The bastard was standing there. Standing in a way so the smaller man was covered in shadow, cradling the damn vodka bottle like it was a child.

And, oh God, was he smiling?

The damn bastard was smiling at him. He was smiling at the bandages, the layers of gauze covering countless wounds, new and old, wrapped around the other man's tiny frame. His eyes were drawn half closed, the vodka only tugging them down further.

The room was silent; words were never needed in his house anyway. Long ago his throat had gone raw from words, and even now it still hurt. Pipes and bricks may break your bones, but words burn into your eyelids. You close your eyes and see them, staring back at you and your ugly little flaws.

"Now, now, dear Gilbert. No need to act like such a spoiled child. . . Mother Russia does not permit bad children." The smaller, weaker man squirmed as the handle of the pipe dug into his gut. He saw the end coated in layers of dried blood. A piece flaked off and fell to his stomach, where it laid silently. "You need to behave. . ."

With that, Ivan bent down and gripped the collar of the Prussian's shirt, raising him off the ground. "You need to be punished, as all bad children do." Gilbert bucked and roared and kicked at his captor, who just sneered and started taking long strides towards the door.

The door was usually closed, sealing off the memories that were meant to be forgotten. Gilbert often left other memories down there in the dark basement; the look on his brother's face, the wedding that was supposed to be for him, the disappointed smiles from his friends.

Gilbert was clawing at Ivan with his chewed down fingernails. He was kicking with his old shoes that were starting to break through on the toe. He was writhing with all of his strength and swearing with all of his soul. He didn't want to door to open. He didn't want to remember.

But the door was opening and the darkness was at his back and Russia was relaxing his grip, letting Prussia slip through his fingers and into the dark. He toppled down the stairs backwards, darkness hovering about him, waiting to pounce. The bottom of the stairwell greeted the back of his head with a loud smack! He grimaced and hands flew up to clutch the sore spot hidden by his fair mop of hair.

And there were footsteps, walking down the stairs. There was a hand reaching out for him, and stroking his cheek gently. And there was a voice, gentle, purring dirty lies in his ear. The figure was getting closer and Gilbert could smell the vodka and when there were lips on his he could taste it.

The kiss was innocent enough. But then again it was Russia kissing Prussia in the basement and thoughts were soon in his mind, flashing things like 'this is sick and wrong' and 'the pipe- where's the pipe?' And the Prussian who wasn't Prussian anymore pulled away and blindly kicked out.

Ivan smiled sadly, head cocking to the side. There were eyes tearing at him, saying horrible, ugly things. They were violating him with every glance- undressing and leaving him naked and cold and hollow. Gilbert tried to buck the larger wall of a man away, but there was a hand at his cheek again. "Ah, Gilbert. . . I have good news for you, da." His hand was moving upwards, tangling with fair locks. His fingers were massaging small circles on his scalp, smiling like a child.

"If it's coming from you then it's bad news, bastard!" There was more kicking and squirming and writhing from Gilbert, which gained a giggle from Russia. He suddenly clenched his fist around the small man's hair and stood up, dragging Prussia with him as he strode across the basement.

Gilbert roared angrily as his hands flew up to his scalp as he was pulled. "F-Fuck! Let me go, b-bastard!" His feet kicked and smashed anything in their reach, which was a whole lot of empty space. The whole basement was empty space, spare for the mattress in the corner that served as Gilbert's bed. That mattress was filthy- with blood and sweat and tears and horrible words and a terrifying, beautiful man. He was being pulled across the room and a door leading them into another, smaller room.

If the first room was dark, the second was black. No windows were on the walls. There was a large, black hook in the center of the ceiling. The walls should have been a nice, bright color. Ivan did love yellow. They should have been yellow, like sunflowers. But this was Russia and Gilbert was sure that much of what used to be inside him was now splattered against the back wall. It had trickled down and pooled at the floor, staining the floor a sickly red.

The door was closed and locked and Gilbert was thrown across the room; the concrete welcomed him into its cold embrace. He was standing up before he knew what was happening; before Russia's pipe had descended from the blackness and struck him on the shoulder, and he was on the ground again. "Bad." Russia steps forward and crunched and outstretched hand under the heel of his boot.

Gilbert hissed and punched Ivan's shin with his other hand. That hardly did anything, because the Russian was bending down and smiling sweetly, running a gloved hand across Gilbert's cheek. "You are very bad. . . Pity, since I had such good news for you. . ." He licked his lips. "Such a pretty face, da? That news will have to wait until afterwards, then."

Ivan was standing before Gilbert could blink, and the boot to his head was delivered before his could cover himself. There the Prussian was, head throbbing, staring up at the black hook with Russia's foot pressing down on his forehead. "Get off of me!" Prussia writhed and gripped the thick calf attached to the foot, pulling it off. He rolled over and scramble backwards, managing to move himself to the corner, red eyes darting about in the darkness.

From in the blackness came a childish laughter. "Why do you always move away from me? I only do this for you. . ."

