The last of the wine had left his system by the time Germany awoke the next morning, and he wasn't sure if the sour feelings that remained were a result of the drink's aftereffects or the events in the basement that followed.

What he did know was that, standing in his bathroom preparing for the day ahead, he felt cut adrift.

Failure was something he was well acquainted with, and experience had taught him that the most effective course of action for such occurrences was to simply get back up and push forward to the next plan, and the next, and so on. Unfortunately, his supply of plans had run dry, and there was nothing left to push towards. It was time to face the truth.

Somehow his wish had come true.

Prussia's abrupt change into a well-behaved, kind, boring shadow of himself was a direct result of Germany's own careless actions. He'd done this to his own brother. With one stupid wish, he'd taken everything away.

Germany smiled bitterly at his reflection.

His reflection stared back, smile looking more mocking than bitter to his eyes, and eerily out of place on the otherwise youthful features. It was one of the most twisted truths about being a nation, that no matter how many times he messed up or did something horribly wrong, the same young, innocent looking visage was there to greet him. Far more fitting, he thought, not for the first time, would be if the outside changed to match the inside.

Splashing a handful of cold water on his face, Germany left his reflection behind and went to fetch his mobile. There was a call he needed to make.

He dialed by memory.

Several rings later, a cheerful voice greeted him. "Germany! I'm so happy you called But why are you calling, you should be at work. Are you okay or—"

"I'm fine. I need to talk to you," Germany felt bad about cutting him off, but this couldn't wait.

"Okay!" Italy paused. "Now?"

"Yes, now. Is that not good?"

"What a silly question, Germany. You know I always have time for –"

A swell of shouts, bangs, and noises obscured Italy's voice through the phone. The sound of a car horn honking shrieked in his ear and Germany pulled the phone away, looking at it in alarm.

"Italy? Italy!" This couldn't be happening. He needed to talk to Italy and needed to talk now.

All at once, the noise mostly cut out, save for some light chatter in the background. "Sorry, sorry! I just got out of the car and went to find someplace quieter. Romano's ordering coffee."

Germany sighed in relief. Italy was his last hope. He spared a moment to laugh at the unexpected reversal. Italy was many things to him, but last hope was never a title he anticipated bestowing.

"What is it you wanted to talk about? Is this about the pasta, because I told you last time that twelve minutes is too long when it's fresh."

As stressed as he was, Germany couldn't help burying his head in his free hand at that. One day he would succeed in convincing Italy that not all emergencies had to be pasta-related. "This is not about pasta," he retorted.

"Oh."

"It's about—" he stopped, feeling foolish. With a steadying breath, he pressed on, "Do you remember the shooting star from many years ago."

"Yeah, that was the best! I've been looking for another one. I saw these really pretty paints, but they're so expensive and I don't want to buy them until we fix the economy problems but I really want them."

After analyzing the sentence in his head, Germany filed the second part away in his mental list of Christmas gift ideas, and was disheartened by the rest. "You are saying they're rare?" he confirmed.

"More like, you never know when they're going to show up. It happens all the time, but we can only see them if they're large enough and at night. "

Germany was taken aback at Italy's astronomy knowledge until he remembered that his friend had been around back during the time when many of the great discoveries in the field were being made, some of them from his own country. Switching topics, he asked, "How do the wishes work?"

Italy laughed. "Germany, shooting star wishes aren't science. They're just a thing. You wish on them and sometimes it comes true."

By this point, Germany was pacing his bedroom, endless circles taking him nowhere. He stopped short, wanting his full concentration now, for the most important question. "But what if you made a mistake. How do you reverse it?"

"You ask the funniest questions. No one's ever asked me that before. Let me think."

There was a pause and Germany imagined he could see the scene play out. Italy would be standing, the phone pressed against one ear, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. He was probably biting his lip, too, Germany thought.

It took him a moment to realize he was smiling into thin air.

