The fireplace cast a warm light on the office, in stark contrast to the business-suited figure at the desk. A tall man with icy blue eyes, his blond hair slicked back and his face set in a cold non-expression, he barely moved as he read through file after file, turning each page and setting it neatly on the pile of files he'd already finished. The three dogs asleep by the fire moved more than he did.
Only someone who knew him very well indeed would have caught the slight tremble of his hands as he turned the pages, the hint of unsteadiness in his breathing. The avatar and personification of Germany had the kind of self-control that left others wondering whether he was capable of emotion at all. Until something broke that iron self-discipline.
Another page turn. Germany froze, utterly still.
The latest page, yet another in the endless, detailed catalog of records from the death camps - why hadn't he felt their pain? They were his people - lay on the desk, silently taunting. Words, phrases, dates. Prisoner 671034, admitted 17th April, 1942. Height: 178 centimeters. Weight 75.5 kilograms. Identifying marks: typical albino coloring with numerous scars on torso. Subhuman class: Defective, subclass Albino. Other: Prisoner is extremely dangerous and must remain fully restrained at all times. Prior to arrest, prisoners used the protection and status of a ranking relative to conceal enemies and subhumans. Convicted on multiple counts of espionage and treason 12th April, 1942. There was no name, of course. Those sent to die weren't human, or so his - thankfully former - boss had claimed. Germany didn't need a name.
His hands clenched. This, reading through the records of the horrors done in his name, things he'd never known were happening, might be mercy beside what his brother endured but... knowing his brother hadn't been the coward the Allies claimed, hadn't been 'hiding' in Auschwitz but had been an inmate... This was Hell. He knew his brother was no coward, knew he'd never have tried to pass himself off as a captive, but his brother was good at concealing his real motives. Better than Germany himself, though instead of the blank non-expression others thought of as a fierce glare his brother taunted and blustered.
He swallowed and closed his eyes, opened them as nauseating images from the camps he'd been forced to visit rose in his mind. The seething tangle of rage, guilt, and confused grief - why hadn't he known? Why? - erupted.
He didn't realize he'd screamed until a too-familiar voice said in English, "Hey dude, could you keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep."
Germany's hands trembled when he picked up the piece of paper and handed it to the speaker. "You do read German, I hope?"
The other man - the avatar and personification of the United States, usually known as America - nodded. "Yeah. Just don't tell anyone." He grinned and adjusted his glasses. "I don't want to ruin my reputation."
At any other time Germany would have rolled his eyes. Not this time. Not now.
He knew when America realized what he was reading. He paled, swallowed. Lifted one hand and ran it through his wheat-gold hair. Finally, he said, "Fuck." After a long moment, he repeated the word several times, his voice getting stronger each time.
Germany didn't swear. He simply took the paper when it fell from America's hands and set it on the desk.
America sighed. "Come on. I need something to drink before we start trying to work out what to do now." He made a sour face.
We? Germany chose not to voice the thought. America was in his home as warden, not guest. Whether his effective house-arrest was justified or not, it was a fact and he'd be a fool to antagonize the most merciful of his jailers. England would have laughed and made a sarcastic comment about well-earned punishment. France would have shrugged and claimed that was war - not that either of them lacked justification. Germany's brother was no innocent: he simply hadn't committed the crimes he'd been punished for.
Not that there was anything 'simple' about the avatar of the former nation of Prussia. He liked people to think he was just a barbarian, interested in nothing more than fighting, beer, fornication, and food - not necessarily in that order, either - something which had given many of his enemies and rivals - he'd have said he didn't have friends - unpleasant surprises over the years. It appeared that Prussia had done it again.
Three bottles of beer later, Germany slumped in his chair in the living room. His chest wasn't quite so tight, and he could think past the knot of shocked grief.
"You didn't know." America wasn't asking.
