De-anon from the kink meme for the prompt Personality Change.


Germany slammed the front door shut, hurling it back against the frame, and wished he could do the same to his brother. Concentrating on the beige walls of his front hallway rather than the white-haired menace walking next to him, he took a deep, steadying breath as they made their way towards the living room. Then he took another. It wasn't working, so he abandoned it as a lost cause and skipped straight to plan number two.

Moving quickly, he took a large step forward and spun around to face the source of his anger, extending his arm to block the path ahead. A small shudder of impact went through his palm and up his arm as his hand came to rest directly above where the skinny, dark tie met the edges of Prussia's still buttoned suit jacket.

"Why, Prussia?" he snapped, voice unyielding, the same tone that made even his most hardened soldiers flinch. "I know you are capable of at least pretending to respect our leaders. I've seen—"

"Your leaders," Prussia cut in with a sneer, not phased in the least by the display. "Not mine. You all made that perfectly clear a long time ago." He leaned forward on the balls of his feet, entire body tensed as if prepared to spring.

God, not this again. Germany withdrew his arm to pinch the bridge of his nose.

His brother didn't often accompany him on government business, but today had been one of those rare occasions that cropped up every so often. A respected Federal Minister, newly initiated into the knowledge of the existence of Nations, had requested to meet the elusive Prussia face-to-face. Against his better judgment, Germany had complied and extended the invitation.

He made a mental note not to repeat that mistake, and got back to the matter at hand. "Regardless, there are certain things that are not appropriate to say, let alone to our most respected figure, and in the middle of an important meeting."

The rigid set of Prussia's shoulders eased, arms dropping to his sides as he shed the aggressive stance. "Wait. What? I thought this was about me calling that Minister's stupid Green initiative stupid."

One of Germany's hands clenched into a fist. "Do you even listen to yourself? There is nothing stupid about the environment." He shook his head. This was not the time for distraction. "That's not the point. That was bad. But, no. This was afterwards, when you called our boss 'The Iron Cun—'"

"That was a compliment!" Prussia broke in, indignantly. "She's got the girl equivalent of Balls of Steel. A Brass Pair! What else was I supposed to say!"

"Not that! Anything but that!" Germany lost the battle to stay composed, smacking a fist into his opposite palm. "That disgusting, horrible word. You embarrassed us both."

Prussia drew himself to his full height at the accusation, face hardening into what Germany always thought of as his battle expression, eyebrows drawn and lips set in a stern line, as if seeing everyone and everything, and eager to fight them all. It was an uncanny contrast to the sharp business suit; a strange blending of old and new.

"Fuck you, West. The world used to be fun, now you hypocritical little uptight shits are running everything, with your stupid rules and lists of things you can't say or do. I don't know what you all think is so great about the modern world. I think it sucks. "

With a curl of his lip, Prussia pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, and Germany knew he wasn't doing it out of any desire for the drug. This was spite; his brother knew exactly how much he hated and loathed those things.

A wave of rage rose within him at the deliberate snub and he advanced until they were nose to nose. The wall was directly to his left, and he shifted his stance to reach out with his far arm, placing it solidly against the plaster next to Prussia's head. A part of him (the part he worked so hard to bury under rules and regulations and paperwork) unfurled in satisfaction at crowding his brother's slighter frame against the living room wall, using his superior height and bulk to their full advantage.

Deftly, he withdrew his arm and plucked the cigarette away, tossing it onto the tiled hallway they'd just left. He would worry about the mess later. "That's a disgusting habit."

If Prussia was bothered by the close proximity, he didn't show it, just laughed and took out another cigarette. Before he could bring the foul thing to his lips, Germany grabbed his wrist and slammed it up against the wall, pinning it at shoulder height. It was only when Prussia's expression shuttered closed, eyes flicking uncertainly up before hardening into a challenging glare, that he realized how much force he'd used, how tight he was still squeezing.

Guilt flooded through him. He started to loosen his grip but Prussia beat him to it, twisting and breaking out of the hold. A blur caught the corner of his eye and Germany immediately threw himself backwards.