Then Italy was back. "Um, I guess you could try to find another one and make a reverse wish." There was shouting in the background. "I have to go now! Romano's holding my coffee for me and we have a rule that he can drink it if I make him wait too long."

Germany hung up, the phone still clenched tight in his hand. Italy wasn't the authority on wishes that he'd hoped for. But the idea of a reverse was wasn't a bad one. It was the type of logical solution he himself would have arrived at and it appealed to his sense of order and symmetry.

For the first time, he began to feel optimistic that he could fix his mistake. That he hadn't lost Prussia for good. Holding the thought close, he finished getting dressed and left for work, already eager for nightfall.

.

Every night for the next several days, Germany walked, eyes fixed on the sky until his feet were sore and his eyelids betrayed him with heaviness. It was how he'd started this wishing business and it was how he was going to end it.

Except there wasn't a single shooting star to be found.

The combination of late nights spent stargazing and full days at the office began to take their toll, as grogginess and exhaustion replaced his earlier enthusiasm. Ironically, it was Prussia's newfound devotion to office work that saved him from falling behind in his duties. All the while, looking at Prussia— seeing the mild smiles and endless hours spent happily engrossed in reports and documents— got harder and harder, guilt twisting in Germany's chest like a knife between the ribs.

He had to do something, anything to make it right again, something besides just staring at the sky and waiting for luck to stumble his way. He had to find a solution and grab hold of it, force it to come to him. A few days ago he had been positive about the wish being at fault, but the slightest of doubts was starting to worm its way into his mind, becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

A half-formed idea came to him late one night as he teetered on the edge of sleep, drained after another fruitless night of sky-watching. Maybe if he could force Prussia into living his old life, he would start acting like himself again. Not like he had previously tried, the ineffective subtle tactics, but something truly proactive. It seemed farfetched but it couldn't hurt, he decided, as sleep overcame him.

He spent the next day at the office contemplating the tentative plan, leaving his work woefully neglected. The day was unbearably pleasant and by the end, he decided to make the attempt, if for no other reason than for the sheer sake of breaking the monotony. Organizing his desk, Germany logged out of the computer and turned to Prussia.

"We're going out," he announced. "It's Friday and we will have fun."

Halting his work, Prussia looked at him, head cocked. "I thought we were having fun."

Germany was on the verge of laughing when he realized it wasn't a joke, and he sobered. "No. You and I are going out to a bar and we're going to drink beer and laugh at frivolous things and we will enjoy it. Understood?"

He desperately wanted Prussia to make a fuss, to curse him out and tell him he'd do what he fucking wanted and only what he wanted, and that Germany could go to hell. But of course, that didn't happen.

Instead, Prussia hit a series of keys and shut his laptop down. "Sure, if it means that much to you. Let's go."

So they went.

The bar was a regular sight for both of them, having come around often over many evenings in the past several years. The bartender and owner, a fixture in the establishment for as long as they'd been coming, waved hello and filled two glasses before they'd even taken a seat on an empty set of stools. With a practiced air, she set the matching glasses in front of them. "Haven't seen you boys here in a while."

"Hello, Deborah," Germany greeted the familiar face, sharp features framed by short, steel colored hair, and slid a couple notes across the bar to cover the drinks. "It's been a busy month," he offered as explanation.

They continued making small talk—business was good, the family was well, and yes, the weather was starting to turn colder— until another patron approached the bar, needing attention.

Germany took the opportunity to look around. Nothing had changed since he'd last stepped foot inside, almost a month ago. It was still the same small place, old film posters lining the walls and football scarves hanging from the ceiling. He spied a couple other regulars at a small table across the room and gave them a nod.

Then he noticed Prussia hadn't touched his beer.

"Drink the beer, Prussia," he ordered. It was a sad day when those were the words he had to tell his brother, of all people. His lips tugged upward of their own volition as he recalled a similar incident in a different time, a different bar, and a world away. "Or do I have to make a rule? How do you feel about running naked around all the pillars of the Brandenburg Gate?"