He shook his head. "I didn't know about any of it. I didn't feel it." Another slow shake of his head, bewildered. "I felt the battles, your bombings... But not the camps." He shouldn't have admitted that, should never have given the Allies another reason to call him a monster.
Those so-innocent sky blue eyes behind the glasses lost their focus. "Huh. I never heard... Wait, I totally know that's possible! I've done it myself."
Germany blinked. That made no sense. His people had been tortured and killed by his people and he'd known nothing. That shouldn't have been possible - he'd known it wasn't possible until the knowledge had been shattered by the reality of the camps.
America shrugged. "Confession time," he said in a soft voice that was nothing like his normal brashness. "Way back, before England and France found us, me and Canada used to share everything. Even the land. He always called further north than me, but if I was sick or injured, he'd take some of it for me, and if he was, I'd do the same for him. I think it takes being close and having land that you both identify with."
The room faded and dissolved.
#
Germany woke to America leaning over him, looking concerned. "You okay dude? That was seriously freaky, you passing out like that."
Americans. Not that it was the other avatar's fault: he was the embodiment of his people, after all. That meant he got their obnoxious traits as well as the good ones. Germany wasn't sure if it was better to have the stoicism and obedience of his people or the brash openness of America's. Not any more. Not after leading his people to Hell. Twice.
"What you said..." Germany swallowed. "My brother fits that description." He closed his eyes. "Why didn't he say anything?"
"Um. Dude." America sounded hesitant. "Would you have listened? Back then, I mean."
All the stoicism in the world couldn't have stopped Germany's wince. "Likely not," he admitted. His eyes burned and he hoped it was just fatigue. He'd already shown too much weakness to the American.
"Yeah." America didn't seem triumphant, though. "I gotta make some calls. If you're not gonna sleep, why not put that record someplace safe and see if you can dig out the transcripts of his trial."
Germany winced again. He had no doubt that somewhere in the mountain of records - so very systematic, his people - he'd find a transcript of Prussia's trial. Reading that... No matter how much he hated the thought, it was his duty. His fault.
If his hands weren't steady when he picked up the the camp manifest record that was only because it was so late, wasn't it? And if his eyes blurred when he rested it carefully on the top shelf of the safe, well, that was just tiredness because a good German soldier doesn't cry even when he learns just how much his older brother sacrificed for him, does he? Even when his brother deliberately took the suffering Germany deserved and lied to the Allied powers when he said it was Prussia's doing, Prussia's ideas, Prussia's dreams of reclaiming lost power...
He didn't see the safe door when he closed it, didn't see his office at all when he stumbled to the desk and slumped into the chair. After a while, he didn't see anything.
#
America put the phone down in time to hear something hit the floor in the direction of Germany's office. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It's too late for this." The sentiment didn't stop him returning to the cozy room, where Germany lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious. "Aw, damn." The other avatar was six foot of solid muscle, which didn't make for easy carrying.
He knelt by the fallen avatar, checking for injuries. It looked as though Germany had slid out of his chair when he passed out. "Well, buddy, this ain't going to be a picnic." America sighed and slid his glasses into his shirt pocket before he bent to haul the other avatar to bed.
By the time he staggered into Germany's bedroom, America was more than a little worried. This wasn't simple exhaustion. People didn't shiver uncontrollably in their sleep, as a rule.
For all the older avatars thought him a naive, dumb kid, America wasn't stupid. Straightforward, sure, and maybe a bit naive, but he'd fought a war for his independence at an age when most avatars were still firmly colonies of an older empire, another one to keep that independence less than fifty years later, and a bitter civil war before he'd seen his nation's first century. Not to mention his states were more like countries themselves, complete with their own avatars - something he didn't talk about much since he wasn't too keen on being split between warring powers. He'd had enough of that in his civil war.
The combination meant America knew very well what good health in an avatar was like, and Germany wasn't it right now. Not when he was busy going into shock.
