It took several years for Prussia to realize something wasn't right: at first there was the sheer overwhelming joy of being free, being able to do as he chose without being tailed by KGB or Stasi (usually, both), being able to be with his brother again after forty years of seeing the other only at rare international events and then with Russia holding his leash.
By the time that wore off and he'd started to regain his health as West German funds poured into the East, he was overwhelmed by how different everything was, how much the damned Communists had kept from people and lied to them. Eighteen months after his people – what was left of them, poor bastards – had voted to join West and be part of the thriving Federal Republic of Germany, he was still dazzled by the sheer variety of choices, and that was just in the grocery stores.
So it was understandable he hadn't noticed, he told himself. It didn't stop him thinking he should have seen this earlier, because once he had seen it, he couldn't help but see it everywhere.
Something had happened to West. His ever-so-idealistic little brother who had been little more than a child when they'd been forced apart (yes, a child who looked like a musclebound tank, but a child nonetheless) hadn't just grown up, he'd grown wary and fearful. Skittish.
Always the stoic, West hid his problems well – there were no obvious signs of something wrong. It was the little things. The love of order built to a near-obsessive level. The way he flinched – someone who didn't know him might not notice, but Prussia had raised West – when Prussia leaned over to casually embrace his little brother. The way he steeled himself for any touch. Any contact.
All of it hidden beneath the stern, stoic demeanor of a proper German, but noticeable to Prussia who'd taken the shattered Holy Roman Empire and kept his brother alive through little more than sheer force of will until the first glimmerings of the Confederation of the Rhine had given the kid enough strength to keep going on his own. He didn't remember any of that, and Prussia wasn't about to force him. Better he grow up whole, without all the baggage of his past as Holy Rome.
And that was what made the whole thing really obvious – West avoided Italy Veneziano.
Prussia was no stranger to the darker side of nations – he'd been surprised that after the traditional claiming of a new client state (to Prussia's mind that didn't count as either sex or rape: it was just doing business) there'd been no attempts to make him Russia's bitch. Life behind the Iron Curtain hadn't been pleasant and Russia had beaten him senseless a few times – usually with justification, since Prussia hadn't exactly been a compliant subject – and tossed him out into a blizzard more than once, but he hadn't done anything more than that.
It took years for Prussia to realize that what the bigger nation wanted was friends, not subjects. He still had trouble understanding how Russia could have no idea how to treat friends, but then, Russia did have a history of spectacularly vile bosses. That would warp a man if there weren't any good ones to balance things out a bit. The centuries as the Horde's plaything couldn't have helped, either.
Which didn't help him one bit with the West problem. Getting West to talk was probably going to be the most difficult part of the whole deal.
His first real breakthrough happened a few weeks after he'd realized something was wrong. West was off on one of those endless useless World Council meetings with Prussia staying back home – partly to keep a low profile since he wasn't entirely sure what he was now, and despite the Reunification having been duly recognized by the rest of the world there were plenty of nations who'd love to help Prussia into his grave.
It was part of why he'd taken the blame for the second world fuckup – that and to take the heat off his brother who truly hadn't known what was going on. He'd believed that arse of a boss, and with Prussia taking the suffering of their people for him, well... The Austrian prick wouldn't have hesitated to ship West off to Auschwitz, and that would have happened if his brother had known about the camps and the Final Solution. Poor naïve West would have stormed into the fucker's office and demanded the killings stop – and been shot, then dragged off to Hell.
Prussia had covered all West's work while he was gone – the paperwork wasn't that different in a modern democratic nation, and the two of them were allowed to give their opinion and even refuse to sign – and, having seen how reluctant the kid was to go, had prepared West's favorites for dinner so he'd get something worthwhile out of the week. From the kitchen he couldn't see the drive, but he heard West's car pull in, and took himself to the door to collect the suitcase.
His brother slammed the door open and stormed inside, a mix of fury and humiliation twisting his face. Germany didn't even speak to the dogs when they ran to greet their master.
Rather than make the raw wound even worse, Prussia collected Germany's suitcase from the car and took it to the laundry. The smell of old, stale semen and worse assaulted him when he opened it.
Prussia blinked. Germany was – no, had been virgin when they'd been separated. And the way he flinched from being touched... Oh, someone was going to pay for this.
#
When, a few days later, France arrived to "discuss" the Community thing the Western European nations had going, Prussia was prepared to drag the other nation to his part of the house for an old-school interrogation if Germany showed any signs of discomfort. Instead – much to Prussia's shock – France, who was usually so fucking handsy he had to be pried off with a knife (which Prussia had done, more than once) very carefully did not touch the younger nation, and made sure he made enough noise to warn Germany of his approach.
Even though he wanted to march over to them and demand answers, Prussia waited. This was a bit like hunting spooked or nervous prey: a direct approach wouldn't help and could make things worse. Or setting up an ambush and patiently teasing the enemy towards it with just the right signals of disorganization and confusion.
After he and France had eaten and Germany was mashing his potatoes into pale goo, Prussia asked casually, "So is Eyebrows in this community of yours?"
Both men twitched, and Germany winced ever so slightly.
France recovered first. "It is complicated," he said with a wave of his hand. "He is not in the core group, but he is a member. Belgium, Netherlands, Luxembourg, your brother and I are the core members."
"I don't get how that works," Prussia said with a shrug. "But it's not my party."
France chuckled. "Ah, my friend, it is... how do you say it? Like herding cats to bring a lasting peace to the nations of Europe."
With Germany there and doing his best to look his normal stoic self – which wasn't working the way his potatoes had merged with the gravy to form a kind of gluey substance – Prussia couldn't glare too openly without alerting his "prey". His eyes narrowed a little. "What I've read sounds more like a suicide pact than a peace plan." He spread his hands. "I must have missed the actual peace plan side of things."
