Notes: So, I don't remember if I've talked about this or not, but in this story I switch a lot between country and human names. It has a lot to do with how close the countries that are talking are to each other and also the context of the story. If you think I should just stop and pick one, go ahead and tell me.
The memory is burned into Gilbert's mind clear as day. It's a surprise, because most of his memory from that time is a murky mess of pain and confusion at best. He still doesn't remember half of what happened to him under Soviet control.
It's sometime between 1950 and 1970, a blank stretch of twenty years in his mind, only broken by this one clear memory. He's bound to a chair in the back of an office, both hands and feet are tied. There's a strip of fabric shoved to the back of his throat. Russia is there, as always. America is there too, which is strange.
Neither nation makes any acknowledgement that Gilbert is there, other than the brief glance America gives him walking in. It's like he's a ghost, an invisible onlooker in a private conversation. They sit down, eyes locked in a silent battle for dominance. The tension in their glares sends a shiver down Gilbert's spine. He's never seen such an intense look on America's face.
Cold, uninterested conversation fills the air. They speak of bombs and spies and science so complex it makes Gilbert's mind spin. They speak of lives—human lives, as if they are nothing more than playthings, pieces in this sick, twisted game of theirs.
Russia says something that clearly interprets as a threat, and America laughs. It's not his regular, loud and booming one. This laugh is sharp and cruel. It sounds eerie and unhinged, like it should belong to someone much older than its actual owner. His whole body is rigid, the look in his eyes is intelligent—too intelligent. This is not the boy Gilbert met so many years ago on the battlefield. The one with blind fantasies of freedom and the determination to bring the British empire to his knees. This is someone entirely different.
Gilbert realizes suddenly that he is sitting in a room of sociopaths. Two sociopaths who have all the power in the world, and who won't hesitate to destroy it as long as they come up on top.
And he had taught America how to shoot.
Gilbert knows a lot about masks. He should, given how much he wears them.
He has to, because despite his confident and carefree nature, Prussia was a country forged and hardened by years of war and bloodshed. At this point it's all he really knows how to do, pick fights and slaughter his opponents. Or be slaughtered. Depends who's side Hungary is on.
He knows there are times when you have to bite back fear and put on a grin, times when you have to bleed confidence even though all you really want to do is cower in terror. A stable mask is the mark of a true warrior. No one can know about the way his stomach curls in painfully on itself every time someone calls him Prussia, the way he's reminded of everything he was and everything he lost. No one can know about the mornings Ludwig finds him curled under the bathroom sink, dried tears on his face and screams still ringing in his ears.
He wonders what his father would think if he could see him now. He thinks of how disappointed he would be to know what Gilbert's become. Ludwig doesn't remember their father, the same way he doesn't remember most of his childhood. There's a small part of Gilbert that's glad. Ludwig is everything. Gilbert raised him as if he were his own kid, and every time he looks into those sky blue eyes, so unlike his own, he's terrified that he made all the same mistakes their father did.
Gilbert knows he scares his little brother. Scares him in the way he sometimes wakes up with bloody fingertips, still clawing at his own skin. Ludwig will sit with him, eyes heavy with the guilt of his mistakes, and Gilbert will let his mask slip just a little. They'll talk about anything and everything until his hands stop shaking and he'll let Ludwig help him get cleaned up.
It helps. It really does. He gets enough sleep now, enough that his eyes aren't perpetually lined with bruise-like bags. He's gotten to the point that he can fool around with his friends and tease Austria without having to work to seem carefree. He doesn't always need the mask to keep a smile on his face.
That doesn't mean he can't see when others are wearing it. Gilbert knows a lot about masks.
He can tell Italy isn't always as blissfully cheerful as he seems (no one can be that happy all the time). He can see through Denmark's mask of unfaltering confidence (everyone has their insecurities), and through Poland's mask of apathetic idiocy (sometimes it's just easier to pretend you don't care). England is just keeping up appearances, China has seen the endless cycle of history too many times to count. They all wear a mask of some sort. Gilbert sees them all.
If they're in a parade of masks, America is the conductor.
Gilbert has never seen a mask as thick as America's. The amount of shit the kid hides behind there is ridiculous. He doesn't even think he could get away with it, but America does somehow.
It's actually pretty annoying. There's a timebomb right in front of everyone, yet Gilbert is the only one to really see it. At least Russia has the decency to let everyone know he's crazy. With America, it's tricky.
Gilbert brings beer to the party, obviously. Ludwig brings some other dish because he likes to cook and has a thing about making good impressions at social events with the other nations, but Gilbert brings beer. There's nothing more German than alcohol.
Alfred answers the door when they knock, and his eyes immediately snap to the bottles in Gilbert's arms. "Goddammit, I should have known." He sighs, but lets them into the house with a, "Please try not to mix it with the stuff Denmark and Spain brought."
The house is crowded with people. Alfred's annual Christmas party is more of a political event than a social one (turning down an invitation is like flipping off someone with a knife to your throat), but since Alfred's the host, the underlying tense atmosphere is heavily masked with a false, lighthearted air.