The elbow aimed at his jaw passed harmlessly between the two of them.

Prussia pressed his lips tightly together in a bitter parody of a smile, though the barest hint of pride leaked out from behind an upturned corner of his mouth. "Good, you still remember some of what I taught you."

It was such a typical response that Germany had to fight back the bark of laughter that bubbled up in his throat. Because no matter how much the world changed, trying so hard to shift towards collaboration over declarations of war, Prussia remained Prussia. He was violent, and he was proud, and he refused to shed the aggressive, warlike mindset of his past. Fighting was still his instinctive response to everything that angered him.

Germany succeeded in suppressing the laughter, but the rage that had so recently consumed him was gone, smothered by the familiar comfort of his brother's belligerence. He fought to keep his gaze stern and disapproving, not wanting to end the discussion before reaching a satisfactory resolution.

But when Prussia went and lit the second cigarette, still in his possession throughout the minor scuffle, it was a clear indication the argument was over. There was no stopping his brother or making him listen to reason when he was in one of his moods, and this was clearly one of them.

"Take it—" Germany started, breaking off to wrinkle his nose as the foul smell hit him. "Take it outside."

Prussia opened his mouth, no doubt to wage some ridiculous argument.

He put a hand out to forestall whatever it was. "Prussia, please," he said, hoping to head off another fight. He wasn't above using flattery and politeness to get his way, and he was tired of arguments that went nowhere. "It's my house, too, and the smell takes forever to come out of the furniture."

With a sharp nod, and a bit off, "Fine," Prussia breezed past him and marched out the door, leaving a billowing trail of smoke in his wake.

Watching him go, Germany couldn't help but feel sorry for his older brother, whose collection of silly t-shirts and plethora of wide smiles hid a fiercely ordered military mind that never fully accepted the direction the world was moving in. He knew that as much as Prussia embraced the internet and mobile phones and all the other surface aspects of the modern world, there was still a large part of him forever stuck in the past, and Germany wasn't sure that would ever change.

There was nothing he could do about that so, with a sigh, he walked away in the opposite direction, heading to his bedroom to change out of the stuffy suit and into clothes more suitable for a casual dinner. Earlier, he'd made plans to meet with Italy, ostensibly to talk about the European economy, but in truth it was because he knew he'd need to relax after the long day of government meetings. And though he partook in many enjoyable hobbies, he'd found to his surprise that none were as calming as listening to his hyperactive friend chatter on about whatever topic was on his mind at the moment.

Not bothering to hold back the smile that spread across his face as he entered the room, Germany stripped off his jacket and replaced it neatly on the appropriate hanger. A quick shower and he was ready.

He pocketed his wallet and took a brief look around the house. No sign of Prussia. With a last call of "I'm going out. You're on your own for dinner," he left the house.

.

Walking along the picturesque cobblestone street near his destination, it struck Germany how the world had changed in so many ways since that day in the forest when he'd first stumbled across what he thought was a box of tomatoes.

Buildings got bigger, technology got smaller, life moved faster.

Italy stayed the same. Not the country, he amended. His friend. Italy had remained the eternally cheerful, fun-loving, steadfast person he always was.

After the tumultuous day and the fight with Prussia, he was looking forward to a dose of cheer.

They had arranged to meet at a small, outdoor café, and when he turned the corner, he could see Italy was already there, sitting at a little round table out on the sidewalk. Congregating around him was a small army of young, stylishly dressed women, chattering and laughing at something that had obviously just been said.

Some things truly never did change.

He stopped to watch as Italy talked with them all, hands gesturing every which way and head turning rapidly back and forth as he paid attention to everyone in turn. A long time ago, Germany would have wondered if perhaps it would be better to turn around, to leave his friend in the company he was so clearly enjoying. Now he knew better. Chuckling at the folly of his past self, he continued forward towards the group.

In mid-gesture, Italy's head turned his way and their eyes locked.