It wouldn't kill him - avatars were harder to kill than Texas roaches - but it would leave him and his people weakened at a time when they needed all their strength to rebuild.
"Not that the old men would agree," America muttered as he wrestled the unconscious avatar into his bed. "You're younger than me, dude." He unlaced Germany's black dress shoes and pulled them off. "Where did you get that stick up your ass?" Germany's socks followed, landing on the floor a moment later. "Need to get you warm and comfy." Pulling the covers back with Germany's dead weight on the bed was a challenge, although not as much as hauling the man up the stairs. This far from home, America couldn't call on his full strength. He needed to be on his nation's soil for that, or so angry he didn't care if he exhausted himself.
Germany didn't wake at all, or stop shivering, even when America tucked blankets around him to keep him warm.
"Dude, this is not cool." America sighed. If someone had told him a year ago he'd be seriously considering sharing Germany's bed - it wasn't even wide enough to call a bed, more like a camp cot - he'd have laughed in their face. England would laugh anyway if he knew, and France would think it was all for sex. "Fuck it. I still need to sleep and you need the warmth. Sorry."
#
Sunlight streamed through the window when America woke. Germany had slipped into something more like catatonia than real sleep, but at least he wasn't shivering any more.
"Aw, fuck." America sighed. "Looks like I get to play nursemaid."
He rolled out of the bed and stretched cramped muscles. A bed that narrow wasn't comfortable for two, no matter how close they were. Hard to believe Italy Veniciano slept there so much - although unlike France and England, America had no doubt that the only thing happening in that bed was sleep. He couldn't imagine Germany having sex, kinky porn collection or not.
He knew from his own citizens that a collection of weird porn didn't stop someone from being a virgin.
Although, Germany being Germany, there was a good chance his weird porn involved forms that had to be filed in triplicate. Without errors.
That thought sent America hurrying to the bathroom to scrub the mental image from his mind. He might be open-minded, even for avatars who tended to be a lot more relaxed about matters sexual than humans just because - being more or less immortal - if they hadn't seen everything they'd seen close enough to make no difference. Even America, despite his Puritan history or maybe because of it - man, those guys were pervy, just not in public - wasn't exactly a prude.
He'd just about got his wayward thoughts settled by the time he'd brushed his teeth, showered, dressed, and got a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. That - of course - was when the doorbell rang.
America sighed and trudged to the door, stifling a yawn. This better not be some desk jockey with a stick up his ass. I get enough of that from Germany.
The avatar of France stood waiting, a vision of male beauty with his perfect features, golden hair, and blue eyes. In typical fashion, he looked like he was being hugely inconvenienced and like he was doing the occupants of the house a huge favor. Both at the same time, which was a trick.
As soon as he was inside and the door closed, France said, "Canada called."
America didn't particularly like calculating time zones in his head, but he could do it. He'd called his twin last night, catching him a little before he went to bed. There was no way he should have called anyone then, not when it would have been way late for them. England would have bitten his head off.
America had figured on calling him and France later this morning, late enough to give both avatars time to actually be awake. "Jeez, I didn't mean him to wake you in the middle of the night."
"He did not." France's shrug was one of those typically Gallic gestures that conveyed both that the matter was not considered important and that the recipient should consider himself honored to receive such condescension.
Naturally, it irritated the Hell out of America.
"I had not retired when Canada called, so I simply packed and made my way here," France continued.
America winced. "You didn't have to do that, dude. I can hold things together for a day or so if he doesn't wake up."
One perfectly-formed eyebrow rose just enough to suggest America was being childish and stupid. "This is Germany you are talking about. The man has to be half dead before he sleeps past six."
"I know that." America reminded himself that fighting with France wasn't going to do any good. "He's warm enough and his breathing and heartbeat are steady. The interim administration will call here if anything happens. I don't see any danger letting him sleep it off."
The eyebrow rose a little further. "Perhaps." Another of those small shrugs. "So, may I ask what caused you to call your brother?"
