Twelve are dead. Göring, Ribbentrop, Rosenberg, Frank, Kaltenbrunner, Keitel, Frick, Streicher, Jodl, Bormann, Seyss-Inquart, and Sauckel. The other twelve, sentenced to lengthy prison sentences.
They are gone, but Germany— West Germany— still feels keenly the effects of the atrocities they sanctioned and committed. He sees it in his people, slowly recovering from the loss of their homes and families and livelihoods. He sees it in the other nations, in their haunted eyes and splintered minds and agonizing wounds.
He sees it in his brother, who can no longer see anything.
"I can see some things, Ludwig. Shadows and stuff. It's not entirely gone," East Germany protested.
They'd been separated since the Potsdam Conference, back in 1945. East was taken into the custody of the Soviet Union, while West was supervised by the western powers. They were reunited for a brief time, here in Nuremberg, to witness the verdict of the war crime trials. Their own verdict was tame, in the eyes of a human: the preexisting division, enforced geographically by a wall partitioning the land. But to them— they, who had seldom been apart for more than a couple of days— it was the ultimate torture.
There was a small garden behind the courthouse, with a single wooden bench hidden from view by a pair of lofty elms. It was October, and the trees were orange and balding. After the verdict was announced, Ludwig had retreated there, to evade the hard stares that made his bruises throb and the shock of auburn hair in row three. Though it evidently hadn't deterred Gilbert.
"Is that so? Then I trust you found me on your own."
East ran his hands through his snow-bright hair. Actually, at the moment it looked more like snow that had been trodden on a couple times. To add to his state of dishevelment, his milky red eyes had bluish shadows beneath them, and his lips were chapped and bleeding. Out of military dress, his body appeared far more brittle than West remembered. Ludwig didn't think his brother was being mistreated by his new... housemates (at least, no more than the rest of those in the so-called Eastern Bloc were), but house arrest was not a good look on him. "Er..."
Ludwig sighed pensively. He knew that East's condition had been an inevitability for decades now, his glasses never lasting a couple months before becoming too weak. But the war, Gilbert's forced conscription by Hitler— that had caused the head trauma, the stress that killed his eyesight.
If Adolf Hitler hadn't already killed himself last year, Ludwig would gladly have done it.
"Lis walked me to the tree, and I walked myself to you." East stated this proudly, his point accented by the sight of Hungary waving at them both from where Gilbert had left them, knee-deep in fallen leaves. Lis was nothing if not supportive.
"That's very comforting."
"Well fuck you too, Lud," East remarked drily. He brandished his cane indignantly. "The best thing to come out of this is that I have a permanent pity party. I didn't even need to invite people over! And I've got enough flowers to build a fucking parade float."
His tone was buoyant but his smile was feral. Ludwig gazed at him sadly.
"And, of course, you've joined in. Stop giving me that look, I know you're doing it," he snapped.
East was a caged animal— no longer able to go anywhere alone, or do any of his erstwhile hobbies, he was instead told to sit on his ass until he could no longer feel it.
"The only person I can stand now is Austria, of all people. And that's only because he hates me."
"He loves—"
"He hates me, West. Just let me believe that," Gilbert concluded loudly. His relationship with Austria was too conflicted to think about. He didn't pity East, and that was as good as being his best friend as long as he was concerned.
Ludwig wondered when his brother got so desperate.
"Light me a cig," his brother said, retrieving one from his pocket. West scowled. "I don't think those are healthy."
"Who cares? I'm dying anyway," Gil shrugged. But despite his nonchalance, the hand that held out the cigarette shook.
"Please don't say that. Please." West's voice was strained.
Gilbert said nothing. Ludwig reluctantly lit his smoke for him anyway, choking on the accidentally inhaled smoke. He handed it to his brother, who shook his head. "It's for you."
Ludwig stared at him for a second in disbelief before putting the cigarette back to his lips. Maybe it was his imagination, but for a second, his wounds didn't seem to ache so much. Probably his imagination— he didn't put much stock in the healing properties of tobacco.
"How have you been handling everything?" Gilbert's tone was gentler now, but not quite dissolving the tension between them.
