Revolutionary War. February 23, 1778: Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben, a Prussian general, reports for duty on the side of America. He brings with, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, Gilbert Beilschmidt.
I lay down in my tent, laughing to myself as I remember General von Steuben's translator swearing at the troops, struggling to keep pace with the swears rapidly flying from the general's mouth. There's still the aftertaste of a grin on my chapped lips as I turn over in my cot. Outside, the fire's warm and inviting but, for my sleepy muscles, it's too much of a hassle.
Until I hear him.
He's sniffling. No, wait… He's crying. I look next to me, but he's not next to me like usual. Instead, it's some soldier that's scratching his stomach in his sleep and muttering about bullets. I shake his presence from my mind as I look for that one.
"Alf- I mean, America?" I call softly as I crawl from the tent. The blond teenager is sitting by the fire, curled up with his knees to his uniform-covered chest.
"H-here," he whimpers. I sit by him, punching him lightly in the arm and beaming in an effort to rouse that smile that would normally be on his face already.
"What's wrong? Did we run out of ale or something?" I ask. He just shakes his head and I feel my own mood take a sharp dive down.
"Gil- I mean, Prussia," he mumbles as he leans into me. I feel his soft hair spread across my shoulder. I put my hand among the soft blond strands.
"What is it?" I ask gently, swallowing the lump in my throat. The lump that forms every time he comes near me…
"I don't want to do this," he whimpers. He turns and his clear, tear filled blue eyes meet mine. His beautiful, crystal-like eyes…
"What?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
"This war… I miss England, Prussia," he whispers. My blood boils at the mention of that name. It's almost like jealousy, this bitterness that finds its way up my throat.
"W-why?" I sputter, trying to swallow my anger. America just shrugs, his softly-outlined shoulders rising and falling as he lets out a sigh.
"I just do, you know?" he asks. No, I don't! I don't know, because right now, you're the only one I'd miss, and you're so close…
So close, and yet the look in his eyes is so faraway I can feel him slipping from my side. I wrap my arms around him. He might think I'm comforting him, but in reality I'm clutching him to me. Keeping his body to mine.
"Sometimes, there're things you have to do," I say roughly, keeping my voice down with tremendous effort. "You need to be strong." You need to let him go. For me, America. For the one that's next to you now, not the one that was by your side then. I'm waiting for you to open your eyes and see that…
And then come to me.
"But I still miss him-"
"Don't say that!" I bark angrily. I feel him jolt in my arms and I compose myself. I clear my throat. "I-I mean, don't… Don't look back."
"But why?" he asks nervously. I pull away a half inch, feeling like I'm creating the distance of a mile between us.
"Because you're too deep in now to pull out," I growl.
"But if I just apologize… If I just go back to him…" I can see the tears threatening to burst from him as he thinks out loud. I sigh and cup his face in my palm, my other hand still around his waist.
"America, there are some things you just have to do. You can't be with him forever." You belong with me. I push the thoughts from my mind. I'm comforting him, not wooing him. I need to be selfless and get him through this.
"But why?" he asks, whining slightly.
"Because you're a soldier now, Alfred!" A slip of the tongue and his human name bursts from my body. He's shocked; I can see it on his face. You don't use human names unless the emotions tidal-wave over your limit. I'm past that point. I'm fuming and boiling under the surface, and I need to get through to him some way. Somehow, I need to make him stay by me. These selfish thoughts… And yet they feel so necessary.
"P-Prussia!" he gasps. I clench my jaw.
"Look at yourself! You're in a uniform! You carry a damn gun and you fucking march in the mud! Look at yourself in the mirror, you idiot!" I yell. He yelps in fear as I stand up.
"But-"
"No buts! You made a promise to your people and you're going to fucking carry it out right now!" I shout. "Now stand up!"
"What?" he asks, cowering away from the flames that are casting my shadow over him, long and dark and ominous on his slight figure. Some part of me feels guilty for scaring him, but most of me is just angry. Angry that he would want to give up for that… that thing. That undeserving bastard that hit him and abused him and robbed him… Why would America want to go back? Why didn't he want to stay with me?
"Stand the fuck up and face me like a man!" I order. He stands shakily and I grip his quivering shoulders.
"P-Prussia, you're scaring me," he says softly, the sobs just barely hidden by his voice. I sigh as I relax my stance.
"America, you made this decision to fight, and now you have to fight. You're a man now, rather you realize it or not," I whisper. I stroke his cheek and feel his shaking die down.
"Y-you're right," he says resolutely, and I smile as he grows firm in his stance. "You're right," he says, stronger this time. "I'm going to fight."
"Atta boy," I say, ruffling his hair. He smiles and comes closer, making my breath hitch as he wraps his arms around me.
"Thank you," he whispers. I swallow my nervously beating heart as I pull him closer still, pressing our bodies together and wrapping my arms around his waist, clutching him to me.
"Any time," I say, sailing the words under my breath as I bury my face in his hair and inhale his scent. He smells like with-held tears and exhaustion. His scent carries mud and gunpowder and long, hard treks over countless territories. His essence is that of blood and death and despair, of uncertainty and fear and anguish.
But most of all, he smells like beauty. I pull away and stare into his face, his still-forming smile half illuminated by flames. He is beauty. He is… everything.
