"In jedem Sturm mit mir gekämpft… Hast mir gezeigt Was wirklich wichtig ist."

February 25, 1947

Prussia stares with blurry eyes at the ceiling as he tries to control his breathing. His heart is pounding and his clothes are soaked through with perspiration, and the hand that clutches the handkerchief to his mouth is shaking unsteadily.

Pulling the cloth from his lips, he grimaces. The little moonlight that pokes through his curtains illuminates the fresh blood that coats the material, and he sighs as he lowers his hand to his chest.

It's a matter of hours, now, he thinks gloomily, watching as undefinable shapes circulate the ceiling from his tired eyes.

He's been restless all night. Tossing and turning, kicking his blankets off, pulling them back up... He's either too hot or too cold, too tired or not tired at all, coughing hysterically or wheezing from his tired lungs. His eyes are heavy and his limbs like lead, but though sleep is all he desires, his brain refuses to quiet its agitated thoughts.

After four hundred plus years on earth, Prussia knows insomnia better than anyone. It is not a new notion to him; he's gone many a night without sleep. Even still, no matter often he has been plagued by it, it never ceases to irritate him.

Outside his mind, all is silent and still. The usual whir and click of the heater is absent, and other than the motor of a passing vehicle, no other sound can be heard. The city sleeps on, peaceful and blissfully unaware of the fate that is soon to befall him.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Prussia pushes himself into a sitting position. His body is rigid and cold, and every muscle protests as he lumberingly makes his way out of bed and onto his feet. Stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket, he shuffles to the bedroom door.

Prussia peeks outside but finds the hallway dark. His shoulders slump ruefully.

As selfish as it is, he had hoped Germany would be awake, too. At least then he wouldn't have to spend his last night tired, miserable, and alone.

Dejected, Prussia slips out of his room and drowsily makes his way down the stairs. The hardwood is icy beneath his sock-clad feet, and he pulls his sweater tighter as a shivers passes up his spine. So enthralled is he with not slipping and falling, he nearly misses the subtle glow of in the dining room.

Prussia pauses at the bottom of the steps and blinks at the flickering orange, wondering if Germany had stayed up late working and accidentally fallen asleep at the table. It wouldn't be the first time, anyway. It was a weekly occurrence at this point. Honestly, he would be more worried if it didn't happen.

Making his way to the dining room Prussia peers inside, half-expecting to find a hunched form with papers stuck to its face and a pen lazily dangling from its lacks fingers.

He is surprised when that is not what he sees.

"West?"

Prussia stares in puzzlement at the sight of his brother slouched over the dining room table. A blanket is draped around his shoulders and his hair clings to his forehead in messy strands. He is sporting shadowed eyes and a sullen frown as he stares, quite awake, at a blank piece of paper in front of him.

Germany looks up as Prussia approaches.

"You're awake," he states simply.

Prussia's brows climb in mock surprise.

Eyeing the empty bottles that lay askew across the tabletop and the pieces of crumpled papers on the floor, Prussia tries to fight a smile as he asks, "Have you been here all night?"

Germany flushes and hastily begins to straighten the bottles.

"I couldn't sleep," he replies tersely.

"I can see that…"

"What about you?"

Prussia stifles a cough into his fist and quickly wipes the side of his hand on his trousers, hoping the blood isn't visible. "Couldn't sleep, either."

Germany nods. "Rough night all around, I guess."

Indicating to the chair across from him, he settles back into his seat and fixes the blanket so it fully covers his broad shoulders. Prussia takes this as a sign for him to sit and drops heavily into the chair.

"Were you working on something?" he asks, and jabs at one of the many crumpled balls with his toe, sending it skittering to Germany's feet.

Germany wavers and then nods. "Ja, I was."

"Paperwork?"

"…a letter."

Mouth dropping in an "oh", Prussia inclines his head curiously. "To who?"

Germany is silent for a moment, jaw working as he stares at the paper ball lying between his feet.

"Actually," he finally says, raising his gaze to Prussia's, "to you."

Prussia's brows shoot up. Looking from side to side, he as to fight back a snicker as he replies, "Okay… well, I do live with you, so… If there is something you want to tell me you could just, ya know, say it."

"I could," Germany concedes, not bothering to hide his irritation, "but how likely are you to listen?"

Pausing, Prussia takes this in.

After a moment he nods resignedly, smirking. "You're right."

"Besides, you weren't going to tell me yourself, so I had to get it out of you somehow."

A seed of dread takes root in Prussia's gut.

"Tell you what…?"

Germany gives him a stiff look. "You can stop laying."

Prussia swallows the lump in his throat as he fiddles nervously with a wad of paper.

He doesn't know, he tells himself. There is no way he can. It's impossible.

"I honestly don't know what you're talking about, West," he finally refutes. "I wasn't aware that I had been keeping secrets."

Germany snorts derisively and reclines in his chair, rolling his eyes to the side and away from Prussia's mask of stony indifference.

"I thought you might be stubborn about this, but now you're just being ridiculous."

"About what?" Prussia snaps.