Before the wars, Ludwig had hated when Gilbert felt he needed to take care of him— he was self-sufficient, and had been for decades.
Yet now, Ludwig desperately wanted his elder brother back, to tell him stories and to play pranks and to kiss his cuts and bruises better. To tell him everything would be alright. Of course, nothing was remotely alright now.
"I'm not handling it," he answered. He held onto his frail composure for dear life.
No one talked to him. France avoided him like the plague, only observing him from a distance. If looks could kill. It was warranted, of course— his mind had nearly been torn in two by the occupation in 1940. France's mental scars far outnumbered the physical ones. England hadn't been quite as resentful, but Germany had still begun the Blitz on London before England had done the same to Köln. Certainly, more damage had been done to the latter. If he had to guess which of England's abrasions were the result of London, he'd have to say the one underneath the bandaging on his collarbone, from which crept a sickly reddish-brown bruise. The only reason the two of them hadn't talked alone yet was because West couldn't bear to look at it.
There were the Benelux, the Nordics, constituents of the USSR. Hell, even America. The congregation accused him with their eyes, punished him with their silences.
And then there was Italy.
Today, Veneziano and Romano had entered the courtroom with gaunt faces, meeting no one person's eyes for more than a second before darting to the ground. They were quiet, strangely. Stranger still, they were concordant. Misery had bound them together— they leaned heavily on each other not only physically, but emotionally. On any other occasion, West would have been proud.
On this occasion, North and South Italy looked upon him with identically hollow gazes.
September 1943 marked the Armistice of Cassibile. Veneziano and Romano had suddenly surrendered to the Allies, exhausted on all fronts.
He'd had the peninsula occupied within the month.
"Feliciano was being smart— their government was in tatters, they couldn't handle the war. And what did I do? Invade," West said hoarsely. The only immediate defense Italy had had against him was the partisan effort.
I deserve to suffer so much more than this.
Gil unskillfully pulled his little brother into a one-armed embrace as his shoulders began to shake with dry sobs. As a child, Ludwig hadn't cried much, and thus Gilbert was ill-prepared to comfort him. Nevertheless, they clung to one another like life preservers as six years of guilt and despair washed over them.
The younger, wracked with noiseless, tearless weeping; his heart was far too new and tender for this.
The elder, his face stoic and his mind screaming; his heart was far too old and scarred for this.
The two of them endured. Perhaps they'd never recover. Perhaps they'd never be truly forgiven. But they'd try their hardest to regain normalcy, even if it killed them.
"Ahem."
The brothers jumped out of their seats. Russia stood on the edge of the lawn, trying not to look at them as some semblance of privacy. Lis stood beside him, mouthing their apology at the two of them.
"It's, ah, time to go," Russia stated awkwardly. He might have been the lead country of the USSR, but he wasn't happy about it. He probably wanted to go back even less than Gilbert.
This still didn't make the two friends. "Scheiße," Gil whispered, and then drawled, "I'm coming, Ivan." He drew Russia's name out as "ee-vaaahn." Lis grimaced at him and looked nervously at Russia for any sign of reaction. He scowled, but evidently wasn't in the mood to shatter East's face.
East turned back to West and hugged him tightly. "Be good, alright? We'll see each other soon." Gilbert's voice shook.
"What about you? Promise me that you'll take care of yourself. I don't know..." How much time you have left. They both knew the end of the sentence.
"I'll be alright as long as you are."
And then he was gone, looking back only briefly to offer the ghost of a smile.
"Goodbye, Preußen," he whispered.
When he looked down, he noticed with detachment that the cigarette had turned to ash, scalding his fingers.
Getting to Moscow was a massive fucking ordeal. The three of them— East Germany, Hungary, and Russia— were walking to a car, which would take them to the train station, which would take them to the Moscow station, from which they'd need to take yet another car. East really didn't know how he was going to survive the ride without going mad somewhere between here and Poland.
"I trust you had a good time today?"
Especially with this shitstain.