Prussia laughed, loud and unexpected, and Germany's breath caught, wondering if it was possible the plan was actually working. "How long have you been waiting to use that line on me!" Not waiting for an answer, he picked up the glass, studying its contents. "It means that much to you?" he asked.

"Yes," Germany answered.

And it did. This was the closest he'd come to seeing Prussia act in a normal manner, and he was anxious to see if drinking the beer would help bring him the rest of the way back. Could he have been wrong about the wish being at fault?

He perched on the edge of his barstool as Prussia brought the glass to his lips and took a long sip.

"Tastes fine," he said, setting the glass down on the table.

Disappointment shoved past the hope that had briefly flared to life within Germany's chest, and he released the breath he didn't realize he was holding. He shifted back on the stool and took a large swallow of his own beer, and another. It tasted bitter in his mouth. "This was a stupid idea," he said. "Let's go." He set both hands flat against the bar and slid the stool backward as he got to his feet, ready to leave.

A hand covered his own, stopping him. It was Prussia's.

Germany froze and looked at their hands, not knowing how to respond. Which person did the hand belong to? Was this his brother, or the stranger he'd been living with.

Raised voices from the other end of the bar caused them both to look up towards the sound, breaking the moment.

An extremely red-faced, obviously inebriated youth who couldn't have been older than twenty was draped across the bar, so far over that Germany expected him to slide across the top and onto the floor at any moment. Or perhaps the baggy jeans, riding inappropriately low as the young man attempted to reach behind the bar, would be the first to hit the ground, he reconsidered. Beer was everywhere, pooling on the bar next to an overturned glass and dripping down to the floor nearby.

Not a regular, Germany noted.

Reluctantly sliding his hand out from under Prussia's, he walked over to the scene of the disturbance. The other patrons watched uncertainly, but no one else made a move to intervene.

This wasn't the first time either of them had diffused a situation like this here. It was one of the reasons they were always welcomed back, despite the periodic incidents that occurred when the occasional visiting nation showed up and they all got a bit rowdy. With a grimace, he remembered one time in particular that involved Gilbird, a live chicken, and a box of breakfast cereal. On second thought, it may have been the fact that Germany always paid for all the damages—and then some— that allowed them to keep coming back, and not their impromptu bouncer skills.

Glancing back, he was relieved to see that Prussia was right behind him this time as well. As uncharacteristic as he'd been acting, there was still no one else Germany would rather have at his back.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch. I want another!" The dark haired youth made another unsuccessful grab behind the bar.

"I think you've had enough," Germany cut in, grabbing the back of the kid's t-shirt and pulling him forcibly away from the bar.

"You'll pay for that," he growled, stumbling blindly as he was spun around. At least, that's what Germany thought he said. It was hard to tell, the threat was slurred so badly. With a wordless yell, the kid leveled a wild, sloppy punch at Germany's face.

Blocking the pathetic excuse for an attack didn't require any special effort on Germany's part. He easily caught the wrist in mid-air and used the momentum to twist the arm around until its owner was securely restrained in a headlock.

Unfortunately, he didn't seem too happy to be there and thrashed violently. Not that it did any good. A hand, reeking of beer, reached up and tried to claw at Germany's eyes.

Germany wrinkled his nose in disgust and looked pointedly over at Prussia. "A little assistance, here, if you don't mind," he prompted.

Frowning, Prussia approached them and looked sternly at the youth trapped in the headlock. "You know," he said, "drinking that much isn't good for you. Have you considered a different hobby? Football's fun."

A foot slammed down on Germany's instep and he grunted, almost losing his grip. "That wasn't what I meant," he ground out. "Help me subdue him until the police arrive."

Prussia's frown deepened. "Violence isn't the answer, West. Sometimes people just need a good talking to."

"If you don't help me right now, I'm going to use violence on you."