France stroked the scruff he liked to call a beard. "Ah, we can discuss that later, no?" As always, he spoke in French, though at least he didn't pretend not to understand the German of his hosts.
"Tch, as though you want to know my opinion of anything." Prussia nodded to his brother. "West, if you're not going to eat that let me throw it out."
Germany was so lost in whatever he'd locked into his head he started at the comment, then flushed. "Sorry. I'm just not hungry."
After waving that off, Prussia collected the plate and took himself to the kitchen to wash the dishes, taking care to make enough noise that he wouldn't seem to be listening.
"Have you said anything?" France asked.
Prussia could imagine his brother shaking his head. "He can't do anything about this, France. You know it's my fault."
That set Prussia's teeth on edge. His hands were clenched tight when he plunged them into hot soapy water, and he had to force them to open. He wouldn't get anything clean with his fists.
"My dear Germany, it is not your fault." There was an edge to France's voice Prussia hadn't heard since Napoleon had fallen. "We have no choice in whom we serve: you know that."
"I still should have -"
"No." For once France didn't speak his own tongue. For him to speak German was the kind of compliment Prussia doubted Germany appreciated – in all their centuries of friendship France had never once spoken German to him. "England and America are wrong. They continue hurting you when you have done nothing to deserve such pain."
A long silence. Prussia systematically washed plates and stacked them on the rack to dry, waiting.
Finally, so softly Prussia almost missed it. "I deserve it." The guilt and self-loathing in those three words pushed the older nation to the edge of his self-control. He had never, in the whole time he had nursed and raised his brother, never done or said anything to even hint that Germany was in any way unworthy.
No, he was proud of the younger nation, damn proud. West had grown so fast, become so strong, and only the outright misfortune of two shitty bosses starting idiot wars had brought him down. Unlike Prussia with his dark and bloody past, West had been the bright young hope for the future of the Germanic peoples.
Half-formed plans spun through his head. France would tell him what had been going on: whether France wanted to or not. He knew how to manipulate the other, something Prussia doubted France even suspected. Once he had the details, then he would make damn fucking sure nobody would ever dare hurt his little brother again.
Then he would help heal West's broken soul.
#
A phone call to Russia proved almost as frustrating as it was useful – while Russia's spy network remained as effective as ever, the big nation couldn't grasp why Prussia wanted to know: surely it was good that Germany had friends?
Poor bastard had been abused so much he had no idea what friendship meant, but he was willing to acquire the security video from the meeting for Prussia, so Prussia promised to visit next summer. No force on Earth was strong enough to make him enter Russia in winter again.
When the tapes arrived not two weeks later, Prussia retreated to his den while West worked, watching and taking careful notes of how West responded to the other nations. At least until fury wouldn't allow him to sit still any longer – then he put himself through a series of brutal training routines until he was sure he wouldn't do anything stupid.
He had no power now, nothing except whatever was keeping him from fading (Prussia had his suspicions, but he didn't want to even think them too loudly). Marching into England's house and confronting him would be nothing short of suicide, and America was a fucking superpower. He'd need to use every last bit of strategic ability he'd learned in centuries of warfare.
"You know that's not going to fix whatever has you upset this time, brother." Germany's voice held just a hint of amusement: he must have been watching Prussia exhaust himself.
Prussia finished his cool-down stretches, weary enough now that he wouldn't do anything he shouldn't.
"No, but it will let me plan properly." His worst losses had always been when he'd let his emotions rule his actions – he'd learned long ago that he needed to work his body to exhaustion when he started getting angry or he'd do something ridiculously foolish. What he did in fits of overconfidence was even more foolish, but there was little chance of that right now.
The corners of Germany's mouth twitched. "Care to tell me who you plan to destroy?"
Well, it was an opening and as good a one as any other, Prussia thought. "How about I shower and we get beer, then I'll tell you."
Fifteen minutes and a quick shower later, Prussia sprawled on the sofa, a bottle of dark lager in his hand. Germany sat straight, nursing his pils with both hands, as though he expected the bottle to bite. "Well?"
Prussia smiled, not caring how vicious he appeared. "England and America," he said in a calm voice.
His brother paled, hands tightening around the bottle. "You... They'll kill you! Permanently, I mean. You..."
"Tch." Prussia waved his free hand. "You know me better than that, little brother. I'm not about to do anything silly." Not without good reason, anyway. Making himself look like an idiot so the other nations wouldn't think to look for trouble from him, that was a different matter.
Germany closed his eyes and looked away. "I don't want you to get involved in my business." He didn't get that as emotionless as he'd probably intended.
"What do your people think about the English?" Prussia asked, knowing the answer already.
The automatic snarl as Germany reflected his people's opinion was answer enough. The soft, "Arrogant, overbearing arses who think they have the right to dictate to our nation." only confirmed Prussia's knowledge.
"And Americans?"
Now the reflected emotion was more exasperation. "Clueless fools who think because it works in their place it must work that way here."
Prussia had already felt some of that, mixed in with his people's dazed bewilderment as they came to realize that everything they'd known had been based on lies. "West," he said gently, "When what's happening to you affects your people, it's not just your business."
Germany's eyes opened wide and he stared at Prussia, stricken.
Prussia set his bottle on the coffee table and opened his arms, silently offering comfort.
West's hands shook when he set his own beer down, and he stumbled over to Prussia, almost collapsing on him. "You don't think I'm weak?" he mumbled.
"Never" Prussia stroked his brother's hair, the hair that had once been so baby-soft but was now forced into its severe style with a fuck-ton of product. "You've done so well, little brother, so very well."
West shuddered, his body slowly relaxing. "Didn't want to... disappoint you... knew you had no choice over there... I had it so much better... so why couldn't I..."