The itch to punch Russia in the face acted up again, nearly overpowering his rational thoughts. Fortunately, East had his cane in one hand, and Lis' hand in the other. This left approximately no hands with which to punch. His mouth, however, was unmuzzled, and thus perfectly capable of doing the job.
"I saw my little brother cry for the first time. We were together for only half an hour. Sure, I had a good time."
Lis squeezed his hand, and he couldn't tell whether it was sympathy or a warning to stand down.
"Oh dear. Maybe we shouldn't have let you see him. It would hurt less." Ivan's tone was soft, but Gilbert felt as if every word was intended to mock his pain, to diminish the weight of the ordeals he suffered. He stopped walking.
"I am dying because you sadistic fucks took me away from him. Today hurt, but every day that I'm in Moscow, a little piece of me dies. Soon there will be nothing left to give back to my brother at the funeral," Gilbert sneered. As soon as he said this, Russia had him up in the air, hands around his windpipe. Lis screamed in horror. Normally, they would have never stayed idle; but Lis knew the drill. No interference.
He had absolutely no doubt Ivan's purplish eyes were boring into him with all the ferocity of an enraged bear.
"Do not ever call me sadistic," Ivan intoned. His booming voice had lowered, if possible, a couple of octaves. Gil's fingers scrabbled at his neck, uselessly trying to pry his adversary's fingers away.
"Do you understand?"
East wheezed something unintelligible, which Ivan took for agreement. He released him abruptly, dumping him unceremoniously on the ground, and continued walking. Hungary rushed over, helping Gilbert to his feet as he massaged his neck. "I am so, so sorry."
"S' not your fault," he managed hoarsely. Once again, he had lost control of his temper— it seemed to happen more easily these days. Was it a loss of inhibition, or were his emotions perpetually on the brink of surpassing his threshold?
Neither. Gil was provoking Ivan. Vicious jabs at old wounds, for vicious old enemies. Eventually, Russia would tire of being prodded at and subject him to a slow and agonizing death. He was trying to avoid that, for Ludwig's sake. But the risk, the adrenaline rush— that was what East sought. It distracted him from his shame, his self-condemnation that weighed him down like a lead coat. It distracted him from the looming prospect of the Berlin Wall, and from the injuries Ludwig still harbored. If acts of extreme stupidity were the only way he could escape, so be it.
Attempting to regain his ability to breathe, and to hide his triumphant smirk, East stood there quietly, while Lis' arms wrapped around him. They were breathing too shakily, embracing too tightly, as if it was them that had just been choked within an inch of their life. Lis probably had, sometime in the past couple of years. But they had agreed to silence. He regretted his actions only in this respect, for all the pain it caused Lis. The hug was just as much for East's sake as their own, he speculated.
Hungary was... different, in a way.
Prisoners of war were sent to labor camps, if they hadn't already been executed by the NKVD. They were unspeakably cruel, whipping the men raw for the smallest of offenses. Starvation was the norm. If there was extra food, they'd beat one another to a pulp for it while the guards watched. After their stint in the camp, Lis was quieter, colder, more volatile. They looked at everyone with suspicion, stalking through the house restlessly.
And not even the emaciation from lack of food could hide the fact that Hungary's body was not male. They never said a word, but Gil read their actions— a flinch at someone's voice, a sudden intake of breath. It hurt the most when Lis recoiled at his touch, still trapped in another reality. Lis suffered a sort of terror that went bone-deep.
"May I?"
A nod. He put a hesitant hand to their face, trying to remember Lis' features. Eyes the color of spring, silvery scars on their cheeks, chestnut hair shorn short on the back. Even though he had made sure to commit to memory the faces of his loved ones before he lost his sight, details inevitably drifted away. Maybe one day he would only remember Lis' face in the ridges and curves he felt under his fingers. They kissed, gently, tears he hadn't known he was shedding mixing with theirs.
They broke apart and hurried after Russia, once again hand-in-hand.
A/N: point out historical inaccuracies in the reviews please! Feedback is my lifeblood.
Lis is short for Elisaveta, as Hungary's agender in my interpretation.
Also yeah I know the Eastern Bloc wasn't really a thing til '55 but there were a lot of behind-the-scenes negotiations