1916 - Verdun-sur-Meuse, France

There are many things to be said about the trenches, but 'warm and cosy' is not one of them.

In his own strange way, Prussia is almost glad of that.

He sits on the firing step even though he isn't strictly supposed to in an attempt to keep out of the water and the mud. It's freezing cold and hellishly uncomfortable but he doesn't mind. If he can concentrate on his utter, overwhelming discomfort then it might be enough to block out even less welcome thoughts. The crack of a rifle echoes somewhere nearby, but he barely even flinches. That sound is as normal to him as breathing is now.

He takes one last drag on his cigarette, flicks the butt into a puddle beneath his feet and fumbles in his pocket for a new one. He pauses, wondering if the cold that came with not smoking would be enough to occupy his mind for a while, then decides that this is a gross overreaction and lights up.

Footsteps are squelching through the mud towards him. For a moment he thinks it might be someone come to tell him to stop sitting around, but then he looks up and forces a smile. "Hey West."

"Hey," says Germany. "You okay?"

"Awesome as ever," he sighs.

"Sure?"

Prussia frowns at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Germany pulls himself up onto the firing step, almost leaving his boots behind in the mud, and settles himself down beside his older brother. "You've been acting weird lately. I wasn't going to say anything, but people have been asking questions." He hesitates. "They're wondering if they should send you back to Berlin."

"What?" This is the last thing he expected. A small part of his brain is saying that perhaps that's a good thing, and wouldn't he prefer a warm bed and hot meals back in the civilised world to a cold, muddy trench on France's turf, but it is promptly squished by a much larger part that is utterly incensed about having its pride slighted. "Why the hell would they think that?"

"Well, no offence - I know you're better than any of them," he adds quickly, "but you have been... moping. Are you sick?"

"Nope."

"Injured?"

"Nope."

Germany sighs and stares at his mud-soaked boots as though wondering if it's worth the possible physical pain that might result from voicing his thoughts. "Is this about Hungary?"

Prussia inhales too fast, chokes and doubles over. Germany pats him on the back as he hacks smoke and gasps for air. Then he straightens up slowly, still coughing, and manages to wheeze, "No."

"Are you sure? Because you haven't really been yourself ever since she stopped talking to you at world meetings. Why is that, anyway? What did you do?"

The cheek where she slapped him stings just a little as he tries not to remember. "Nothing. It's probably just Austria telling her not to associate with me."

Germany makes a 'hmmm' noise, and Prussia can't tell whether he believes him or not. "You know," he says slowly, "you're my brother. You can tell me anything. I won't tell anyone else."

Prussia glares at him. This conversation is fast spiralling out of control and he doesn't like it. "How about I tell you to back off?"

"It's perfectly normal to develop a certain amount of attachment to a-"

"I don't have any attachment!"

Germany sighs. "Okay, I understand. You don't love Hungary."

"Thank God, West. I was beginning to think I'd have to spell it out for you in bullets."

"Which," he continues, ignoring Prussia's comment, "is lucky. Because if you did-" he glances at him meaningfully, "-then I'd have to comfort you, wouldn't I?"

"And that would be seriously freaking awkward," he agrees.

"I know. I'd have to tell you that it'd all be okay and advise you not to worry too much about things you can't change."

"Good thing you don't have to do that, then, eh?" says Prussia. The butt of his last cigarette joins the others floating in the puddle and he roots around in his pocket for anothe one that isn't too damp.

"Definitely. But, if I did have to-" and this is accompanied by another meaningful glance, "-I'd add that you should probably think about this war instead of her. Throw yourself into the fight a bit more. Not that you haven't been doing fine so far," he adds quickly as Prussia glares at him, a tongue of flame sparking threateningly from his lighter, "but there really is nothing like a good war to take your mind off things, and God knows we can use all the enthusiasm we can get."

Prussia grunts and takes a long drag on his fresh cigarette. Germany holds his hand out and he passes it over; the younger nation inhales, sighs deeply and hands it back. "Why can't they give us anything good in these verdammt ration packs?"

It's the first sign of discomfort Germany's shown this entire war. So far, he's been the perfect model of a soldier, putting up with anything from flooded trenches to enemy artillery fire with an upper lip stiff enough to put Britain to shame. Prussia grins widely at him, the cigarette back between his teeth. "Because everything good disappeared the moment we hit Belgium, don't you remember?"

Germany sighs again and changes the subject. Prussia wishes he wouldn't. "But," he says, looking back at him, "I'd also advise you to try and forget her. Properly. Nothing good can come of this - or could, if it existed, that is. Maybe pick someone else to focus your attention on."

"Yeah, because the trenches are just brimming with eligible young women."

"You know what I mean. I think you've ruined your chances with Belgium, but there's always Russia's sisters, or Monaco."

"Shut up."

"If you're willing to travel a bit then I've heard there's plenty of female nations in the East. For example, I know that-"

"For the love of God, West, shut your face!"

Prussia shouts a little more loudly than he meant to. There's a moment of awkward silence.

"Of course," says Germany, not making eye contact, "that's all hypothetical."

They sit for a while in what would've been dead quiet if the gunshots hadn't started up again. Prussia is almost glad of them - they give him a reason not to try speaking. After a few moments, Germany pushes himself off the firing step and lands with an unpleasant noise halfway between a splash and a squelch.

"So I'm to take it that you're fine now?" he asks.

Prussia nods noncommittally. He seems to take this as good enough and wades away through the mud and water.

Perhaps he's right. Perhaps devoting a little more effort to the war would help him forget. Not that there's anything he needs to forget, of course. She isn't bothering him. It's just... his duty. It's his duty to his country to stop dwelling on things he can't change and actually try to win this war.

He sits on the firing step for another few minutes, inhaling and exhaling slowly until the cigarette is spent, then flicks the butt to join the ever-growing pile floating in the puddle and stands up. He slings his rifle back over his shoulder and follows Germany's muddy footsteps back down the trench. I hope you know what you're talking about, West.