"Shh." Prussia kept stroking his hair. "There's different kinds of hell, kiddo. You got one kind, I got a different one. And you've held up so strongly, with nobody to support you. I'm proud of you, you know that?"
"Shouldn't be," West muttered. "It's my fault you got dissolved."
"Ach, that was inevitable anyway." In truth, Prussia cared a lot more about that than he let himself show, but it wasn't West's fault or his doing. Not really. "I was starting to fade before that idiot Austrian shoved the knife in." Still stroking his brother's hair. "None of it's your fault, West. Bosses are bosses."
"I never tried..."
"You'd have landed in fucking Auschwitz with me if you had." Prussia kept his voice low despite what he was saying. "Why else did you think I took the suffering for you, hm?"
West shuddered again, and finally, broke.
Prussia held his brother as he'd done when West was little, rocking him – not easy now he was a great hunk of muscle who outweighed Prussia by quite a bit – and murmuring soothing inconsequentialities. That West had felt he had nobody to support him – and really, France had done as much as he could with his people still nervous as hell about a united Germany – and had carried this load so long without showing it was little short of amazing.
Finally, when West had mostly cried himself out and started to relax, Prussia said in a gentle voice, "Now, why don't you tell your big brother all about it, and then we'll decide how to fix this, yes?"
#
It took a while for West to tell him everything, not that Prussia was all that surprised. It had – of course – started when the kid had been claimed by England and America to stabilize their occupation zones. France had apparently taken one look at the mess Germany had become and declined to exercise his occupation rights.
Which, reading between Germany's confused narrative, had left the poor kid in even worse shape, convinced he was so vile that even the notoriously amorous France wouldn't touch him.
That was a mess Prussia wasn't going to be able to clean up. France would have to explain once Germany was in a fit state to hear the explanation.
America had at least had the courtesy to ask each time he renewed occupation rights, and he was gentle about it, doing his best to make sure Germany wasn't hurt and – if Prussia interpreted West's awkward words right – seemed to think of Germany more as a partner and ally than a client state, even as early as the fifties.
Hell, West was making excuses for America. He didn't know West couldn't say no, not with American troops still on his soil, blah blah. Even if England hadn't raised the brat right, Prussia had trained America better than that.
The same could not be said for England, who appeared to have taken all his frustrations and anger with Prussia out on West, and that was not going to continue.
When West finally sputtered to silence over the way England had ordered him to his hotel room and proceeded to torture him physically, emotionally, and sexually - Jesus fuck, did the perverted arse not realize that a man's porn tastes weren't necessarily what he wanted to do with a partner? - after the last world meeting, Prussia didn't say anything for a while.
West was too fragile right now, too easily spooked.
"They do realize you haven't been occupied territory in years, right?" he asked lightly, stroking Germany's hair while he spoke.
"I..." He sighed. "I think America thinks I'm his... you know." He blushed, the kind of bright scarlet that would creep up the back of his neck and down his face.
"The man has more brains than that," Prussia said. "If he's not using them, I'll kick his arse the way I did when I was teaching him to fight."
His brother wriggled around to face him, looking alarmed. "But... I mean, he tries to be a good person... you know?"
It was a sign of how wrung out West was that Prussia could push him to lie back down with his head in Prussia's lap. Of course those long, muscular legs hung over the edge of the sofa these days, but it still reminded Prussia of the days when he'd been the power and he'd protected his little West with every scrap of strength and cunning he possessed.
If it hadn't been for such a reason, Prussia would be glad to feel needed again.
"I'll find out what he thinks, and if he's just been stupid, I'll go easy on him," Prussia promised. He didn't think it necessary to mention that his version of 'going easy' wouldn't look like mercy to anyone else.
When Germany didn't object, and his eyes drifted closed, Prussia smiled. Poor West, always getting the wrong end of the stick. Well, he'd get this mess sorted out and then... whatever happened would happen.
#
Rather than fuck around with international travel – it had been so much easier when you could just march where you needed to go with a good-sized army at your back – Prussia used the short cuts to take himself to America. It was faster than flying what with the way the short cuts bent time and space, and he could take his sword without having to worry about packing it properly or dealing with panicked airline staff.
Before he left he made sure to put himself through another grueling workout, this time focusing on pushing past the fierce need to hurt the fuckers who'd taken West's innocence to the cold, calm place on the other side of rage where everything became clear and focused and as long as he stayed in that place nothing could defeat him.
He stepped out of the shortcut so close to America the other nation spun to face him with a startled yelp. "Prussia!"
Prussia smiled, the fierce grin that had once struck terror into his enemies, his sword ready.
America took a step back, blue eyes opening wide. "The fuck, dude!" He spread his hands, continued to retreat. "You know I argued against the whole dissolution, go stay with Russia thing."
"And my brother?" Prussia asked in the soft, deadly tone he could only ever master when he had the cold focus just right.
America backed up against a wall, staring at Prussia's sword – which was as sharp as it had been when he'd used it on the battlefield – "Dude, if this is the big bro speech, you don't have to be so - ack!"
Prussia stopped his lunge less than a centimeter shy of America's throat. "You have military bases on his land, America. You know what that means."
The young superpower blinked. "But... I asked. After the first time when England said I didn't have to, I always asked."
Prussia pressed the sword a little closer, nestling the tip of the blade in the hollow of the younger nation's throat. "Did it never occur to you that he couldn't refuse?" Everything depended on America's reaction.
America paled. His hands clenched into his jeans and his mouth fell open. Then he straightened and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry." It was barely a whisper. "I never realized... never thought." Despite the risk, he swallowed. "Do what you think I deserve."
