Viennese Blue

by Aleberle

On a seemingly regular invasion of his favorite aristocrat's house, Prussia stumbled across a small object that forced him to rethink his relationship with the prissy nation, and not in a way he would have wanted to. As his attempts to gather information earn him suspicion, he wonders whether this is something he can fix (M for WW2 mentions and suicidal behavior, no smut).

10. Chapter 9

Alright, there's not too much I want to say about this one except that it's super long (at least by comparison to my last few) and it's almost the sole reason why I changed this story's rating. Yeah, it gets pretty depressing pretty quick. If you guys have got any depressing soundtracks which you want to listen to during this one, be my welcome guest. Aside from that, translations are at the bottom, and I hope you (sort of) enjoy!

It's all downhill from here. :))))))

It was with a rather paranoid mind that Austria came to the realization that everything was not alright. His reign was over. The idea that he has redeemed himself in the slightest was laughable. The power, the control, the glorious sense of having conquered something he could never have dreamed of - it was all gone. It wasn't enough now. How long had it been since he had stopped taking his medication? Had it been three days? Maybe it was five, or seven. Maybe it was, as it felt and it truly had been half of an eternity. The first day was fine, a little downcast and presented with the typical problems that one might expect, but fine. The second was challenging, at best, and at worst, an exhausting bout of insomnia and misery. After that, it was all just a blur of thoughts and urges of all the worst sort. Nothing had succeeding in thwarting them - his music, the company, none of it. He couldn't bear it that long. He wasn't in control now. He wasn't in power now. His say didn't matter anymore. His accomplishments had been undone and didn't mean anything now, crushed underneath the weight of sin which pressed down on him so heavily that he couldn't possibly begin to understand how anyone had ever expected him to be able to bear it. Yet, he needed these things, the things which he could never have. He needed what he lacked - he needed control, he needed redemption, he needed forgiveness.

He needed a knife.

It had been weeks, but he knew exactly where it was. Hidden amongst the rest of the silverware, it served to appear innocent enough, no less than any other baking appliance and with no more sinister a purpose. It did its job well. No one was ever made aware of the situation and no one ever would. They had no reason to. Prussia may have thought that he had reached an understanding of it, but he was wrong. It wasn't a necessarily vile practice, but he was at least intelligent enough to know that it was one that was forever doomed to be misunderstood.

They saw it as harmful and evil, and there was no denying that that was exactly what it was. But that was exactly why he needed it. As far as Austria was concerned, this repulsed them because they didn't understand. No one who made these claims had ever understood the promise of the otherwise impossible reward that partaking in the muted sins of the knife offered, because they had never done so. They didn't understand it in itself, and they didn't understand how horribly plagued he was with himself. They could never fully comprehend the weight of living for so long in the knowledge of past transgressions. It was because of those that he now worked long hours that turned to days, which turned to months, which turned into years of serving his people - all of his people, this time - and keeping peace with his neighbors. He did that well enough. All he wanted was this - something to redeem himself with - and surely, no one had any right to voice any criticism directed toward him for it. Of course they were were entitled to their criticism, but it was his job to enforce his sentence and that was exactly what he was doing. Yes, the length he was going to was horrible, but it was horrible because he deserved it. What point would there be in going through with such an act if it didn't have the same villainous nature which each of his war crimes had? The opinions of those who opposed such action did not matter, though, as there was no one who might visit for miles to judge him, and those who would dedicate the effort to caring did not have to know. They had never found out before - not about any of it - and they did not have to on that day. And if they should know, so be it. Besides, hadn't he the right to offer himself justice for the crimes which he had committed?

That was how he ended up there - leaned over an open kitchen drawer, sleeves already pulled back to his elbows, searching desperately through its contents for a knife. He knew there was one there. There was more than one - there were oh, so many. In fact, there were so many that the drawer housed hardly anything else. But, only one of them was right. Only one was perfect. Only one had a blade so cold-blooded that it could carry out the task at hand without any hint of error. Besides, he could not simply pick any knife, he had to know which exact blade was used each and every time - he simply couldn't slice a portion of a cake to offer to a guest while wondering if he had dowsed the very same utensil with his own blood the night before. He had kept that very knife all those years.