The moment of distraction was enough, and the drunk kid broke free and lunged forward at Prussia. Germany wasn't too worried, though; he'd seen his brother take down much larger men practically without trying.

But this time, he watched in shock as his normally aggressive older brother took a large step back and extended both hands, obviously still trying to talk. Germany's eyes went wide. Because while it was true that he'd been acting drastically different, surely Prussia would defend himself when physically attacked. A disturbing thought came to mind: that the wish somehow had an effect on Prussia's combat skills, and he wasn't fighting because he couldn't.

Moving quickly, Germany rushed forward, suddenly fearing for Prussia's safety in a way he hadn't in decades. His stomach felt like it had dropped somewhere around his knees when he saw the kid, still advancing and yelling obscenities, grab a thick glass mug from the bar and swing it at Prussia's head.

Time seemed to slow as he realized he was too far away to stop the blow from landing. As horrified as he was, a tiny part of him was also morbidly curious if the direct physical threat would be enough to somehow rouse Prussia back to his old self. If anything was enough for force his brother to start acting like himself again, certainly it would be this.

At the last moment, Deborah's arm shot out from behind the bar, grabbing the glass and jerking it away. The kid was spun around, and the combination of dizziness and alcohol finally overwhelmed him as he crashed to the floor, looking dazed and sick.

The tension and worry fled Germany in a rush, leaving him breathless, and he hurried over to Prussia, needing to see first-hand that he was okay. Even as he approached, Prussia stood unmoving in the same spot, and Germany couldn't tell if he was shaken or wholly unaffected by the whole ordeal.

They stayed until the police came, and relayed their account of events. It wasn't until late into the night when they were eventually able to head home.

Dejected, Germany climbed into bed. The outing was a failure on multiple levels. In addition to it being not fun, he was no closer to getting Prussia back. On the plus side, any of the lingering doubts he had about his wish not being the underlying cause of Prussia's new behavior were laid to rest. It was time to end the fruitless plans and redouble his efforts on the sky.

.

The next evening, Germany was yet again lacing up his casual sneakers in preparation for another long night. He heaved a tired sigh and pushed himself to his feet. And froze.

He was an idiot.

Abandoning everything else, he sprinted to his study and brought the computer out of standby, pulling up a browser window and typing Meteor Shower schedule meticulously into the little search box. Because that's all a shooting star was. A piece of rock burning up in the atmosphere. The same thing as a meteor shower, except a little more random.

And there it was, the answer to his problem right in front of his face. According to the website, a small annual meteor shower was expected to arrive in just a few short weeks.

Relief washed over him and he closed his eyes, slumping against the desk. But then another, less pleasant thought, rushed in on its heels.

What if a known meteor shower didn't count for wishing purposes? Perhaps it only worked for spontaneous events. This was uncharted territory and there was no way to be sure. Germany was woefully uneducated in the protocols that dictated the potential successfulness of star-wishing, and he felt in over his head in regards to the entire situation. But without regulation to guide him, his sole remaining option was to try everything, and so he bookmarked the website and noted the date and time in the paper planner he still insisted on keeping, circling it in red and underlining it in thick strokes of the pen. In the meantime, he would keep going out at night. Maybe he'd get lucky and this would all be over before the meteor shower arrived.

Weeks passed. He didn't get lucky.

When the day finally arrived, Germany was a mess of restless energy. Maintaining the stoic disposition he presented at work was a grueling effort, and despite not having a single meeting to attend, he got absolutely nothing accomplished. For once, that didn't bother him. By late afternoon he abandoned the pretext of productivity entirely and, offering Prussia a flimsy excuse that wasn't questioned, he left early and headed home to recheck his supplies for the coming evening.

As the sky began to dim, Germany drove to the darkest field he could find, far away from the city lights. Arriving at his destination with time to spare, he unpacked his supplies— a folding chair, large insulated travel mug filled with coffee, mp3 player preloaded with a selection of audio books to keep him awake, and corresponding small speakers—and settled in to wait.