Good. The kid had only needed to be smacked in the face with the truth. He'd suspected as much from what West had said, but hadn't really dared believe it would happen until now.
Prussia withdrew, then sheathed his sword. "Your soul will do that better than I can," he said in a more normal tone. "I do recommend you wait until he offers before you spend any time alone with him, though." It wasn't a request.
America winced and rubbed his neck. "I... yeah." Someone as tall and strong as that – not to mention as loud and clueless as America usually was – should not be able to do the puppy eyes thing that well. "Will you tell him I'm sorry? Please?"
West was sure to be way too forgiving about the whole mess, but it was obvious from the way America slumped against the wall and the guilt practically radiating off him that he really had thought he'd gone from occupying power to friend with benefits. God give him patience to deal with clueless kids! Honestly, had America never stopped to think about what he was doing?
He probably hadn't, Prussia decided after a moment. The kid's people were like that, all full of the latest wonderful thing until you pissed them off and then there was hell to pay. There was a kind of naivete about them that he'd only ever seen in Americans, this stupid notion that everyone could be as blessed as them if they'd just try a bit harder and be nicer to each other.
He knew too well that only worked if everyone involved was fundamentally civilized, and he'd seen for himself that it took less than a generation to strip every last bit of civilized from a people. "I'll tell him," Prussia promised.
America looked like he was trying to melt into the wall, or possibly just disappear through the floor. "Thanks." After a long, awkward silence during which Prussia considered simply stepping back into the short cuts and leaving, the kid said, "You know, I tried not to hurt him... I like the guy, I really do, and he's worked so hard to put all that Nazi stuff behind him. It didn't seem right he was just left to try to figure it all out for himself while the rest of us worked together."
That wasn't precisely how Prussia would describe what had happened with Russia's client states, but he'd grown reasonably adept at translating America's way of looking at things to something more sane when he'd been training the kid back during his Revolution. The rest of the world had been supported by other nations in various ways – and America had stepped in to offer ridiculous amounts of financial and other support to get both Germany and Japan on their feet again.
Well, ridiculous by anyone else's standards. America didn't seem to mind, and wasn't asking for any of it back,either, nor the even greater amounts he'd given England and France. He didn't even seem to care that Germany was more stable economically than his own nation these days.
"I didn't realize I was hurting him," America finished. "I really didn't."
Prussia's eyes narrowed a bit. "Whether you meant it or not, you did hurt him." Although, knowing West, he'd forgive America way too easily. "Now you get to live with the consequences."
To his credit, America didn't try to argue. He just looked miserable and nodded. "Yeah." A long pause. "How bad is he? I mean, I know I fucked up, but I want him to be all right."
Which was probably the single most frustrating thing about America: he damn near always meant well. Then went about doing it in the most maddening or outright destructive way possible. The kid was a hyper-intelligent moron with no sense of consequence.
Prussia shrugged. "He hides it pretty well."
America winced. "Look, is there anything I can do? It doesn't have to be, you know, obviously from me or anything."
"Right now, no." Prussia didn't waste words. "Maybe in time, ten, twenty years on when the memories aren't so fresh. But not now." He would have left it there but this was America the clueless so he added, "And no gifts or money. That would just look like you're trying to buy him back."
The way America's faintly hopeful expression fell said clearly that Prussia had needed to say it.
"All right." America took a deep breath. "Thank you for telling me, Prussia. And for not killing me a few times over."
Not that he didn't want to, but Prussia had promised West he'd go easy, and he could tell the kid's conscience was going to torture him for a good while. It would have to do.
#
It was a good thing nations didn't have to pay for international calls to other nations, Prussia thought several times before the next World Council meeting. He'd owe West a ridiculous amount if that was the case: between calls to Switzerland to make sure what he planned would work – and managing to earn that dour nation's respect in the process, not that Prussia had intended any such thing – and calls to Scotland and Wales to dig for information on ways to make England pay that wouldn't make the rest of the British Isles suffer.
It would be no challenge to screw with England's economy, but doing that would drag his brothers down with him, and when Prussia found out England had been pulling the same shit with them for hundreds of fucking years, well...
Then there were the calls to France and Spain and practically everyone else in the world England had conquered at some time or other. That phone bill was going to need explaining to West's boss, but Prussia hoped the Chancellor would be all right with assurances that the whole thing was for his nation's well-being.
Letting any human, even a boss, into the dirtiest of nation dirty secrets wasn't something Prussia wanted to do if he could avoid it.
He'd been half afraid West would get stubborn about Prussia going to the meeting, and had to wrestle down yet another surge of blind, unreasoning fury when his brother had been almost pathetically grateful.
Now, with Zurich doing the winter wonderland look and breaking out the Christmas decorations, Prussia hoped he could win this damn thing. He had no doubt he could provoke the duel he wanted, and he knew he'd get backing to fight – not that he'd told West that: the kid would worry too much. All he had to do was stay calm and he'd win.
Yeah, and that was one hell of an 'all'. More and more lately he'd been reverting to his old Teutonic Knight ways, the discipline and control of the Order helping him to focus his – admittedly vicious – temper into something that wouldn't bite him. Thinking about what England had done to his brother was more than enough to blast that control to dust, and Prussia knew too well if he let that happen, he'd lose.
England might pretend to be the urbane gentleman these days, but the pirate who'd broken Spain and slaughtered his way across the known world and well into the new one still lay not far beneath that tea-loving surface. Prussia had no doubt he'd be fighting the pirate, not the gentleman. A gentleman wouldn't claim occupation rights for years after he'd ceased to be an occupying power.
Switzerland met them as they entered the conference center, just as if this was a normal meeting and he didn't know Prussia was going to shatter West's planned agenda. Not that the agenda ever happened, but Germany tried to keep order and make some kind of progress.