Germany blows him off with a puff air and a shake of his head. "I really hate you sometimes."

"Oh, the feeling is quite mutual, I assure you."

A tense silence embraces them, squeezing Prussia until he feels suffocated. He keeps telling himself that Germany is talking about something else; that he can't possibly know about the dissolution. No one said anything. No one was supposed to say anything.

Germany taps a finger on the table. The sound is sharp and loud in the otherwise dismal atmosphere. Prussia tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the clock ticking furiously on the wall, but it proves a difficult feat when they are coincidentally in time. Every tap of Germany's fingertip is in perfect synch with every tick of the clock's hand, like a rhythmic reminder that his time is steadily slipping away.

Prussia bites at the inside of his cheek in vexation. If Germany knew, it would explain his strange behavior that night. The moping, the odd desire to just be instead of do… two things that do not align with Germany's personality.

But still…

How?

He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows that no matter how much he may repudiate Germany's knowledge of his fate, no manner of denial will erase the obvious fact that he, somehow, does. Though how he found out is beyond Prussia – Prussia never said a word, and he specifically ordered that the dissolution not be mentioned until after it happened.

Apparently, that simple wish was not upheld.

"Look," Prussia finally says, breaking the silence, "I couldn't tell you because I didn't want what little time I had left to be you trying to smooth the past over; to be grieving when all I want is to enjoy our last few days together."

Germany shoots him an agitated scowl. "You're dying, Prussia. Of course I would try and smooth things over – it's only natural. You're my only brother, my only friend, and I am losing you! How do you think that's supposed to make me feel?"

"That's exactly why I kept it a secret."

"You didn't have the right!"

"I did and I utilized that right."

They stare each other down, crimson melding with ice blue in a soundless battle.

dBut Prussia, burdened with guilt, soon melts. Dropping his shoulders, he turns away from Germany, unable to bear the pain and betrayal that laces every part of his features.

"You're my brother," Germany continues softy. "You're all I have. If you leave… if you leave, I won't have anyone. How am I supposed to fix things without you? I need your wisdom; I need your experience and leadership!"

Prussia runs a hand down his face, vexed and tired and confused all at once.

Why do things have to be this way?

Why, to fix a wrong, does another wrong have to be made?

Justifying his murder as the justification of the war is just a circle of blind madness. It's a dangerous and bloody cycle that is doomed to repeat itself. It is exactly what caused the war in the first place; mass genocide of multiple peoples was Hitler's way of answering the economic and political bedlam of Germany. And see where that got him: a world war, a destroyed nation, a hurting economy, and six feet under with a bullet to the brain. Goals.

Prussia regards his brother with a nauseating sense of remorse. Keeping his dissolution a secret now seems like the biggest mistake of his life. What he had done he had done for Germany's sake, but he can now see that his deception did little more than cause more grief and division between them. In the end, was he any better than Adolf or the Allies?

"I'm sorry I lied to you, West. I didn't mean to hurt you," he murmurs, meeting Germany's eyes grievously. "I had hoped it would make things easier, but I was only acting the fool."

Silence encompasses them as Germany looks down at his hands and fiddles with the blank sheet in front of him.

"I just… don't understand why this is happening," Germany admits lowly, rubbing his thumb along the paper's edge. "Everything was my fault – federal power was taken away from you, you had no say in the war efforts and you did only what you had to. The Allies…" He falters. "The Allies have no right to dissolve you. If anyone, it should be me dying."

Prussia merely smiles. "Every war has a price, West. I only paid it upfront to secure your future."

"But I should have paid it!" German insists. "It was my price to pay. Not yours."

"We both played our roles handsomely, West. The blame is not yours alone."

"Is there nothing we can do to solve this together? Is there nothing we can give to equal the price of your dissolution? Is this really the only way?"

Prussia exhales. The same question had run through his head multiple times; had eaten away at him as he sat there, listening to Churchill prattle on about how his demise would be Germany's grace.

"Yes, I'm afraid it is…" he concedes. "Unfortunately, the Allies hold our debt. Repayment is their decision to make, no matter how unjust it may seem. But after what we've done… West, is the price really so high?"

"Yes, it is."

"You wouldn't say that if you were in my position."

"Which I should be!"

Tossing the wad of paper to him, Prussia settles back in his chair and waits for Germany to toss it back. When he does, Prussia catches it, then throws is it again.

"Do you know what I've been through?" he asks quietly, catching the ball once more and staring at Germany. "I've been roaming this earth for over four hundred years. I've fought and killed in multiple wars, nearly was executed twice, and watched the slaughter of not only my own people, but other peoples as well. The only thing I counted as good for a long time was Holy Rome. But do you know how quickly he was snatched from me? For a long, long time, it was like the small light in my world was snuffed out. Everything was cold and dark, and I didn't know why I existed."

He pauses here, tossing the paper ball to Germany who it catches it unthinkingly as he watches Prussia.

"But… that all changed when I found you. I knew when I first held you that if anything ever were to happen to you, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. So I did everything in my power to keep you safe; I did everything to protect you from all that I could, but I knew after the first War that my control was slipping. This time… this time I thought for sure that I had failed you. So when Churchill gave me the option to save you, I knew, even before he said it, that I would give my life for your sake."