Streamers hang from the ceiling. A giant, glowing christmas tree stands tall and proud in the living room corner. Other than a few folding chairs and the table of food, there isn't a lot of furniture decorating the house. Gilbert wonders if America's place is usually this way, or if he empties it out for the party.
It only takes a single glance at the food table for him to tell that he's far from the first person to bring alcohol. Several bottles litter the table, and some of them are already half empty. Gilbert can tell this is going to be a very short party.
He pours a drink for himself. Several actually.
Gilbert vaguely recognizes Francis standing by the far wall. He's not drinking anything, which is strange, and is speaking in hushed tones with- who is that? Japan? They keep glancing over to where Alfred is speaking to someone else- a blonde, but Gilbert can tell who.
God, there are too many blondes in Europe. It's his last thought before the night goes bat-shit crazy.
Everything's a whirl of fairy lights, foreign Christmas carols, and drinks from several different cups that Gilbert isn't even sure are his anymore.
At some point, another blonde grabs him by the arm and mutters, "Brother, you should take it easy on the alcohol."
Brother
Bruder
Holy Rome
No, that's not right
Germany
West
Ludwig, yes that's it
Gilbert hisses something that's supposed to make Ludwig stop worrying, but it comes out garbled and wrong and he doesn't think it works, because Ludwig is leading him to another room. He's saying something about sitting down and not passing out.
Gilbert insists he's not drunk because there's not enough beer in the world to get him really drunk. Ludwig just swears in German under his breath and herds him towards a chair.
Gilbert doesn't want to sit down, he wants another drink but Ludwig won't listen to him. He starts to flail, trying to get out of his baby brother's grasp, and the next thing he knows, his hand has gone straight through the living room wall.
"Are you serious?"
Alfred is there. Everyone is staring.
"I gave you one job. Don't mix the alcohol, and now there's a hole in my wall."
A steady stream of apologies are streaming from Ludwig's mouth, but Gilbert isn't listening. He pulls his hand out of the cracked plaster and is surprised to find blood streaming down his knuckles.
People are talking around him, but he can't hear what they're saying. Antonio yells something, and someone is babbling in a language Gilbert doesn't understand. Ludwig says something about stopping the bleeding.
"No, I'll do it. There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom. You find him some water or something, try and get him sober."
The next thing he knows, he's been shunted into a bathroom and sat down on the lid of a toilet seat. Alfred is rummaging through one of the cabinets under the sink. Under the fluorescent lights, Gilbert can see dark circles lining his eyes.
"Sorry," he mumbles, voice slurred.
"Tell me again when you're sober." Alfred growls, and Gilbert can tell he doesn't expect him to remember this in the morning. To be honest, Gilbert doesn't either.
Alfred starts dabbing Gilbert's fist with an alcohol pad, and in a surprising moment of clarity, Gilbert looks down to see something silver glinting in the bottom of the cabinet. He blinks. It's a razor blade.
"What's that?"
Alfred looks up when Gilbert speaks, then follows his gaze down to the blade. For half a second, the mask cracks and his eyes widen in something that looks like fear. Then he looks back to Gilbert, and in a perfectly level tone says, "It's a razor. Y'know, to shave with? Don't you have those in Europe?"
They do. And it's a perfectly reasonable thing to keep in a bathroom, but something about the blade bothers Gilbert. If he were sober he could probably tell what.
"Why isn't it in a razor?"
Alfred hesitates, "It's broken… or a spare or something. I don't know."
There's something wrong with this response, but Gilbert's too wasted to tell what it is. He can't ask any more questions anyways, because Ludwig walks into the bathroom with a cup of water.
Relief flashes over Alfred's face, and he starts winding gauze over Gilbert's hand as Ludwig starts to repeat all his apologies.
"S'alright, just don't let him drink anymore tonight."
Ludwig frowns, his voice tapering off. He hands Gilbert the cup of water (which Gil promptly spills most of down his shirt), keeping his eyes glued on Alfred.
"Are you alright?"
"Hmm?"
"You look pale."
Alfred turns to look at himself in the mirror and something dark washes over his expression, "Oh, huh."
He mutters something about stress, but Ludwig has always been king of calling people out on their bullshit, "Maybe you should go sit down and rest for a while."
"I'm fine. C'mon, help me get your brother to stand up."
A hand tightly grasps around Gilbert's forearm, pulling him to his feet. He stumbles out of the bathroom and into the hallway, blindly following Ludwig. Alfred takes up the rear.
The living room is loud. People are asking him if he's okay, and someone's teasing him about the fist-shaped hole in Alfred's wall. Gilbert just wants to leave, but just then someone gasps and there's a loud thud. He turns around to find Alfred face down on the floor.
Even drunk off his ass, he's pretty sure that isn't normal.
Notes: So I've had an eventful past month. There's been a wild fire near where I live and the smoke has been unbearable. Also I almost lost my job, so I've been pretty swamped. No fear, though! I still have a job, and the fire is out, so I am back to writing!
This chapter had a lot more to do with Prussia and how messed up he is (I can't leave anyone alone, can I). Prussia's view of who America is greatly influenced by his memories of the American Revolutionary War and his experiences during the Cold War, in contrast to everyone else, who view America as a playful idiot.
I'd love to hear your feedback for this chapter! Don't forget to leave a comment and a kudos!