"Prussia?" he asks, his voice soft and tentative as I cup his cheeks in my hand. He is my everything.
The next thing I know, my eyes are closed and his soft lips are trapped under my own. He doesn't resist. Doesn't freeze in fear or move away. He kisses me back, pressing gently into my kiss. His lips are soft and as I open my mouth ever so slightly, he tastes like the edges of a rose… So beautiful, it hurts. Then I feel his mouth open too, and I take the opportunity to move our mouths in sync, my hands still on his waist and his fingers toying with my hair.
Suddenly, I experience the loss of warmth and I open my eyes to find his head turned, face flushed.
"G-Gilbert…" he whisper, raising a hand to touch his quivering lips. He tries to pull out of my arms, and I let him go, my eyes feeling with tears as I watch him streak away, head lowered and his eyes never looking back. I sink to the ground.
What was I thinking?
September 3, 1783: America and Britain sign the Treaty of Paris, and no one but the forlorn man in the corner cringes as the two shake hands and share broken smiles. Broken, yes, but can't they be repaired? No one but the man in the corner sheds a tear for that fact. No one but the man in the corner has to turn to the wall to hide his sobs as he remembers one night… One kiss… One pain.
-Modern Day-
I stare at America from across the room, watching him smile and chat happily with that Britain bastard-
I stop myself. I should be happy. 228 years, I should have forgotten. I should have let it go. After that night, we had pretended that nothing had happened. We had acted like nothing was between us. Now it should be no different. Now, I should be happy that the relationship between those two countries is back and normal. No more world chaos, no more battles, no more death…
No more us. I cringe as that thought hits me. No more late nights training. No more marching side by side. No more sitting in the rain, waiting for the sun to shine again on his beautiful face. I watch his big, goofy smile as he laughs away his troubles and I try to smile too. Try to keep this mask that shields the whirlwinds of pain in me.
"Beer?" Germany asks. I smile broadly and take the flask from my brother.
"I LOVE BEER!" I announce loudly, raising the glass high in the air and chugging it down, waiting for the alcohol to drown away the thoughts of him.
"Slow down," Germany warns. I swallow and wipe the foam from the sides of my mouth, letting out a hearty laugh.
"NEVER!" I shout, Gilbird chirping in agreement from my hat as he nestles deeper.
"If you drown, don't come crying to me," Germany says as he rushes off to take care of a sobbing Italy. I sigh as he leaves and I head for the door, leaving the cup on the table.
The crisp winter air hits me as I open the door and head for my car. I dig in my pocket for the keys, feeling the shock of freezing metal against my fingers.
"Fuck, that's cold," I hiss.
"Don't use that language," a voice behind me taunts gently. I close my eyes painfully as I turn.
"America," I say, putting on that fake smile and willing my eyes to part. His perfect face hits me full force as he approaches.
"Prussia," he greets. He stops just inches from me, stuffing his hands in his pockets. There's an awkward silence between us before I let out a small sigh.
"Well, I need to leave," I say hurriedly, turning quickly. My footsteps shatter on the ground as I try to escape my own urges that rise up when I'm near him.
"I still haven't forgotten, you know," he calls after me. I freeze.
"Forgotten what?" I ask nonchalantly, but my tone sounds fake. Hell, it is fake, because that memory is burned deeper into my mind that anyone else's. Even his.
"That night," he whispers. I hear him approach again and I turn to meet him. He stops again, his slightly shorter stature a formidable force as he stares at me intensely. Yet there's no anger in that intensity. There's only a strange mix between want and need.
"America, you were young and I was an idiot," I say gruffly, afraid to dwell on that topic. I might break down in front of him if I keep thinking about it, and I can't do that. I try to turn but he stops me.
"Gilbert," he says firmly. That catches my attention. I turn back to him.
"Ameri-MMF!" My protests are muffled as he kisses me with a force that is almost unmatchable. It's only defeated by my own as centuries and decades of pain pour from my lips to his. We don't waste time with trivial tongue sweeps or gentle nips or teasing. My tongue dives into his mouth without hesitation, conquering it with little resistance. Every last trace of his taste is swept up by my hungry mouth as I let all of my emotions demolish caution or care. All I know is him.
Then he's gone.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. He raises his hand to his lips again, like that time, and it infuriates me.
"Why? Why can't you just own up to it? Do you hate me or love me? Do you love me, Alfred?" I ask angrily, shaking his shoulders. He shakes his head, tears flying from his eyes..
"Stop, Gilbert! Please, just… I'm sorry," he murmurs. I turn his face harshly to mine.
"Why won't you say it? You hate me? You love me? Why are you toying with me? Is this fun to see me like this?" I ask as hot tears slide down my cheeks. His eyes widen.
"No! No, Gilbert, please don't say that! Please, I…" He bites his lip. "I don't know… Ever since that night, I never knew…" His voice trails off as I close my eyes.
"Right," I huff out. "So while you kiss me and play with me like some toy, I'm stuck here loving you." I watch his eyes widen even more as I kiss him roughly, pressing our mouths together for a harsh instant before turning away furiously. I don't wait for his response. I just turn and run to my car and open the door, driving away and leaving my love for him on the road…
And yet some of it clings to my heart, and I know that it'll always remain.