Prussia smiles, the motion hampered only slightly by the glossy sheen in his eyes.

"And that is exactly what I intend to do. It's not the happiest decision I've ever made, I admit. If I could stay… If I could watch you overcome these obstacles and fight your way back to the strong country I know you are, then I would. But I dedicated my life to protecting you, and if my dissolution is the answer to your healing, then… I will gladly give myself up."

"But it's not right," Germany argues, his voice choked. "It's not right…"

The beginnings of daylight peek through the dining room curtains, splashing sunlight across the table and onto Prussia's hands.

"Nein, life isn't right, West. We both know that."

He watches the splotches dance over his skin, knowing his time is drawing near.

"You don't deserve this." Germany flicks the paper wad back to Prussia, eyes red and face pale beneath the new light. "It's unfair."

For a moment, they merely toss the ball back and forth.

Finally, Prussia inhales and sits up straight.

"Well, enough of this dreary talk!" he says with as much bravado as he can muster. "There are nicer things in life to talk about than how unjust the world is. Like– oh!" He suddenly breaks off, mouth pulling up in a grin. "I have something to give you!"

Jumping from his seat, he ignores Germany's exasperated expression and hobbles his way up the stairs. His coughing starts up again, but he does his best to repress it.

Once in his room, he opens his nightstand drawer and pulls out the picture sitting in the otherwise empty space. It's the same one that Germany had sewn into his coat, only this picture was the one that Prussia had sewn into his own. It still bears the scars of battle, and the edges are riddled with holes from his patchy sewing job. The picture, however, is still visible – the two of them, Germany sitting and Prussia standing with his hand resting proudly on Germany's shoulders. It was taken a few years before the first War, during happier, easier times.

Taking a moment to allow a particularly forceful hack to makes its way out, Prussia shuffles his way back to the hall with the pictured pinched between his fingers.

This will at least be something for him to remember me by.

Germany balances his chair on its back legs as he stares up at the ceiling. The clock continues to tick, its sound extenuated by his growing impatience.

Prussia had gone to his room ten minutes ago, and Germany can only guess as to what he is doing up there. Whether he is searching for something or just taking his good ol' sweet time to test Germany's temper, Germany cannot be certain.

Is he trying to carry his whole bedroom down here?

Germany sets his chair back down and cranes his neck to see up the stairs. Prussia's door is open, that much he can tell. Otherwise, he can see little else.

He begins to tap his finger on the table, lips pursed in annoyance.

"What are you doing up there?" he yells in the direction of Prussia's room.

No reply.

The clock ticks on. Seconds pass; the bubbles of sunlight grow thicker, warmer, but still there is only silence. Not even the thump of a foot or the creak of a floorboard.

Stung by a sudden notion, Germany shoves his chair back and rises to his.

"Prussia?" he calls.

Nothing.

He jogs his way to the end of the stairs.

"I'm serious!" he tries again, cold pricks of sweat beginning to form at the base of his neck.

Still, nothing.

His heart picks up in speed as he takes the stairs three steps at a time, carrying him right to Prussia's ajar door. There is no shuffling, no breathing, no sound at all from within.

Swallowing, he pushes the door the rest of way and steps inside.

"Prussia?"

The room is empty.

Sunlight streams through the window and the rays spill over a pile of rubbish on the floor. Germany shakes as he makes it way to it, a voice inside his head begging him not to.

Bending down, he picks up the shirt he had seen Prussia wearing only minutes prior. It is haphazardly crumpled up, laying over the same pants Prussia had worn that morning. A bloody handkerchief rests atop them, still wet. Lying beside the pile is an old photograph.

With trembling fingers Germany picks it up. The edges are curved in and splotches of water stains deform its border where puncture holes run the length and width of it. The holes are messy but similar to the punctures in his own photo – the very one he had sewn into the inside of his jacket during the war.

Germany's lips quiver as he stares at the picture, at Prussia's smooth, regal face, as realization dawns on him.

He's gone.

Curling over the photo, Germany presses it to his chest.

For the first time in his life, he begins to weep.

"You fought with me through every storm… You showed me what is really important."

[A/N]: Funny story:
I actually HATE the previous chapter. It's a mess and full of typos and LONG and I plan on going back and fixing it and then re-uploading it. Hopefully some time soon because it will otherwise eat away at me.

But this one... this one I like much better. But I feel like the painful, emotional impact isn't as... hard? as I had wanted. Like it's missing something. But maybe that's just me. Hm. *shrugs* On a more bittersweet note... THE LAST CHAPTER. I finished it! I don't know how I feel. I love these two brothers and I don't really want it to be over. But at the same time, I'm glad I finished it. I finally completed a project, and I am super proud.

If you guys didn't know, the lyrics at the top and bottom are from Unheilig's An Deiner Seite. It's a great song and will make you cry if you imagine these two. I swear. Go listen to it and cry. It's been a year and it still makes me feel things for fictional characters that I probably should not.