The center was one of those horrible modern things, all hard angles and movable walls that didn't really block sound and fixtures that looked to Prussia as though someone had gone out of their way to make them as ugly as possible. The exposed ductwork painted garish colors didn't help – although he could guarantee that there'd be more than enough space for a duel in here without risking the humans seeing it and asking awkward questions. Or calling the local constabulary over what would look to them like a case of public indecency and intoxication.
They were early enough only the human staff were present, cleaners finishing their shifts, a few restaurant employees opening up and starting on the items that would take several hours, maintenance crews hauling chairs and tables into place, and delivery people with the perishables that would be used during the day. Prussia had organized enough of these as the German Democratic Republic (the only word in that name that was remotely accurate was 'German') to know how it worked, although the Swiss were a good deal less sullen about it than his people had been.
Then, the Swiss weren't doing this for hated oppressors.
"I have cleared one of the exhibition rooms for the event," Switzerland said, "Do you know when it will be?"
Prussia shrugged. "Sometime today, as soon as I get an opportunity." He grinned. "Most likely before the lunch break." He turned to Germany, who'd gone tense and worried. "Sorry, West, but your agenda's going to hell this meeting."
His brother calmed himself with an effort Prussia could clearly see. "If it ends this... problem, I can live with it."
Switzerland actually looked startled: clearly he hadn't believed how bad West was. Well, West was damn good at hiding it.
"Oh, it will end it," Prussia promised. He hadn't kept his temper this closely leashed to let go now. "Let's get to the meeting room, shall we?"
#
Prussia sat quietly by his brother's side while nations entered the meeting room, apparently focused on the thick sheaf of notes that contained the agenda and enough reference material to choke a modest-sized animal. That was one thing about the Communists he found himself missing: when it came to doing something the Party wanted there was no fucking around with reams of useless paperwork. They'd bury everyone else in it, but they at least weren't bound by the petty bureaucratic nonsense Western nations had apparently turned into a competitive sport.
He wasn't reading it: just using it to avoid having to talk to anyone because he really didn't need to explain that yes, he was there because West wanted him to be there, and no, he wasn't planning on annexing anyone to make himself a nation again.
Judging by the not-so-soft comments, about half the nations suspected the latter. The rest either didn't care or were surprised he'd dared to show his face. Nothing he hadn't expected: after he'd taken the blame for the second world fuckup, it was hardly surprising people would think he was the evil asshole he'd pretended to be to get the heat off West.
Idiots, the lot of them. Even now West was barely past his first century, ridiculously young for a nation. You expected young nations to fuck up, sometimes spectacularly. You didn't go after their blood when it happened.
Of course he'd lied through his teeth and claimed to be everything evil that had befallen his brother. Better his reputation be dragged through shit than Germany suffer even more. He'd promised vengeance then, and he'd delivered. Russia had lost his Soviet Union and his sisters – not that Prussia expected that to last long, but it hurt the bigger nation nonetheless, and it was Prussia's work that brought the whole revolt to its successful conclusion, and Prussia's careful winnowing of potential Soviet leaders that made sure the fuckers weren't competent enough to keep their power. Evil and incompetent could be used.
The rest of them would pay in time, but none more than England. He would have taken a longer, more circuitous path to revenge had England not used West in his sordid games but this ought to be entertaining enough.
Laughter, and groans, as France flirted and offered to "stimulate" someone's "economy". To hear Germany tell it he made the offer at least once every meeting and usually got his face slapped. Prussia doubted that form of economic stimulus worked very well: France's economy was hollow and teetering on the edge of collapse. He might hold things together for a while, especially if this common currency nonsense went through, but ultimately there was going to be a reckoning.
The modern theories of economic growth made no sense to Prussia. It seemed to him if there wasn't something solid backing all the fluff and air, there would be a crash and potentially a disaster. There was no way the world could keep going with every fucking nation in debt to damn near every other fucking nation – and the way Australia and a few others were carefully and slowly digging themselves out from their foreign debt suggested he wasn't the only one to think that way.
When you worked through all the abstractions, money represented just two things – material and work. Work transformed material and – usually – made it more valuable, and the ultimate value was governed by the rarity of the material, the skill of the work, and – most important of all – someone's willingness to pay. Which was why there was no market for gold-plated turds.
He felt rather than saw West tense, and kept his head down as he listened closely, picking out the soft sound of England's loafers on the tile floor, then the man himself came into Prussia's peripheral vision. He wore a gray suit, and walked like he owned the world.
As England approached, West shrank into himself, though Prussia doubted anyone else could tell. It was a subtle thing, a sense that Germany was withdrawing behind his walls of stoic indifference.
Give me an opening. It was half prayer. Just one chance...
As always, England used his own language. "What's this? I thought I made it clear I wouldn't have that Nazi has-been spreading his filth at our gatherings."
Prussia was on his feet before West could say something conciliatory. "The Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem rejects the foul calumnies of the Kingdom of England, representative of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and demands satisfaction." His voice rang out over the general noise.
The sudden hush of over a hundred nations holding their breath was one of the best things Prussia had ever heard.
England's eyes narrowed to slits of green, his oversized eyebrows drawing together in a fierce glare. He drew in a hissing breath, but before he could speak, Switzerland's voice broke the near-silence.
"Is this a formal challenge?" Prussia couldn't tell if there was any emotion under that question, and didn't much care.
"It is," he said, making damn sure his voice projected to every corner of the meeting room. One of the side benefits of centuries shouting orders on battlefields. "I, the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem do hereby challenge the Kingdom of England, representative of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland to support his lies in single combat."
To judge by the chorus of indrawn breaths, more than a few of the gathered nations were shocked by the declaration.
