Based on this video www . youtube watch ? v= BN1lcTXqXAo (just remove the spaces.)
Germany is a master of relationships.
Contrary to France's claims that he knows nothing about working with people, Germany assures himself that his track record proves otherwise. No one else navigates bureaucratic waters with the same strict, unflinching resolve as he. His demeanor lacks the openness and honesty both America and Canada possess (although the former's is full of exuberant self-assurance and the latter's a more humbled self-confidence), the perfect gentlemanly façade England spent years cultivating, and France's natural charm and sophistication. He is like a wrought iron gate – able to open yet cold and unyielding. What he lacks in charisma, however, he makes up in his determination and ability to get things done in a timely and organized manner. After years of rebuilding his reputation and regaining the trust of his fellow nations, he can say – much to France's mortification – that he is the most talented in the ways of diplomacy and foreign affairs.
Ludwig ponders all of this somewhere between his ninth and thirteenth round of whatever it is he was drinking. Mostly, he wonders why his political success fails to translate into his personal life.
(He loves Feliciano; it only takes him a few rounds past the ninth to thirteenth range to admit it to the amused bartender and his own not-so-amused brother.)
His grip on the mug tightens as he remembers why he is sitting in a pub in the middle of Paris drinking weak beer when he should be resting in his hotel room for the next day of the world conference. Germany's face heats up as the still raw memory of shame and humiliation slams into his thoughts despite the cloud of alcohol that should be hazing his thoughts. He curses France for not supplying stronger beer in his country and then himself for attempting to drown his sorrows.
In spite of himself, he motions the bartender for another round.
Yes, he is definitely drowning his sorrows. Shamelessly. During a world conference. The only bright side of it all, he thinks idly, is that he is not nearly as drunk as his dear Bruder.
(The fact that he's using Gilbert to judge his own sobriety is sad enough, but he is willing to overlook that in favor of gulping down his drink.)
Gilbert, unlike his usual methodical drunken destruction and disorder, is sitting somberly two seats away. It's depressing really, Germany thinks to himself, that they are sitting here, depressed, drinking weak French beer and contemplating the grainy wood of the bar. Ludwig lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Bruder, I think you've had enough."
Prussia gives him one of his trademark smirks, presses the mug against his lips, then makes a production of drinking the entire mug in one large gulp.
Well, at least he made an effort.
Ludwig pushes a few sweaty strands of hair away from his forehead.
(He could have gone drinking with the others – as usual America challenged England to some ridiculous drinking competition and many of the other nations tagged along in order to place bets on how many drinks the island nation could consume before passing out drunk in France's lap.)
His criteria for choosing a pub earlier that evening consisted on a) being completely out of the way so that b) he would not run into anyone he knew. Instead, he chose some out-of-the-way Parisian pub, and rather unfortunately, found his brother there as well, having already downed quite a few rounds by the look of the empty beer mugs surrounding him. Prussia had merely given him a brief glance over his shoulder and continued to down his drink.
They sit in silence. It's peaceful, something Ludwig never thought possible with his brother in the same room, and for a moment, he thinks he's having an out of body experience. It's almost as if they are bonding.
Germany nearly chokes on his beer.
Them bonding. He and Prussia bonding. He doesn't think it's remotely possible. They have never been the type to engage in intense moments of brotherly bonding. In fact, the only time they come anywhere close to brotherly bonding, they are both completely drunk. They tried it once while sober. It was a painful experience for them both – Ludwig shifted awkwardly in his seat the entire time, looking everywhere but at his brother's face and Gilbert let his sentences trail off into bouts of laughter they both knew were completely forced.
(They do however, partake in sober bonding is just before Oktoberfest. Prussia usually makes fun of him for wearing traditional lederhosen. Meanwhile, he scolds his brother for opting not to wear them. Then again, it is a precursor to sixteen days of heavy drinking.)