"Camp records," America said. "Coffee?"
France sneered faintly. "Thank you, no. And by camp records, I presume you do not mean your boy scouts."
Regardless of the other avatar's opinion, America was not facing this mess without coffee, and his style of coffee at that. "No, I don't. I'll meet you in the office, okay?" He didn't wait for France to agree.
#
To America's relief, Germany hadn't locked his safe.
France took the paper as though he expected it to bite, read quickly. His lips pressed tightly together and his eyes narrowed a little. "I see." He didn't sound pleased. "I could have told Prussia his little ruse would not last."
America blinked. Gulped down the coffee in his mouth. "Little ruse?" His voice cracked. "You knew?"
"Of course." Another of those so-Gallic shrugs. "He is the reason the Vichy ploy worked as long as it did."
It took America a moment to realize what France was saying. "When you led the resistance while pretending to be a loyal little puppet?"
France's smile held no warmth. It was as thin and cold as the avatar of a nation known for love could get - which was very. "Precisely."
America signed and ran his free hand through his hair. "So. What do we do now? England will throw a fit. Russia isn't going to let go of Prussia any time soon, not with his boss grabbing as much of Europe as he can." He didn't mention China - that nation and its avatar were embroiled in turmoils of their own and would have little interest in European matters.
Both the older avatar's eyebrows rose. "Astute of you." His tone suggested he was surprised by America's assessment.
America reminded himself that punching France wouldn't do any good. It would be satisfying, but the mess that would happen afterwards wasn't worth it. "I'll let you think it over, old man." He turned to leave the study. "You wouldn't listen to anything I said anyway."
#
Germany was still unconscious, and not sleeping. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed indicated he still lived.
America swore under his breath. The longer Germany stayed unconscious, the more likely it was England would have to come here, and that would be... bad. While the avatar of England, the United Kingdom, and the fast-fading British Empire had mellowed a lot since his peak, he was still a force to be reckoned with, especially when he got in one of his moods.
It wasn't the sarcasm that bothered America, it was the disturbing sense that the older man would like nothing better to revert to his glory days and screw or kill - or both - anything that got in his way. He'd been far too good at that for anyone's comfort, and he'd won every major war he'd got himself into since that time.
Not that America would ever tell England that, since he maintained - for morale and public opinion, of course - that both the wars where he'd kicked England's ass for him were major affairs. He knew better, he just wasn't ever going to say so. A man needed his ego boosters, after all.
He checked that Germany was still warm enough, then returned to the office, where France was digging through the piled records. "No change. You want something to eat?" America sure did. He was starving.
The older avatar rose with unconscious grace. "I will cook. Your hamburgers for breakfast is a nauseating prospect."
America glared at him. There was nothing wrong with hamburgers. They were simple, you could eat them while you worked, and they had pretty much everything you needed: meat, green stuff, bread, cheese... Just because he didn't have time to spend hours cooking!
He was saved from having to start looking through the piled records by someone knocking on the door.
"I'll get it!" He'd rather France stayed in the kitchen. While the man was cooking he wasn't making snide comments about America.
He changed his mind when he opened the door. England stood there in his full British Empire pissed off glory, green eyes hard as emeralds. Despite America having fought a war for independence from the older avatar, he found himself wanting to shrink into himself and beg for forgiveness or mercy. It annoyed the shit out of him. He'd taken his nation from a weak, untaught colony to one of the most powerful in the world, and he did not need England glaring at him like he'd wet the bed. Again.
Of course England didn't wait to be invited in, no matter how much he insisted anyone at his place wait even if - like all his colonies - they had the key. The man simply pushed past America without a word.
The other arrival rolled his eyes and sighed. "Sorry. He wouldn't listen when I tried to explain."