"Wha-" England was definitely one of them. "This is ridiculous! That prick isn't even a nation!"
Switzerland's didn't even blink. "German Order, do you challenge for land?"
"I do not." Prussia had made damn sure he'd studied the rules for this kind of challenge beforehand. Only a recognized nation could duel for land, but any personified entity could duel for honor as long as one uninvolved nation recognized them as a legitimate personification. The question at hand was whether he would get that recognition as the Order or whether he'd have to lose the element of surprise before the duel in order to gain recognition.
Switzerland nodded. "Who recognizes the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem?"
West must have opened his mouth to speak, because Switzerland gave him a sympathetic smile and said softly, "Sorry, Germany. Since you're brothers you can't be the one to do this."
Austria's clipped, prissy voice shocked Prussia: of all the nations, he would have thought Austria would be the last to support him. "The Republic of Austria recognizes the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem."
"The Republic of Poland recognizes the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem," Poland was quick to add.
"The Russian Federation recognizes the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem," Russia said.
"Hungary recognizes the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem."
Prussia swallowed as nation after nation announced that they recognized him as a valid representative of the Order. The entire former Eastern bloc, China, France, Spain, both Italies... Damn. He hadn't expected open support from anyone except maybe Poland. Either the rest of the world wanted England to pound him into red paste, or they wanted him to do the same to England. He didn't want to know which it was.
"Bollocks!" England snapped. "I refuse to waste my time on this farce." He turned to leave, stopping when Switzerland's hand rested on his shoulder.
"The challenge is valid," Switzerland said in a neutral voice. "By declining, you forfeit and the Order may decide your penalty."
And that was what Prussia wanted. Now England was guaranteed to lose. Even if he won the duel, the rules meant he couldn't demand anything from Prussia that would cause harm or distress to any other nation – and Prussia had nothing left to lose. No land that wasn't part of someone else's nation, no assets, nothing.
Well, that and the sight of England looking like a freshly landed fish – albeit one with really improbable eyebrows – as he gaped at Switzerland. A man had to take his satisfaction where he could.
"So be it," Switzerland declared. "The duel will commence in half an hour's time in the exhibition hall next to this room. German Order, England, you have fifteen minutes to choose your seconds and meet me there. Any fighting prior to commencement of the duel will be deemed an attempt to cheat and result in forfeiture by the instigator." He turned on his heel and walked from the room with Liechtenstein following close behind him.
Prussia turned to his brother. "Deep breaths, West. No matter how the fight works out, you'll be free of him."
Germany didn't flinch visibly, but Prussia could feel him cringing inside. "He could..."
"He won't. Not permanently." He still had strength enough to come back from death. "And there are rules for what he can demand as his victory price – nothing that will harm or cause distress to any other nation."
West's iron control kept him from shuddering, but he flinched just enough that Prussia could see it.
England had taken himself across the room and was arguing with – it sounded like America, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. Apparently none of them were keen to stand as his second and nobody else would even meet his eyes.
"At least let me second."
Prussia doubted anyone else would see the raw anguish in his brother's eyes. Mostly they never looked past the no-expression he wore to hide his feelings. "Sorry, West. You're too involved to stand as my second." He clasped his brother's shoulder. "I need someone who'll be able to watch Eyebrows and call out any cheating."
And the opportunity to watch him for cheating ought to have been enough to get a fucking queue of nations eager to stand as England's second. Apparently the black sheep of Europe had not been making himself popular since the war ended.
"Russia, would you be willing to stand as my second?" It took Prussia little time to make that decision: nobody would challenge Russia's word. Or maybe almost nobody – if England managed to browbeat America into seconding, there could be a brawl.
Which would still be to his benefit. Not ideal, certainly, but helpful.
Russia's little smile grew bigger. "Yes, yes. Will be fun to watch."
All three of the Baltic nations shivered, and Prussia didn't blame them. Russia had an... odd idea of 'fun'.
He took a deep breath. Focus. Find that icy clarity on the other end of fury, and hold it. Live there. He could embarrass himself when this was over.
#
The exhibition hall was nothing more than a large, empty space, devoid of any kind of decoration or furnishing. Cement floors that echoed every footstep, high ceilings from which a maze of ductwork and lighting hung, and plain walls.
The only things in the room were two sets of rope barricades with about three meters between them. The inner set marked out a rough circle of maybe fifty meters diameter. Switzerland stood in the center with his arms folded, waiting.
Prussia stepped over both sets of barricades and walked over to him. "Russia has agreed to be my second."
Switzerland nodded. "Very good. Both of you remain here. The rest of your followers need to stay outside the barriers."
This was the hardest part of the whole procedure, the waiting. Waiting while the nations who'd followed him from the meeting room positioned themselves around the outer barrier, talking amongst themselves in oddly hushed voices. Waiting for England to arrive with his second.
Prussia wasn't surprised that England delayed until the last possible minute to make his entrance. Before they started fighting there'd be a determined attempt from both sides to unnerve or discomfit the other. Not that Prussia would have to do anything – he'd already put England off-balance, and when the preparations began he'd unbalance the other nation even more, without doing anything out of the ordinary.
"Australia is my second," England announced.
Switzerland gave him a single nod. "Seconds, you will stand in the space between barriers and observe your opponents for any cheating."
Australia looked a bit bemused by that. "Um... what counts as cheating?"
"I will restate the rules shortly." Switzerland's frown shouldn't have been as daunting as it apparently was: Australia looked cowed and took himself to the barrier.
Prussia began mentally reciting one of the old Order prayers, one that more or less translated to "let me win if this is Your will", although he couldn't entirely quash a faint hope that nobody would ever know this was how he focused. He didn't need more ridicule, at least, not over something he hadn't set up as a safe target.