And he did not find the one without fail, just as he expected he would not. It came as a fright, but not as a surprise, that this particular blade was missing from its usual place. He suspected Prussia had done something to it. No matter, Austria did have an entire drawer full, after all. However, he did find a replacement which was nearly identical. It was not too large, and it was not too small, but just the perfect size for control of his pace and severity, as well as a handle which nestled itself into the palm of his hand as though it belonged there, and, as far as he was concerned, it did. The blade carried an air of precision about it, its edge gleaming almost romantically in the dim candlelight, and fit well into the refined, coal-colored wood of the handle. There was no doubt that it would do him well. Yes, he would remember this one.

He took it into his hand, briefly relishing its perfect fit, and strolled across the hardwood floors with his pride intact. Every echo of his boots on the wood was a reminder. A chilling, yet welcome reminder that the time for redemption was almost upon him. It was getting closer, he was almost there. It truly wouldn't be long now. He could do it; he could fix himself.

It continued as he hiked up the stairs, one hand dancing across the railing, the other clutching the chosen knife in anticipation, and followed him down the hall, down the long, bleak hall. And it arrived with him at the door, the same aging door that he had found himself drawn to the previous time. He wasn't entirely sure what compelled him to that room in particular. Maybe it was tradition, maybe he simply didn't want to clean the anticipated mess from the more expensive wood that worked as the flooring of the rest of the house. Either way, he came to it just the same, as he did now. Either way, he found himself pushing the door open with his free hand and slipping inside. And, either way, he slid to the tiled floor, pressing his back up against the wall, and inhaled sharply, as he did before, though now he knew preparation.

Perhaps one would have expected him to pause now, just to contemplate. To have an epiphany and realize all the great and profound reasons he had to live and think to himself 'What am I doing?' However, this did not happen. It used to happen, in the earlier days of this experience. He used to search his own mind desperately for something to bring him back before he made the irreversible decision. He used to stare at the blade and wonder what on Earth he was doing, and if any of it was really worth it. He used to think every second of anticipation beforehand was an eternity in itself because he still held some reluctance that disappeared once he reached the best parts. He used to get so scared.

And, of course, the idea was still frightening, but not in the same way. He could still feel the inevitable terror creeping through him, but he had since resigned himself to the process as a ghastly chore which still must be done. He could still feel the whining in the back of his mind that he didn't want to be doing this, but now he knew better. Now, he knew that this wasn't a matter of merely wanting, he needed to do this. It was simply his only option. Instead, he found himself in the latter stages of addiction, having only desperation for the blade to reach his skin. Every second of anticipation was now an eternity only because each was keeping him from what he needed.

Yes, he needed it. It was strange - he didn't want it, but he deserved it. What morbidly ridiculous state of mind had he ever been in that he thought some lowly medication could ever erase what he had done? He didn't deserve comfort. He deserved to feel every single overwhelming ounce of unimaginable pain which the world had to offer. For his people. The ones whom he had hurt. This was for them, not for him. This was his real medicine. It didn't come with a prescription, as these kinds often did not. It was the kind of medication which would hurt for the sake of the greater good, the kind which had been prescribed only by court judges in past years. But there was no judge to take that responsibility, so he would have to do it himself. For the greater good.

And so, the sharpened blade met his pale skin, not dipping too far, but just enough to give him that first taste. Pain rushed into his mind. It hurt. He flinched with the small dose of agony, but he had to remember why he was doing it. He had to remember how much punishment he deserved but was never made to endure. A shudder coursed through his spine, pulling his eyes closed, and when they opened again they fell upon the blade lodged in his skin and he realized that he was quivering. The quick bite of metal was drawn out so much longer than he wished it was and a wave of recognition of what he had really always known crashed down upon him.

He was terrified. It had always terrified him - what he had done, what he had to do, what he was doing now. His hands were shaking so much now that he had to remember the purpose to see if that could calm him enough to steady himself, but all that did was bring a damp pain to his eyes and cause his hands to shake more with the strain of controlling everything.

He lifted the blade from the skin, watching with something like regret as droplets of blood began arising at the surface of the incision and fell, pushed by new and arriving droplets, over the edge of his wrist. The chilled air rushed into the wound and ravaged it without mercy, sending shivers down his spine. He took a moment, just to stabilize himself. He swallowed, hard, blinking profusely until there was no upcoming threat of having to spill too much over the edges. And by the time that wasn't an issue, his hand was steady.

