One o'clock and all is well

by Windswift

After the reunification, Germany doesn't know how to talk about the monsters that have surely followed Prussia home.

Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz

One o'clock and all is well

Germany stands in the darkness of the hall, beside the doorway of the room his brother has reclaimed, and squashes his pillow between his hands. The strip of light spilling from underneath the door cuts off, suddenly, but the noises of puttering around and restlessness don't cease. Germany's watch is lying on the nightstand, back in his own room, and he won't risk an unfounded estimation of how long he's been standing here, pillow in hands.

Prussia's been knocking about the kitchen for an hour before that. Germany lay on his side and watched the display of the alarm clock while he listened; then for another ten minutes after Prussia stumped up the stairs and the door creaked shut.

It's not that Germany has nothing to say; plenty of complaints are jumbled in his head, easy to be grumbled out. That Prussia is an adult, and this is their house once again, and Prussia is well-within his rights to stay up however late he wants, doing whatever pleases him. But that there's someone else in this house, someone working very hard to do his job of putting things back to rights and sewing up the seams with paper trails, and it's very stressful work, and out of respect Prussia ought to do as he pleases a bit more quietly once Germany has turned off the office light and retired to his room.

But he is Germany, and when has he ever been able to make things easy?

The springs in the mattress creak and the bed releases a sort of whoosh at the sudden impact of Prussia flopping on it-mirroring Prussia's own sigh before he starts tossing and turning. Or maybe punching his pillow; Germany can't quite distinguish the sounds from outside the room.

Germany shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He's positioned on the far side of Prussia's bedroom doorway, not the more-convenient side closest to his own room, because he knows there's a floorboard in that vicinity with a propensity to creak. He wonders if he knew these sorts of tricks as a child, or if Prussia was a light sleeper who knew the creeping and the squeaks in the hallway were the restless wanderings of his little brother.

He doesn't actually remember very much of his childhood, being raised by Prussia. The memories are faded and fuzzy, a scattered few intact if somewhat indistinct, but most simply linger as impressions that bubble up in him from a certain smell, a certain taste, a certain touch, an elusive moment of déjà vu. But Prussia regales him with plenty of stories, and he's made especially certain-somehow-to remember in clearest detail all the ones most embarrassing to Germany's dignity. Among those are nights of poor health, of nightmares, of fitful sleep; nights of cuddling, of songs and stories, of sharing a bed.

Actually, Prussia admitted once, he was a pretty stubborn kid. "I could count on one hand the number of times you actually got me up in the middle of the night. So I did it for you. Stupid, right? I just didn't like to think of you, all alone in the dark with nothing but your monsters-so I guess that means we were both kinda pathetic. What a pair of tough guys."

Germany remembers, with much greater clarity, the night that followed the awkward day-because it shouldn't be welcome, it should be all wrong to have to invite a man into his own home-that Prussia came back to him. Lying in his bed, his eyes stubbornly closed, half-grateful for the respite and half-ashamed of his retreat. It's almost as if Prussia is gone again, now that Germany can't see him, or as if it's the early days after the war when he couldn't see that Prussia was not there, wasn't in some other room just out of Germany's knowledge. He's pretty sure he's heard a riddle like this before-that this invisible Prussia is both here and not-here at the same time, or that because Germany thinks, therefore Prussia exists-but these thoughts don't help him fall asleep. His mind just chases itself in circles, and the heat of it makes his blankets feel too stifling.

Prussia opens Germany's door-leaning all his weight on the doorknob, by the strained sound of it, to stick his head in the room without his feet actually crossing the threshold-and stage-whispers, "Hey. Hey, West."

Germany is jealous that Prussia can still use that name-a name that was supposed to be a harmless nickname, a special name Prussia created just for him, not some terrible, twisted prophecy of what their nation would one day become-without it darkening his face or tainting his voice with bitterness.

Germany shifts onto his side to face him, head propped up on one arm. "Yes?"

Prussia doesn't say anything, just steps into the room so that he's standing straight, though his fingertips linger on the doorknob. He clutches his pillow to his chest, one arm wrapped around the middle so that it's folded practically in half.

"Who are you, Italy?" The remark slips out of Germany's mouth reflexively, grudgingly, but already resigned-and he's rather grateful for it, as callous and insulting as the words sound, because he had no idea what to say, could conjure no template for what would be proper in this situation.

"Yeah," Prussia replies, and some of the tension drops from his shoulders, some of the lines soften around his mouth. Even the pillow seems to perk up in relief. "Yeah, I think he must've infected me. You're stuck with another terminal bed-hopper. I could strip off if it'd make you feel more comfortable?"

Germany doesn't bother answering the smirk or Prussia's waving his hand over his tank-top and shorts. He just flips back the blankets and scoots over, and braces himself for the inevitable bounce of Prussia pouncing-he can't ever simply lie down-on the mattress beside him.

Germany lies stiff and awkward on his back, his hands clasped over his chest in what Prussia usually calls "the death pose" but doesn't tease him for tonight. He's not shy about sharing his bed, but this isn't Italy cuddled next to him, whispering excuses and pretenses whose actual words are lost in the puffs of breath against Germany's skin; this isn't wartime, bunking with his older brother out of necessity, poking and kicking and exchanging lewd jokes and friendly insults if they haven't dropped off straight away from exhaustion. Germany doesn't know what this is, but he knows Prussia feels the same tension pressed next to him; but funnily enough, Germany doesn't remember the sheets being too hot with two people underneath them.

It is both the first and the last time that Prussia comes to his room in the night.

Although Germany waits, some nights, and listens; because in the daylight hours they remain stiff and awkward, walking around each other in a house that seems not to fully belong to either of them; because Germany still doesn't know what to say or do with his hands; because sometimes Prussia's smiles and grins and smirks and scowls don't always touch his eyes. Because Germany doesn't know how to talk about the monsters that have surely followed Prussia home from Russia's house, his only company in the dark. But he's standing in the hall when it must be past midnight and he has to wake early for a meeting in the morning, because he does know one thing-having a plan, having something to put his faith into, charging ahead, not making this easy: all of those he can swallow more easily than inaction.

So he steels himself, steps forward, and knocks on Prussia's door, just loud enough to be heard over the restless noises-and they cut off as abruptly as the lights. Germany opens the door, pillow in hand, and calls quietly into the dark: "Brother?"