Switzerland shifted, unfolding his arms, then said, "England, German Order, these are the rules you will abide by, on pain of immediate forfeit."
The silence was immediate and profound: the kind of hush you only ever got when a lot of people were trying to make no noise at all.
"The duel will continue until one of you yields or dies, or until I determine there is a clear victor. There will be no magic, no weapons, no clothing -" Several people gasped at that. Apparently they'd forgotten the rules around nation duels. "- no teleportation, and no departing the combat ring. Your seconds will observe your opponent and call on any illicit action observed. Any cheating will result in immediate forfeiture for the culprit."
Nothing out of the ordinary so far.
"Remove your clothing and give it to your seconds."
Prussia nodded and started stripping. Not long now – he just had to stay focused through the fight. Brawling with nothing more than his body wasn't his preferred means of battle, but it meant England would be faced with proof of his lies with every moment.
He heard the gasps as his shirt came off, the whispers whose content he couldn't quite make out. Probably the fading blue ink marking his left arm with his prisoner number. Another round of gasps when he pulled his undershirt over his head. Those were probably inspired by the ugly scars marking his body.
He unlaced his shoes and pulled them off, then his socks, before removing first the dress trousers and then his underpants. With everything folded neatly and efficiently – England was still only halfway undressed – Prussia picked up the bundle of clothing and carried it over to Russia, mentally holding that cold balance.
Russia gave him a nod. "Scars are healing well," he observed. "Is much better than last time I saw."
Since the last time had been in the middle of a furious argument that had ended with Prussia naked outside Russia's house in a blizzard, he was surprised Russia remembered how he'd looked clearly enough to make that comment. "They are improving," he said lightly before he returned to the center of the makeshift arena.
As Switzerland pronounced them ready, Prussia kept his gaze on England – who appeared shaken by what he saw, shaken and utterly seething with fury.
"You may begin."
#
As soon as Switzerland finished speaking, England lunged, hands curled into tight fists.
Prussia had expected an attack and jumped to the side, never once looking away from the other man. He stood apparently relaxed, poised, but beneath that facade he was ready to explode into action as soon as he saw the right opening.
England tried a few classic boxing moves, the kind of thing Prussia had seen at bare knuckle fights a hundred years ago, all telegraphed and easily countered. Testing, seeing if Prussia would take the bait.
Instead he evaded them, sliding out of range with light, easy grace. He might not have been born with a sword in his hand, but he'd spent most of his life fighting against stronger and more numerous enemies, and it had left him with footwork a dancer would envy and reflexes sharp enough to cut.
"You miserable piece of shite," England growled when Prussia evaded another flurry of blows. "I'll tear you to pieces."
Rather than dignify that with a response, Prussia just sneered, moving with England to keep himself facing the other man and watching. Waiting.
England feinted left, his eyes flicking right, then his left hand slammed out towards Prussia's left side in a blow that would have broken ribs if it had connected.
The universe seemed to slow for Prussia as – finally – the last gift of who he was picked up. He spun into the feint, grasping England's left hand without slowing, pulling the other man off balance and slamming him to the ground. If he'd had a sword it would have gone into England's chest and nailed him to the floor: instead Prussia kicked him, taking care to use the ball of his foot so he didn't break any toes.
England rolled out of Prussia's reach, scrambled to his feet. His face was twisted into a vicious snarl, and Prussia had no doubt that if England had possessed a pistol it would have been used, dueling rules be damned.
England's charge surprised him: he hadn't expected the former pirate to throw away all restraint so soon. Which didn't help when Prussia found himself with the other man's hands locked firmly around his neck, choking.
A moment of panic, then clarity returned. It didn't matter if England killed him. His other arrangements would make sure of that.
Prussia let his knees sag, sliding one foot towards England who – despite his strength – wasn't prepared to hold Prussia's dead weight at arm's length. With a twisting movement he'd perfected in countless brawls involving bigger, stronger opponents, Prussia hooked England's legs out from under him, sending them both tumbling to the floor, England's hands still locked around Prussia's neck.
With his vision darkening, Prussia grabbed a handful of hair, lifted England's head, then slammed it into the cement. Once, twice more and the death grip loosened, giving him room to breathe.
Two quick gut punches left England gasping, struggling to draw breath, then a sharp punch to the ribs, cracking something. And again. And again.
Despite his own rasping breaths, Prussia set up a pounding rhythm, stomach punches to keep England from being able to fight back, then powerful blows that broke bones and cartilage, over and over. He was distantly aware of red heat from his knuckles, that he'd cracked the bones there if not outright broken them. He didn't care.
Now, finally, after weeks of control, he could punish England for hurting his brother. A fierce grin spread across his face, and he fought down a surge of bloodlust, an adrenaline-fueled need to kill until he ran out of enemies. Stay focused.
England's struggles weakened, ceased altogether.
A single gunshot rang out.
#
Prussia froze, fist raised for another gut punch.
Switzerland's voice rang in the hush. "The duel is over. Victory goes to the German Order."
It took Prussia a moment to control a surge of disappointment, to leash his desire to pummel England until he died, then start again when he came back. He had what he wanted: a victory that would let him ensure the English fucker could never hurt West again. There was no need to ruin that by being stupid and breaking the ancient traditions that said a nation duel was over when the referee declared it over.
Slowly, aware suddenly of legs that didn't want to support his weight as the adrenaline faded, of pain from blows he hadn't felt, Prussia moved back, and stood. He resisted the urge to fold his arms or cover himself. Nudity was France's thing, not his. He preferred a layer or two of clothing between himself and the world.
England had passed out as soon as Prussia stopped adding to his suffering.
"What is your price, Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem?" Switzerland asked in a cold voice.