With a quick fluttering of his hands and what looked like a flurry of words, Italy was suddenly alone at the table, his admirers moving on in a flock of heels and hair. "Germany!" he called out, waving wildly and completely unnecessarily, the ever-present but genuine smile lighting up his face.

He found himself smiling back, the trials of the day already seeming farther away. With a small nod and a quick, "Thank you for meeting me," he sat down in the empty chair across the table.

Italy laughed. "That's what friends do!" Suddenly silent, he studied Germany intently. "You look upset, but different than normal. Not like when I didn't use to run fast enough, or when we don't raise our hands at meetings." His expression turned inquisitive, head tilting slightly to one side. "Why aren't you happy?"

"It's nothing."

Italy didn't respond, except to look at him unceasingly, eyes blinking every so often.

It was a surprisingly good interrogation tactic. "Fine. It's Prussia."

"Is he okay?" Italy's eyes widened further, which Germany didn't think was physically possible, and he was reminded that the two of them got along rather well. It made sense that Italy's first reaction would be concern.

"Yes, he's fine. It's just," he sighed and fidgeted with the cutlery on the table, turning the dull butter knife over and over in one hand, "he's so— he doesn't understand. This isn't the nineteenth century, or the eighteenth or the seventeenth, and he still acts like he's..." Germany lapsed into silence, fists clenched and knife gripped tight in one hand. "The drinking, the smoking, the fighting, the insults; it doesn't stop. He's impossible," he finished, feeling somewhat lame at the poor explanation.

Kind eyes looked at him, uncharacteristically alert. "I forget sometimes," he said, with a wistful look. Seeing Germany's puzzled expression, he clarified. "That you're not as old as the rest of us. A hundred years isn't such a long while. And we can only change ourselves so much to match the times."

For the first time, Germany felt young in his friend's presence. "You're saying he might never change?"

"Do you really want him to? He wouldn't be your brother if he was exactly like you." It wasn't an answer, which was in stark contrast to the normally straightforward, open nature Germany was used to dealing with. Then Italy smiled brightly and leaned back, returning to his more regular disposition and breaking the strange spell. "Besides, sometimes you need an older brother to tell you when you're being an idiot! Or a moron. Or a dumb bastard." He listed them off on each finger until they were both laughing.

Mind somewhat assuaged, Germany shifted the conversation around to Italy and his doings.

They continued talking, eating, and drinking as the sun went down, turning the sky from blazing orange to purple and finally a deep dark black, the only light coming from the restaurant's outdoor lamps and the windows of the surrounding shops. Eventually, it was time to part and, with a kiss to both cheeks, Italy flitted away.

Having eaten a little too much pasta, Germany decided on a small walk before heading home. He found himself wandering away from the lights of the main street, enjoying the peace of the moment. There would be no peace when he got back to the house and he wanted to savor the quiet while he could.

The stars were out in full force, he noticed, chancing to glance up. Not as much as in days gone by, but still there and still beautiful. He wondered what the older nations thought when they looked at the sky, so constant yet not immune to change over the course of millennia.

A thin, bright streak of light blazed amongst the specs of stars and brought him out of his musings, disappearing as quickly as it had come.

It was a shooting star.

I wish Britain would get a headache and go home.

Unbidden, the memory flashed to the front of his mind in startling clarity. Another dark, still night from what felt like another lifetime ago. He and Italy, a campsite, and a battle against impossible odds looming the next day. Germany had laughed at first, at Italy's childlike wish, but it had worked, hadn't it. What could it hurt to try again? He'd keep it simple this time.

Looking up at the sky, he concentrated on the exact spot the bright light had been. A slight breeze rustled his clothes as he pulled his thoughts together.

I wish Prussia would act like a mature, peaceful democracy for once.

The moment the words swirled through his mind, Germany felt like an idiot. There was no such thing as wishing on a star, everybody knew that. What kind of nonsense had he picked up from Italy, anyway.

He smiled, laughing at his own foolishness, and made his way back home. Things would look better in the morning. They always did.