Germany steals another glance at his brother who seems content in drinking alone. He clenches another sigh before it can escape his lips. They are nothing like Feliciano and Lovino who make pasta together and sleep in the same bed whenever they lay down for their daily siesta. Not that he wants to make pasta with Gilbert or, Gott in Himmel, sleep in the same bed as him it's just – Ludwig gestures for another drink then only to have the bartender raise his eyebrows at his still half filled mug – he's either too drunk to think properly or not drunk enough.
And now he has opened the Italy folder, there is no way he can steer his thoughts in a safer direction. So, a few rounds after the ninth to thirteenth range but still before the twentieth, he tells the bartender that he loves someone named Feliciano. His voice comes out to raw, as if all the bottled up feels are trying to force their way out at once and only his iron resolve is keeping them from tumbling out at the same time.
He's not the type to confide his problems to the nearest person, but right then, his only options are the bartender and his brother who is very well content introspecting on his own angst at the moment if the dead expression on his face is anything to go by. The infallible iron will of the mighty Germany is about to crumble in a dingy (for France anyway – the décor reminds him of the pubs in his own country, which, for France counts is much too boring and rustic) French bar all because he has had one too many weak mugs of beer and he is feeling more vulnerable than he cares to admit. Also, he misses Feli.
Germany notices, of course he notices. The bartender notices. The only person who doesn't seem to notice is Prussia, who is content silently drinking his beer.
Ludwig opens his mouth to speak; the bartender sends a hopeful look in Gilbert's direction as if begging him to order another beer, anything to keep him from a heart-to-heart with a distressed German. The world tips on its side because Ludwig is fully prepared to publicly embarrass himself. It totters slightly.
Then, Prussia rolls his eyes, and with a sense of finality, places his drink down long enough to slide into the seat next to his younger brother.
The world is mostly right again.
They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes and Prussia orders another drink from the bartender in perfect French. When the bartender places a bottle of French wine directly in front of Gilbert, Ludwig's eyebrows rise in confusion. The world is surely spinning out of orbit by now.
Gilbert studies the label of the wine, brows furrowing in concentration before thanking the man again.
"So West," he begins causally as he pours two glasses of wine, "don't tell me your drunk on this stuff already. We haven't gotten to the fun part yet."
Germany is aware of the lower alcohol content, but regardless, most humans would be in a hospital getting their stomach pumped after the number of drinks he has consumed. The bartender has been giving the pair of them weary looks for the past few rounds. Ludwig's near confessional has sent him to the other end of the bar where he contents himself with rearranging a stack of tumblers.
"Ah, of course not," he ducks his head in embarrassment.
Gilbert lets out laugh, somehow more subdued than his usual chuckle. "Sure you're not. Like me. I'm definitely not drunk. That would be unawesome… definitely. Not drunk." He waves his hands a bit and sips his wine.
Germany decides it's best not to answer.
"So," Prussia continues casually, "I heard about the conference."
Ludwig's shoulders stiffen and he clears his throat. "Did you?" He barely manages the question, but he prepares himself for the response.
"Ja. Though Romano was a bit vague on the details."
At the mention of the Southern part of Italy, Germany's head aches with a dull resounding thud. He presses his fingers against his temples in an effort to hold back the bitter memories. Catching his pained expression, Gilbert's smirk only grows more profound.
"So, what really happened West?" He offers Ludwig the glass of wine, which his younger brother looks at with distaste before turning back to his beer.
"If you wanted to know, you should have gone to the meeting yourself."
Prussia leans in closer to him, his smirk more animalistic than before.
"Ah, and all this time I thought you had a thing for Feliciano. Is that why you're here, looking so depressed? Don't tell me your little Italian found you that you were screwing his dear fratell–"
"Bruder!" His voice comes out in a sharp hiss. Right then, he wants nothing more than to smash the bottle of wine over his brother's big head. Gilbert throws his head back and lets out a thunderous laugh. It's slightly bitter and his eyes are void of any warmth that can make the act appear light and teasing. He's taunting him, baiting him, and practically issuing him an invitation to get into a pub fight right there.
