A/N: I was reading the ten commandments, King James version, and I came to the last one. And I could just imagine Prussia declaring it. To Germany, no less.

Fun fact. At the Catholic primary school I attended for a year…at Christmas, the teacher gave everyone cards and such….and I got…a bookmark with the ten commandments. I think she was trying to tell me something.

Thou Shalt Not Covet

Prussia still isn't quite sure how it was that England had managed to rope he and his long-suffering bruder into this. Of all the places to spend the summer, in the end they were not splashing in beer on the beaches of Hawaii in flower garlands and bikinis, but in the god-forsaken swill of unpunctual public transport, tasteless blocks of council flats and ever-grumbling people they called London.

It's a wonderful place, England had insisted. There's a lot of history and culture to be learnt. Words cannot do it justice. Well, Prussia could now tell you that there was absolutely nothing wonderful about the city. Though he could have told you that even before slinging a travelling bag and Ludwig over his shoulder and marching here. He'd done that to England – told him, that is, not tried to pack him up and lug him through security, some explaining that had taken – and England had huffed and glared. Prussia had then pressed on, enthusing about his Hawaii idea, especially the skirt-of-palm-leaves bit, and nevermind England, Germany's mortification had been priceless. Really, he berated himself for not taking a leaf out of Japan's book, and bringing a camera with him wherever.

This escapade was to remedy that. And Phase One of Operation Awesome (the two-hundred and fifty-seventh one) was already underway.

He was just so damn bored. He would learn a lot, hah, Sweet Jaeisus knew that all he had leant was that the damn place was miserable as heck. From the food (and don't even get him started on the brewed-in-a-mouldering-boot beer) to the obstinately gloomy weather. (Hell, no wonder England was such a pessimistic umbrella-up-the-ass. Yes, you see what the Awesome Prussia did there.) So, he had dragged Germany through various museums, the National Gallery, even the London Aquarium, all to the same effect – his trying his utmost to drag Ludwig out again after but two minutes of each. He didn't come here to be serious, though God knows what he did come here for.

But as it was, they were on the London Eye, and as a tremendous change, Prussia was bored. No matter. He was entering Phase Two, so all those stupid buildings (they had been alright for the first few minutes, but it had been half an hour already and still they were only halfway through, what kind of a crack-brained idea of a fun day out was this, to stare at the same map for an hour, ooh, from different angles!) could suck it up.

"Hey. West."

"Hm?" Blue eyes, snapped out of their reverie, glanced at him questioningly. Then, perhaps convinced by the quietness of the call, or the lack of a highly exaggerated scowl or smirk, that Prussia was not simply bored and hitting out to be an ass (oh how wrong he was), he followed it up with a murmur of "What is it?"

"You know," Prussia says, as if actually, whether Germany was paying attention or not didn't matter, "You really were atrocious at following orders."

Germany starts, disbelieving, seemingly frozen in shock for a good few seconds. Then he sighed, rolling his eyes, in relief and in fondness. "I suppose," he snorts, "that I only addressed you as 'Your Most Awesome Highness' ninety-nine times one terrible day instead of the designated one hundred?"

"Not quite," Prussia mutters distractedly. "You said it ninety-eight times. But that's not the point: the point is, you still are."

"…What…?"

"Yes," Prussia mused, swinging his eyes up from the Tower Bridge and the grey Thames that ran under it to meet Germany's confused ones. He seemed to relent a little upon seeing them, shaking his head slightly. "Well, I suppose you just have a bad memory for them."

"…What?" Ah, so Germany and his powers of speech have been reunited with a touching passion and a sparkling fount of eloquence. "That's not true!" And indistinct, and could it be, mocking 'mhm' is all he gets by way of reassurance. "What are you saying?"

"…Well…" Prussia drags, eyeing the skyline thoughtfully. About 20 minutes until their capsule – EDF-powered, eco-friendly, yay – reached the end and they were free of the damn glass cage (complete with bars, though of course they were called handrails), 15 until they came to the camera. That sounded about right. His timing was, as ever, awesome. "If I ordered you to stare at this–" he gestured with a flick of his hand an area around the height of the handrail "-for the next 20 minutes straight, bet you a pint you wouldn't be able to do it."

Germany cocked an eyebrow at him. "And I presume you will be trying to the best of your ability to distract me?" He settled his gaze determinedly on the handrail.

Prussia merely laughed in that self-satisfied way of his only he could pull off. "Baby," he went so far as to drawl, draping himself over the handrail, his left forearm pressed against the glass and his right hand touching chrome, "I don't think I'll need 'ta try." Now, if only he had a cigarette to complete the effect.

Germany glared, disgruntled that Prussia had squarely blocked his view (did he mean to bore him to death these twenty minutes?) but true to his word didn't shift his eyes. "So, West," his insufferable brother was saying. Typical, he wasn't even going to die in peace. "Can you claim to remember the ten commandments?"

"Thou shalt have no other gods before me," he began, forcefully, so that his brother could hear how much he wanted to slam him right through the glass there and then. "Thou shalt note make onto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in earth below, or that is in the water…."

Halfway through, and he was still going strong. "…that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not-"

"Commit adultery," Prussia interrupted calmly. Incredibly enough, he doesn't sound gloating. "Commandment Seven is 'thou shalt not commit adultery'. Thou shalt not steal is commandment eight."

Germany coloured, but managed to keep his eyes from dropping. "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour." He couldn't check, but he was sure twelve or so minutes had passed now. "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his…" He came to a halt. Prussia's cue to laugh gleefully.

"Ox," Prussia supplied. "Nor his ox." Germany almost looked up in surprise: maybe Prussia really was serious about this.

"Nor his ox," he said slowly. Surely the twenty minutes were coming to an end. "Nor his…"

"Nor his ass." Prussia turned and dipped his head round, so that he was looking at Germany from under his elbow. Smirking. "Something you have sadly failed in."

Germany jerked his eyes away as quickly as he could, spluttering, face turning a shade of red that even Lovino wouldn't have been able to fault. On a tomato. At the same moment, Prussia launched himself from where he was standing, palms pushing against the handrail and the glass, landing with a thump next to Germany, on the bench.

Just in time for the flash of the camera.

Prussia grinned as he dug round for his credit card. Surely it wasn't too preposterous to only buy a hundred or so of the pictures, once they got to the gift shop: presents for after the holidays would be sorted. He was reasonable: the rest he could post on his blog, so no-one missed out.

But, since there was still a good five minutes of the suddenly worthwhile London Eye trip left, and even though Prussia was already owed that pint of beer (ah, he knew he should have asked for more, whether West got suspicious or not)…

"You're not done," he prompts casually, while Germany is glaring with such intensity as if to figure out what to write for Prussia's obituary. (The epitaph was already solved – 'bastard!', in true Lovino style.)

"Nor anything that is thy neighbour's," he grinds in conclusion through gritted teeth.