America nodded. His brother Canada might look so much like him that people mistook them - and it was always mistaking Canada for America, something neither twin enjoyed - but America knew the differences. Canada wore his hair a little longer, and his eyes were more the purple-blue of a sunset sky. He was modest and quietly-spoken, avoided conflict, and was overlooked by most avatars. Hell, even England forgot him half the time.
America tried not to forget his twin, but he suspected Canada did something that made him just drop out of people's awareness. Whatever it was it was potent, America knew that much. "I figured he'd be here in a rage sooner or later." He shrugged. "Coffee? There's a pot in the kitchen, and France is making breakfast."
Canada smiled. "That sounds wonderful."
#
Waiting for France to finish cooking and for everyone except Germany to gather in the office did nothing for England's temper. To America it looked like his former mentor was about ready to snap, and America was the first to admit that he had no ability to read people. He got himself into so much trouble over that.
"So what's this nonsense about that teutonic wanker being innocent?" England demanded the moment everyone was in the room.
Canada winced from the venom in his voice, and even France looked startled.
America supposed that meant he'd need to deal with the problem - again. And people wondered why he joked about being a 'hero'. He had to, the way he kept having to haul avatar asses out of the fires they'd made for themselves. "Not even Prussia would fake being a death camp inmate for three years," he said as calmly as he could. "It's not awesome."
England's eyes narrowed."You're not going soft are you, America?"
"Enough." France's voice had an edge America had never heard from the older avatar. "You will hear what Canada and I have to say and you will view the evidence if we have to gag you and tie you to the chair."
America wasn't surprised there was more than a bit of eagerness in France's voice - everyone knew the self-styled nation of love was more than a bit on the kinky side. Most of the avatars also knew the relationship between England and France wasn't exactly one of hatred. More like hate-love, and even he could see that.
England's eyes flicked from France to Canada, and when he saw the younger avatar's grim expression and folded arms, to America who did his best to match the cold glares the other two were giving off.
"Oh very well." England's glare didn't soften one whit.
America handed the older avatar the camp record, ready to jump if England tried to destroy it.
"I see." That could have frozen Hell several times over. "And this is all you have?"
France spoke before America could say anything about looking for trial records. "It is all America has until we locate the records of Prussia's interrogation and trial." He frowned. "I do not expect those to make pleasant reading."
England tilted his head up slightly. "So confident they'll exist, France? After what they did to you, too."
France narrowed his eyes. "You remember the Little Songbird, no?"
Judging by the way England stiffened, he did. That particular code name belonged to one of the most effective spies the Allies had used, though America had never heard anything about who it was. He'd figured the spy had to be working with England, since MI5 were even closer about that kind of thing than his CIA.
Canada only nodded, looking sad.
England wasn't stupid: just a bit harder to stop than a freight train when he got on one of his tears. "You're not suggesting that Prussia..."
America carefully closed his mouth.
"No." France gave one of his expressive shrugs. "I am not suggesting any such thing. I know, because he is the one who smuggled me from that prison and maintained the fiction that I was still present and supporting Vichy France."
England just gaped.
Canada nodded. "He got me out of Germany after I was captured."
France sneered. "You, however, were so set on destroying Prussia not a word would have deterred you." He waved a long-fingered hand in England's direction. "America had the decency to argue against dissolution despite believing him guilty. You, my old enemy, have no such excuses."
America swallowed. "You're expecting the Gestapo were involved in the trial and all, aren't you?" He wasn't really asking, and he didn't want to have to look at the silently raging England.
Both Canada and France nodded, but it was Canada who spoke. "Spying, treason... Those fuckers would have been salivating over the chance to get at him."
#
America clenched his teeth. His stomach twisted and he wanted nothing more than to flee the room and throw up. Instead, he gathered the fat pile of records he'd been looking through, and stood, slammed the papers onto the desk. With one hand, he grabbed England's collar and hauled the shorter man away from France and the argument that hadn't stopped in over three fucking hours.