"Poor Feli. Though," Prussia's smile widens, "I wonder what Antonio would say. He's such a nice guy, but when it comes to dear Lovi, he gets a bit crazy."
"He cares deeply for Romano."
"Yes, he does. He would do anything for that kid." Prussia holds back a bit to gauge his brother's reaction.
Germany picks up a glass of wine his brother has poured for him. With careful deliberateness, he takes a sip of the heady French wine – its rich fruity flavor calming his nerves more than the rounds of beer did before.
"Hm. Speaking of kids, how is Matthew?"
The simple inquiry causes the smirk to drop from Gilbert's face. It's only for the briefest moment, but it is enough for Ludwig to offer a pleased smile of his own. Prussia's face twists into a snarl. He presses the glass of wine to his lips and keeps his eyes trained on his younger brother.
"Mattie is fine."
With some bit of satisfaction, Ludwig takes his own glass again and takes a long steady drink from it.
"At least for now."
The words aren't meant for him, and Germany knows instantly that he should try to say something to comfort his older brother. Already, Prussia has looked away from him. He studies the contents of his wine glass with more forced interest than Germany has ever thought him capable. His expression is closed off; despite the smirk that stays on his face, his eyes are empty and cold.
"As is Feli."
They are quiet. The silence stretches, but it's different from the other more peaceful silences from before. Ludwig wants to say something – anything really because the longer he sits there unable to form a single word, the further away he becomes from any real bonding experience with his brother.
(And yes, he is definitely drunk enough to admit, at least to himself, he wants some sort of bonding experience with Gilbert – not as nations, as brothers.)
He also knows the longer he waits to say something, the more likely his brother will deflect and the chance will be lost until the next time their problems led them on a drinking binge. So he opens his mouth, conjures up a few words that sound encouraging and unassuming, and sends a silent prayer to Gott in Himmel for assistance. Then…
"You know what's unawesome?" Gilbert waves his wineglass vaguely. "When you get so… screwed over by other people. It fucking sucks. And you know what's worse?"
Ludwig is sure that his brother has no plan to listen to him even if he does respond. He clutches the edge of his barstool and braces himself for a long drunken rant.
"When they screw with the people you lov– uh, care about. Then that person gets hurt even when you're trying to protect them. And there's not a damned thing you can do about it because a fucking human problem. So you can't go ahead and start a war or whatever to settle it. And you know whatever started it all is your fault, even if it isn't. And you know why? Because people fucking suck. Verdammt! Why the hell am I drinking this shit?"
Prussia slams his wine glass down on the bar with enough force to draw the attention of half the pub. Some part of Germany wonders at the fact that the glass did not shatter. Mostly however, he tries – and fails – yet again to find something (anything really at this point) to say.
"You know what we should do?"
"Um… "
"Get revenge. Fucking, brilliant, awesome revenge on the bastards." Gilbert lets out a cackle. It's free and loose, something akin to his mad laughter that resounded on all ends of the battlefields so many years ago.
It's strange, the feeling that twists in the pit of Ludwig's stomach. It's a familiar bloodlust that he's nearly forgotten – mixed in with the alcohol, it is so potent that it makes his ears ring.
He's never been the type to seek revenge. He is much more practical and pragmatic, but the knowing, inviting smirk on his brother's face and his own feels of shame and embarrassment that have haunted him the entire day are enticing. Revenge. It's such a simple solution to all his problems; he is surprised he didn't think of it first.
Fixing a calm expression on his face, Ludwig traces the stem of his wine glass with a forefinger.
"Bruder, what do you have planned?"
Prussia's smirk grows impossibly wider. The hint of a smile touches the edges of Germany's lips. They are drunk on weak beer and weak French wine. It's beautiful, thrilling.
If revenge tastes anything like French wine, the night is rich in promises of sweet, sweet revenge.
Based entirely on the video linked above, a request from a friend, and my own head canons. I don't like first chapters all that much, so I hope this is fine. The story picks up over the next two chapters. If you haven't seen the video, I suggest that you do!
I plan on rewriting this or at the very least polishing it up once the entire thing is done.