enjoying yourself?"
"I suppose…"
Silence hangs in the air.
"Hey, are you okay?"
Germany isn't sure what it is about the question, but the moment Italy finishes it, the German is forced to shove another hand into his hair and bend his head down. The pain is rising in his chest again.
"Ja, I'm alright…" he lies, trying to mask his current state. "I'm just tired."
He can hear the rustle of Italy moving the receiver around, an obnoxious voice in the background swearing, and the sound of a door closing. Presumably he moved into another room because his brother is being loud.
His brother.
Germany digs his nails into his scalp.
"Please don't lie to me," Italy murmurs.
And he can't. He knows he can't. They both know it. There's something about the Italian that breaks his cold spirit and forces him to show what he's really feeling.
Just like he had been with Prussia.
Germany closes his eyes and inhales.
"Nein… nein I'm not okay," he says, and the rawness in his voice surprises even him.
Italy is silent for a moment. "It's been a long time, Germany."
"I know."
"…"
"It still hurts."
"I understand."
"Nein, you have your bruder. You don't know what it feels like."
The words come out harsher than he means them to, and he immediately regrets them.
"That may be, but I've lost people too," Italy replies calmly.
Germany's breathe catches in his throat. "I know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it sound like–"
"It's okay," Italy cuts him off.
Neither of them speak for a moment and the longer Germany stands there with the phone to his ear and his head bent, the more the blurriness takes over his vision. Soon he feels something hot and wet running down his face, and he has to pull his hand from his hair and wipe at his cheeks to realize he's crying.
"I have to go," he murmurs hoarsely. Without waiting for a reply, he hangs up. The last thing he wants Italy to hear is his sobs.
He leans against the kitchen counter on his elbows, hands pressing into his face. They're slick with tears now and his cheeks are burning from the salty water.
All that's flashing through his mind are the countless times his brother stood up for him; the times a bigger nation would try and pick a fight with him but Prussia would protect him. Guilt swells in his chest until he thinks he might explode.
"I'm sorry, bruder. I'm so sorry I didn't protect you like you always protected me."
They are words being tossed into empty air and he knows it. Prussia is not here to hear him; he never will be again. And it's all because he failed to protect him. It's all his fault that he's gone now.
"Oi West!"
Germany clamps his hands over his ears.
Stop.
"Hey West! Bruder!"
Please stop.
"Hey West, guess what?"
He squeezes his eyes shut.
No.
"Big bruder loves you!"
He shakes with bone-racking pain.
Please… stop…
"I love you, West!"
I'm so, so sorry.
I love you and I'm sorry.