"You git! What do you think-"
"Read." America indicated the top of the pile. "Now." He pushed England's head down so he couldn't turn his head away, and held him there until he stopped fighting.
Canada and France stared.
America just shrugged, waiting.
It took less than ten minutes. England paled, then started to tremble. Before another five minutes had passed, England fled the room. Everyone heard him being noisily sick.
America hoped he was puking in the kitchen.
France raised one eyebrow in a silent question.
"They gave him to Mengele," America said in a tight voice. "And he didn't try to escape because they told him they'd come for Germany if he did."
France's breath hissed through his teeth. "Merde."
"I think that counts as 'sufficient evidence'."
Canada gave him a sharp look. "Sarcasm? From you? It must be bad."
America just pointed to the piled records. He suspected he knew what had sent England running: Prussia's eyes. Or rather, what Mengele had done with them. Reading that might explain why Prussia didn't suffer from the eye problems that normally plagued albinos, but it sure made for a queasy stomach.
France made a choked sound, and Canada patted him on the back. The younger avatar looked about as grim as America felt. "He didn't want us to know, Papa." Canada's voice was a long way from steady.
"We don't show this to Germany." America wasn't making a suggestion. "Not yet. He needs... time to accept this."
Both Canada and France started to look muley.
"Look, how would either of you be if you found out someone protected you from even knowing your boss was murdering your people?"
Canada winced, and nodded.
The tension drained from France's posture. "You are perhaps less of a fool than you appear, America."
America didn't think the respect in the man's expression would last. It never did.
England returned, looking paler and a bit green. "That Mengele is one sick wanker."
It was as close to an apology as America would get, and he accepted it as such. "Yes. Not that there's a fucking thing we can do about any of it." He let his frustration into his voice then, because there was no reason not to. "Fucking Russia isn't going to let go of any of the... territory he's gained. If he even lets anyone see Prussia in the first place. And Russia's fucking boss is no better the fucker we stopped here."
England's eyebrows - they were so bushy they were like giant caterpillars attached to his face - bristled when he said, "Despite your appalling language, that is a surprisingly astute summary of the situation."
America resisted the temptation to snap at the older avatar. It wasn't going to do any good, and besides, he was mostly irritable because he felt guilty for his part in the dissolution of Prussia. Hell, he didn't even know if Prussia's avatar had survived, and knowing he'd helped do that to someone who'd been innocent - innocent of the horrors of the Nazis, at any rate - made America's gut clench and his head ache. It went against everything he tried to stand for.
#
Germany couldn't tell if he dreamed or if the sunny field where he stood was some kind of hallucination or memory. It felt real.
He was young again, a small child with his big brother beside him, Prussia's pale hand resting lightly on his shoulder while he pointed out landmarks, and - being Prussia - explained the strategic significance of everything in sight. Germany basked in his brother's attention, felt safe for the first time he could remember.
He didn't know why, but he trusted Prussia. Knew, deep down, that the older avatar would never hurt him.
The field darkened, chilled, and it was winter and Germany was older, taller than his brother now, a young man in his first war. It was nothing like the wars Prussia had retold with such excitement. Instead of the swords and men facing each other across a bloody field there was cold and mud while fire and death rained from the sky and the pain of his people dying around him. And guilt. He'd led his people to this, and it was destroying them. It didn't matter that he'd been forced by a choking network of mutual assistance treaties, didn't matter that he'd never wanted it. They were still his people.
His people.
Now he stood in one of the camps, staring at the starved, wrecked corpses that had been his people, the people he hadn't known were suffering and dying in his name. His people. He'd failed them. God how he'd failed them. He'd believed his boss when he'd said they'd build a wonderful new Germany, one that would last a thousand years and be the glory of the world. Instead, there was this... perversion. And it hurt, but not the way it should. He should be covered in raw, weeping sores from this, and he wasn't. Only the war wounds.
