CHAPTER ONE

When Gilbert stepped of the train in Berlin, he didn't know what to expect. For years he had been put behind the iron curtain, only knowing what was happening in the Soviet Union. For the past couple of years, Gilbert Beilschmidt, the awesome personification of Prussia, had stayed in the room he was given in the Soviet mansion, only coming out when absolutely necessary. Like to torment Elizabeta, the lame personification of Hungary, or to avoid punishment from his 'master' and work. Gott, how he hated calling Ivan, the son-of-a-bitch personification of Russia, 'master'.

Oh yes, he had tried to escape. They all had at least once. He, being the most awesome, had tried (and failed) to escape no less than twenty-seven times. But he always woke up back where he had started. Sometimes even further away from his ultimate goal then when he had started. Getting back to Berlin.

Now that he was actually in Berlin, the very place that he saw as a new heaven, he wasn't so sure. He was careful and cautious as his foot hit the pavement, because with one wrong step, and this dream would surely abandon him. He would wake up, back in Moscow, cold, hungry, and totally alone.

He scanned the train station. Even if this was just a dream (an awesome dream, but a dream none the less), Ludwig would be here. Somewhere.

"GILBERT!"

Ah, there he was. Carefully turning right, Gilbert saw his little brother Ludwig Beilschmidt, the not-quite-as-awesome-as-he-was-but-still-pretty-badass personification of Germany. Standing beside him was Roderich Edelstein, the totally-not-at-all-awesome personification of Austria.

Gilbert took his time shuffling over to the two.

One wrong step. One wrong step. His mind chanted. Back to Moscow. Back to Moscow.

"Bruder, I missed you!" Ludwig called and flew into Gilbert's arms.

Gilbird, who had been sitting on Ludwig's head, flew around the two in excitement.

"Welcome back, Gilbert." Roderich greeted, with less enthusiasm as Ludwig, but just as sincere.

Gilbert simply nodded.

"Bruder, what's wrong? You aren't saying anything. Are you ill?" Ludwig asked.

Gilbert shook his head. Oh, how he wanted to say something. But his dreams always faded when he opened up his mouth.

One wrong step.

"Ludwig, he's probably tired. Let's return home. We can talk more there." Roderich suggested.

Back to Moscow.

~HETALIA~TIMESKIP~HETALIA~

The drive back to Ludwig's house had been a bit tense. While Gilbert hadn't said anything, Ludwig and Roderich were full of questions. But, due to some sort of miracle, they had respected Gilbert's unspoken wish for silence and stayed quiet. Parking his black truck, Ludwig broke the quiet atmosphere.

"Feliciano and Lovino are here. So are Francis and Antonio. We're all glad to have you home."

But you're not home, are you? Said the voice in Gilbert's tormented head. You're having a dream. You're really in Moscow, sleeping like a baby. A cold, hungry, depressed baby who's never going 'home' to Berlin. Moscow is your home, now and forever.

Going to auto-pilot, Gilbert let his feet blindly lead him to the living room. No funiture had been moved. Which was strange, because the funiture was always diffrent in his dreams. Which this was. A dream. He couldn't afford to be hopeful.

"WELCOME BACK, GILBERT!" Everyone in the room yelled. Even Lovino.

It was a nice gathering, unlike his usual dreams that included only one or two people. Right. It was a nice gathering, but still only a dream and nothing more.

Dream. Dream. Dream. Dream. Dream.

The pasta and pizza provided by the Italians was delicious (a bit more rich than what he was used to, but still dreamly tasty) but weren't real. Greetings and contact that felt so real, but Gilbert knew better.

Moscow. Moscow. Moscow. Moscow. Moscow.

Ludwig sat next to Gilbert on the couch, two beers in his hands..

"Bruder, are you sure that you're alright? You still haven't said anything."

Gilbert nodded.

"You do know where you are, don't you?"

"Moscow." Gilbert replied.

"What?" Ludwig asked in shock.

"This is a dream. I am in Moscow. None of you are real." Gilbert said.

"Nein. Nein, Gilbert. You are here in Berlin. Haus. You are HOME. Believe me. Please believe me." Ludwig pleaded.

Gilbert shook his head. "I don't want to, but I will wake up now. It was nice to see you again, West. Even if this is just a dream."

And with that, Gilbert passed out cold on the couch, a slight bit of German beer spiled on his jacket.

~Hetalia~TIMESKIP~HETALIA~

Gilbert stirred in the bed. The thick blankets... Wait a minute. He didn't have thick blankets. No, he had paper thin sheets. Wonderful things like warm blankets were a hope never to come true in the Soviet Union. Then why was he...

No way.

Opening his eyes, Gilbert saw that this wasn't his room. It wasn't any room in that damned mansion. It was Ludwig's bed. The German flag's black red and gold colors shining in the sun's morning light flooding in from the window.

"Bruder?" Ludwig asked, more pleaded, for his brother's attention.

Gilbert looked at his little brother, who was sitting in a chair beside the large bed.

"How was Moscow?"

"I'm not there anymore, am I?"

"Nein. Welcome home, Gilbert."

And for the first time in many, many years, Gilbert truely was home, safe with his little Bruder.