Prussia's first attempt to speak produced nothing but a completely devoid of awesome squeak. He winced, swallowed, and tried again. "The Kingdom of England shall swear on his full name and title that he will never again take occupation rights from any personification." This time his voice was raspy, but at least it worked. "Said vow to be made in the presence of a neutral nation and recordings of the oath-taking to be delivered to me before the commencement of the next World Council meeting."
He heard more than a few shocked gasps, and a buzz of whispering. An oath on one's full name and title was binding: one could dissolve oneself by trying to break it. Once he swore, England would be incapable of raping any nation under the guise of occupation rights.
Switzerland's response was more to the point. "The victory price is valid. I shall see that it is carried out. Any uninvolved nation who wishes to observe the oath-taking ceremony, speak to me this evening."
Prussia nodded. "I thank you, Swiss Confederation." He dropped the formalities to ask, "Is there a bathroom where I can get a quick shower before I put my clothes back on? I think I made a bit of a mess."
Switzerland snorted, and pointed to the far corner of the hall. He pulled a key on a lanyard from his pocket, tossed the small bundle to Prussia. "First aid and cleaning supplies are in the locked closet."
"Thanks. You might want to help see to England." Prussia turned, looking for Russia – and, not incidentally, his clothes. England hadn't moved, though now Australia knelt beside the man and appeared to be doing basic first aid checks.
Russia stood near Germany, who appeared to be unsure whether he was supposed to approach or not. What looked like attempts to reassure him weren't helping: Russia had that effect.
Screw it: he'd already shown the entire world everything he had. He started to jog over, slowed to a walk when his legs protested the movement.
Russia's usual smile was broader than normal, a real smile instead of the usual "someone said I should smile more so I am" thing. "Good fight," he said. "Is good thing you weren't strong enough for that when you were living at my house. I might have lost my place."
Although he wouldn't have minded – just on principle, since Russia had helped to strip him of his last vestiges of nationhood – Prussia shook his head. "Naa. I'd have reclaimed Koenigsburg and Danzig, and set up a mutual economic cooperation zone through Danzig with Poland." He grinned. "It would have been fun to try, anyway." He saw no point mentioning he'd have kicked Russia's Communist leaders out of his lands so fast they'd leave skid marks. It wasn't anything the bigger man didn't already know.
"Yes, yes it would." Russia's smile actually reached his eyes. "Would be fun to try sometime, yes? But not for duel, just for training."
Prussia shrugged, ignoring West's stunned expression. "Yeah, sometime. Maybe in a few hundred years when I'm not still mad at your bosses." He collected his clothes, and headed for the shower, aware of West and Russia following.
Russia's soft, "Is he always like this?" almost made him snicker.
#
To nobody's surprise, the meeting ended with next to nothing accomplished except – for Prussia – the pleasure of watching West slowly relax his guard around the other nations. It seemed that the simple knowledge that England wouldn't be able to repeat his crimes combined with America's careful avoidance – nothing overt, just making sure there was always someone else in the room whenever he needed to speak with West and not touching, not that America really had done much touching before, so it wasn't obvious.
Well, apparently that was enough for his brother to start to recover. It would be a long journey: Prussia knew that from experience. West likely wouldn't want sex for years if not centuries, but at least now he might be able to accept friendship.
A quiet conversation with France was enough that Prussia was sure that particular misunderstanding would be cleared up before much longer – likely the next time France came over to discuss that weird union he and West had with the Benelux trio.
As nations departed the hotel, everyone carefully avoiding discussion of the duel – although Prussia knew damn well that more than a few nations had made arrangements and payments for copies of the recordings – Prussia found himself smiling with something like real contentment.
"Prussia?" The soft question had him trying not to lose the mood. Italy Veneziano was cute and sweet and all, but he could also be the most maddening nation when he chose to be oblivious. Which was a lot of the time, because the northern half of Italy had realized a long time ago that seeming to be harmless, stupid, and a coward meant nobody saw him as a threat.
Prussia knew better: nobody knew poison like Veneziano. The kid could poison one man in the middle of a banquet with nobody realizing what had happened. "Yes?"
"I just wanted to thank you," Veneziano said. "You stopped it happening, which means Germany can be who he really is now."
Ah. Figures the personification of Venice would have figured it out. "He may never be the same as he was," Prussia warned. "He can start to heal, though."
"Yes, yes." Veneziano spoke in Italian. "And his friend Italy will be there for him."
"With pasta, no doubt," Prussia said with a smile.
"But of course!" A brief silence, then Veneziano said, "Holy See sends his blessings. He said you did a good thing and you need to stop blaming yourself for everything that happened, but I don't understand why you'd blame yourself when you couldn't have done anything before because you weren't there, and you did fix it as soon as you could."
The personification of the Vatican would say that: he was far more forgiving than Prussia. "He means about other things, Vene." Things that had happened centuries ago, and had helped to forge him into the man he was today.
"Oh." Veneziano didn't sound convinced. "Anyway, it was nice of you not to make England never have sex again. You could have, you know, since nobody wants to do it with him."
"Someone might, someday." Prussia spoke lightly. God knew, there were people who wanted to have sex with him and he was far less of a catch than England. So far he'd managed to let those unfortunates down gently without revealing the real reason he wasn't accepting. No matter what he played at to keep the rest of the world from figuring him out, he had taken vows – it was something of a necessity for the personification of a monastic order, even a combat one - and he kept his vows.
Germany knew, of course, and Poland had heard all his delirious ramblings in Auschwitz, so he knew – and had apologized later for his part in the aftermath of Tannenburg and what he'd done while the Duchy of Prussia had been his fief. No one else.
Not that any of that was relevant now. It was Prussia's history, not Germany's and Germany would recover. He turned his thoughts to a prayer of thanks, then left to pack.
#