Cold now, at the trial, numb with horror as the brother he loved, the brother he trusted claimed he'd engineered it all, keeping Germany from realizing what was happening, taking the blame and goading the Allies, taunting and irrepressible despite being so painfully thin his tailored uniform hung loosely from his shoulders, despite the dark patches Germany could see where blood or worse soaked through the fabric. Numb when the Allies sentenced him to death, to have his nation dissolved, cease to exist - because destroying an avatar's nation would kill him, wouldn't it? - and his brother just sneered and taunted them more.
Numb even when he was forced to watch while his brother convulsed and screamed and blood ran scarlet from his mouth and sprayed with each scream, while his brother weakened and collapsed into panting breaths, still in agony but no longer strong enough to scream. Numb when Russia lifted his brother, slung the smaller man over one massive shoulder like he was a sack of potatoes, numb when Russia walked away, vanishing into that other realm avatars could use to travel quickly from place to place, taking what remained of Prussia with him.
Numb, and lost.
Lost.
Germany couldn't remember not being aware of Prussia's presence, ever. His big brother was always there, a comforting constant even when he was physically elsewhere, fighting some war or other, even when the Nazis - Germany couldn't bring himself to think of them as part of him, even though they were, they were him as much as their victims were, and he suffered when they died, too - had sent him to one of their filthy camps... Prussia was still there, a kind of parallel heartbeat representing the land they shared, which was everything within Germany's borders, really.
Germany refused to see his brother demoted to a mere state. Instead, back when Prussia became part of the kingdom, he'd drawn up a shared power agreement, making the two of them Germany. Prussia called him a naive fool, but signed anyway. They hadn't told their boss. Let Germany be the face of the land and Prussia his hidden trump. Only since none of their bosses knew, it wasn't enough to save Prussia, because he couldn't feel his brother any more, and he was alone, empty.
The wind whispered around him, mocking him with its hissing laughter so like Prussia's snickering. Only Prussia had never mocked him, not really. Only teased him, usually about how he was too serious and he needed to have fun. Germany could hear the difference between teasing and mockery, even though others couldn't. His eyes stung and his chest ached. He wanted his brother back, more than he could say.
In time, brother, the wind whispered.
Germany's head jerked up, and he spun to face the wind in the cold empty space of his dreams. Prussia? He could hardly form the thought.
More of that hissing laughter. I'll be back in good time, little brother. The wind wrapped around Germany, comforting now. For now, I need to play nice with Russia and his boss, but that won't last forever.
They know what you did. That thought was a little easier to voice even though no sound left his throat. I found your admission record. America will have told the others. He didn't ask why: he didn't have to. Prussia had always protected his little brother, no matter the cost.
Though wind couldn't embrace him, to Germany it seemed he was wrapped in his brother's arms again, warm and protected. Ksh... It lasted long enough. Now I can laugh at their guilt when they see me again - won't that be awesome, brother?
Germany couldn't see anything awesome about anything, not now, but maybe with the softening of time... Maybe.
Tch. So serious, little brother. Almost, Germany could see his brother's sharp grin, see the red eyes dancing with mirth. We'll recover. Our people will be strong again, and awesome, too.
Not another war!
Softer now, mournful. No wars, Prussia agreed. These modern wars, they're too destructive, too impersonal. No, this will be a different battle, one of hearts and souls and minds. You'll be the face of it, showing everyone that Germany can be peaceful and good, and I'll be in the shadows, driving the fucking commies out of their twisted little minds until their whole mess falls apart and their people can just be again.
It was so like Prussia, that, skipping over serious problems like they were games and still reaching to the heart of the matter with his sharp observations. Be careful, brother.
Always, brother. The wind wrapped tightly around Germany, a quick embrace. I'll miss you. I'll even miss that stick up your arse. And with hissing laugh that Prussia used to taunt and put people mentally off-balance, the wind faded, leaving Germany alone again.
Except now, ever so faintly, he could feel his brother's presence again.