Somewhere between the swears, screams and laughter, the inhabitants upstairs managed to settle themselves down for a nice cup of afternoon tea, and politely chatted about the weather, recent news, and how delightful Russia was in the spring.

///-\\\

The afternoon was not a productive one for Germany.

He was supposed to be writing of his recent trip to Berlin. The report was to be sent to America, who had, for the past decade or so, been breathing down the German's neck. He hadn't been able to do anything useful in the past years without America there to approve or stop it in its track. Then, of course, where Alfred was, Arthur was sure to follow.

Instead, he was hunched forward at his desk, papers scattered around his office. His broad, secure shoulders were quivering, and he was sure that something was wrong with him, because water was leaking from his eyes. It was rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto his papers in fat drops.

This was new. Germany never cried.

Not when his boss shot himself. Not during the trials, either. He had sucked in all the air his lungs could fit when his brother had smiled at him and promised that nothing was going to change. And even then, he didn't cry. What had he done? He'd gone back into his mind and stayed there, staring at the outside world in horror as his brother, his bruder, patted his shoulder and muttering something to him.

What was it?

Damn these blasted tears. They were fogging his mind too.

But the words Gilbert had said were still ringing in his head. He had placed a firm hand on his younger brother's shoulder and gave a squeeze. "Hey, West. Just keep strong. The awesome me can get myself out of this. It'll all be okay. . ." But by the end his voice had quivered and he looked up at his brother. "Take care of Eliza for me. And make sure that aristocrat knows I'm coming after him. And West? You're tough. You can stay strong. . . You have to. . ." The last part of his speech was hardly breathed, but Ludwig still managed to hear it.

Gilbert had taken a step back, then two, and then Ivan was at his side. The Russian had smiled sweetly and led Gilbert out of the room, with the eyes of all the worlds' nations staring after them.

Ludwig inhaled shakily. How long ago was that? The wall was still up. The skies were still grey. Meetings were still painful. And his brother was still missing. Sure, Ivan showed up to the meetings. The satellite nations accompanied him occasionally, though there was no word about the former state of Prussia. At least until about a week ago.

The last meeting was still sticking to the German's mind. Arthur and Francis had gotten into one of their fights again, and the other nations had leaned back in their seats, waiting for the scuffle to stop. Ludwig had let his mind wander. He stared at the seat next to him. It should have been occupied by his brother. His lithe figure should have been sitting there, feet propped up on the table, flicking balls of paper at the Hungarian across the table.

But there he wasn't.

Germany found his heart beating painfully in his chest. His right shoulder was throbbing, and without thinking he sent a glance Ivan's way. The large man was toying with something. It was small and hidden very well in his leather gloves. Ludwig squinted over his glasses, which were spending more and more time on the bridge of his nose, to possibly get a glimpse of whatever could be in the Russian's hand. It was probably vodka.

Ivan was now smiling, and he lifted a chain with his pinky finger. Whatever was in his hand was attached to the chain. A necklace? Slowly, painfully, Ivan was raising the necklace into the air. Ludwig's breath caught in his chest as the charm was hoisted up into the air above the Russian's cupped hand. And there it dangled.

The Iron Cross.

His bruder's Iron Cross. Germany stiffened as Russia cocked his head to the side and watched the cross twirl. The chain slipped from his finger and the necklace fell down to the table with a sudden clang. The German across the room flinched, and the argument fell silent.

Ivan stared down at the charm and back up at Ludwig. His head lolled to the side a bit as an eerie smile slipped onto his lips. "Gilbert sends his best wishes, da~" he murmured in that child voice of his. Across the table, Germany couldn't bring himself to look away from the cross.

Alfred had piped up from across the room, wondering why the entertaining argument had gone quiet. "Hey, commie. Whatcha got there?" The American was leaning over his seat, eager to see what was causing the commotion.

Smiling like mother holding a child, Ivan picked up the Iron Cross and held it in the air again. "A gift from a friend." He said, and stood up, taking long strides to an open window. The day outside was grey, overlooking another generic city where people drove around in circles. Ivan had leaned forward on the sill, sticking his head outside and looking down at the ground, twenty stories below. Then he turned to the group, who was waiting for an explanation.

"But, alas, this friend of mine, he needs this no more." The Russian held an arm out the window, the Iron Cross hanging from his pinky finger. "He is gone now, da~." And with those final words, his wrist relaxed, and the necklace slipped from his finger and plummeted down to the ground. Grinning to himself, Russia slowly closed the window and locked it, then returned to his seat.

The silence that followed sucked the life from the German. He couldn't breathe.

Gone.

Gone?

His bruder, gone. Tossed out the window like his forgotten necklace.

Arthur crossed his arms and furrowed his massive brows, looking quite upset. "What did you do to him?"

Russia giggled. "I made him better."

Germany's body had taken control of his mind and gently lifted him from his seat. He had spilled out some half hearted excuse and quickly left the room. His legs had taken him down the hall and found a stairwell to hide in. He stood there, leaning against the concrete wall, staring at the ceiling.

And even then, he didn't cry.