Ludwig:

At his brother's arrival in presenting his own fears, and some time before he noticed them, the albino had already bent his eyes on Ludwig. The expression melting on his face did not state the confident air it usually held, nor was there any arrogance or playfulness presented in the crimson orbs. In their wake however, was an almost sacrificial element of sincere caring, and in a sense, love. That stammering presented just made aware of how serious this situation was. Even in the broken days of the reunification, Gilbert had never broken down like this in front of his face.

Of course, he could easily state the same.

It was a strange element. Moments ago, he was deeply ashamed of his overall weakness and inability to grasp at his emotions. It seemed that now, now that the elder had relinquished his walls as well and offered a true and able comfort that was oh so needed at the time that he let himself go, he was allowing for someone else to hold his weight for once.

Even if, the person said to hold his weight was struggling more to keep his own limbs mobile.

Yes, something had indeed started today, something that would change all involved forever, even if Feliciano and Gilbert should find methods to survive. It seemed that such a catastrophe was the only way to make Germany see however, that he was as flawed as flawed could be by trying to hide the apparent 'weak' emotions.

He never thought his brother would teach him such an important lesson.

"I won't leave you."

The stuttering had proven that it could be a lie... not an intentional one, however, still a lie. A possibility remained that death would do us part and that thought of pessimism was the only one that remained until a reassuring brush of tenderness upon his cheek somehow gave him a spark of something unusual. Unidentified.

Hope.

How could one even be foolish enough to rely on it in these drastic times? Yet, he embraced the idea entirely, leaning into his brother's embrace unintentionally as he gripped that idea.

A ghost of his brother's personality applied with the words now spoken, hearing them presented gave the younger nation a reason to reassure, managing to bring up the corners of his mouth into a sort of smile before they dropped to the previous position.

It seemed only one could take so much.

It rang true in his head. That idea, for the next moment he found himself wrapping around his brother in a sense of desperation letting out a shrill following of 'whys' some of these completed with a phrase and others just leaving the single word hanging there in the air for all to hear.

"Why am I crying?"

"Why do you say such things when you could be wrong?"

"Why does Italy have to die?"

"Why?"

"Why!"

The questions grew in volume, reaching a peak where of Germany's voice almost cracked.

The final two were almost a whisper, the naive air he carried hidden for all these many years unleashed in a series of unanswered questions of which he wished he was calm enough to effectively and radically use reason to find the answers for himself.

"Why does it seem that I am about to lose everything and anything that I loved and cannot do a thing to stop it?"

"Why am I growing this gradual hatred for myself?"

Gilbert:

Gilbert had not expected West to fall into him again, and his eyes widened briefly in surprise before they softened. It was difficult, much too difficult, for the younger man (and maybe for all of them), but how much more grief would the other have to take? 'A lot' was the obvious answer, no matter how much Prussia detested it. To have his little brother endure it all... And he couldn't do anything to change it, because Ludwig was a country now. Duties, memories, pain were all heaped into the position—a position that he had himself had passed down to the other.

Again, that flash of self-loathing. When he had first found the boy, he had never considered the future and the responsibilities to be handed down. Perhaps he never even meant to grow so close to that brilliant child, but here he was now, running a hand over the blonde's back—as he had done when both of them were younger—gritting his teeth to support West's sadness while combating his own.

West began to speak then—to ask questions that Gilbert could not possibly know the answer to. (Why am I crying? Why do you say such things when you could be wrong? Why does Italy have to die? Why? Why!) The questions—the utter desperation in his brother's voice tore at his heart. He had asked ones of the like before himself, face turned to the sky, silently mouthing the words to the God who he supposed must not have heard him, because the answers never came. Eventually, he had learned not to ask anymore.

Oh, but with West's unanswerable questions ringing in his ears, how could he help himself? He stood still, arms still lightly wrapped around the other's larger frame, those words piercing whatever noise—whatever silence—that reigned around them and fought back his own questions. Why Feliciano? Why now? Why at the time he believed that the danger was over? When he believed that he could continue living those carefree days of disrupting Roderich's piano-playing, of watching Elizaveta fawn over his bird, of eating pasta with Feliciano while Lovino looked on with that typical sour expression of his...

Of annoying West when he was bored; of being scolded to keep quiet; of getting drunk together and passing out on the same bed only to discover the other was more pissy than usual the next morning because he'd kicked the nation off; of falling asleep in front of his computer and waking up much later in the night with a blanket over his shoulders and a pillow under his head. Why now? Why them?

His hands clenched into fists. He wouldn't allow it. It wouldn't be now; it wouldn't be them. He was determined not to lose to whomever had made Feliciano write that will, spill those tears—brought upon so horrid a misery that it seemed to hang over their heads, thickening the air until it became painful to breathe, chest aching, slowly choking...

"Why am I growing this gradual hatred for myself?" Among the questions, this one broke through Gilbert's thoughts in a clean swipe, dissolving them all, leaving this one sentence to circle in his mind. His eyes narrowed. It hurt. It hurt like nothing before to hear his brother talk so about himself. If there was one thing Gilbert could have lived his life content not to hear...

He pulled back again, just enough to lock his gaze with those clear blue eyes. "No..." he breathed. "No, West. Listen. Listen." Words came out in broken streams, without meaning as they stood alone, but all trying to convey his feeling of urgency, of slight panic, his own pain at hearing those words uttered from the other's lips. He couldn't stand it, and even more the fact that he did not know how to comfort the nation. "No. Don't say that..."

Don't say that, West. You are a wonderful person, better than I could ever be—you'll succeed, West. You can't imagine what everyone (I) feel for you, what we'd give up for you, so please, don't. Don't... Don't ever hate yourself, West—it's one of the hardest burdens to bear. And if only—if only I could take your place again, take those responsibilities... But they're yours now, West, and you'll do better than I could ever have done.

"You should know better, West." The words were slowly taking shape—perhaps not the best, but they were the best Gilbert could say. It was ironic that now, he had taken the reprimanding tone, that their time seemed to have turned back two hundred years and he was, once again, comforting the budding country. "You're..." The words were difficult to choke out—they contradicted what he was used to, his very personality, but... "You're wonderful."