That meant he could start up again. So he brought the blade down again, just next to the first mark, because he had to. It, too, was painful. But that seemed to be what he was looking for, even if it never stopped aching. It wasn't supposed to be about him, but it brought him a sense of relief to have that sense of release which finally expressing everything brought him.

As did the third, the fourth, the fifth, and every single mark that was made until there were eighteen. And each one of them filled him with an emotion he couldn't recognize, but it brought back the struggle to keep tears from his eyes. He doubted many others would understand, but there was nothing more necessary in his world than continuing. It was terrible, no one needed to tell him that. He knew that. No normal person should ever be doing anything like it. But he wasn't normal. As an immortal being, he had never been really normal by human standards, but he'd strayed so far from any conception of normality in the last century that it hurt. Looking in the mirror, there was no regular person staring back at him, but a monster of a man who done so much wrong. Was it really wrong for the worst of men to commit a crime against himself?

But maybe it was alright now. Maybe he would be allowed to be okay after this one. He knew it was a futile wish, it was just comforting, if only for an instant, to think that there was hope for him. But he knew better than that. Hope wasn't an option. If it was, it wouldn't have let itself be slaughtered by reality. He didn't have to feel the burning of trying to hope anymore. This hurt was all deserved, but he would pay the toll for his sins until the impossible day when he could see the light out of this tunnel of unpayable debt. Thus, he decided it was worthy of his effort and brought it to life. With a somewhat energized intake of air, he brought the dripping blade back down into the first wound and began digging.

It was a new and strange kind of horror.

There was no better word for it, really. Every part of either his mind or his heart screamed at him to keep going, but whichever vital organ wasn't controlling the opposite opinion whimpered that he didn't want that. That it hurt. That he was tired and he wanted to go to bed. But the first part of his conscience was just so impossibly invincible that he knew he would give into it eventually, because when he didn't it hurt worse than when he did. It was like mind control - he knew it was wrong, but it just felt so much like something which he should do that he couldn't bring himself to cease his activity. No, it was like water torture - this was just the overflowing bucket spilling over at the edges. It was for the best that he got rid of the water which had already built up.

And yet, the exhaustion which always pulled at him was getting so much stronger now, urging his eyes to close and his mind to let himself give in to the gradual sense of weariness that sang to him, slowly and deeply. He wanted to stop now. He'd wanted to stop a long time ago. But something in the more aggressive portion of his mind barked that he shouldn't stop, and what's more, he couldn't. And, so, he began to dig the knife deeper.

"What the hell?" A voice which was not Austria's own interrupted, sickened shock beyond clear in its tone.

The voice cut through the air was greater sharpness than any piercing of the stinging metal, though this left him in a state of panic, frigid, and without relief provided by his work of art. Austria spun toward the owner of the voice, which was not exactly an admirable decision, as it turned out, as what must have been liters of blood rushed to his head. Unsurprisingly, the world before him began spinning horribly, the intoxicating realm he had began to see now gone, and the one he was violently returned to seeming to thrust him from sea to sea in its rage. Some vague image was made out of the person in front of him, someone familiar, but was ineligible due to the untrustworthiness of his vision. This was not at all helped as the momentary, yet suspiciously vicious, spinning made his legs undeserving of his trust and quickly tore them out from underneath him.

He didn't immediately hit the floor. In fact, he never reached it at all. Initially, he collapsed against the wall behind him in the final burst of struggle he could muster, the blade sliding from its position to a new one as he lost his grip on it - the dark liquid on the tiles below, leaving but, inevitably, he fell from that without more than a couple seconds to count on. But he found himself not in a degrading position in a growing pool of his own blood, but in the arms of and pulled nearly onto the lap of another, who was not identified for a sum of seconds.

With a less than dignified shake of his head, the infinite fog that confused not just his hearing but all his senses began to fade, revealing a sight that almost made him want to return to the fog, or at the very least, escape the building at any and all costs - a very horrified and concerned Prussian. Prussia, still holding tight to Austria, wasted no time once he recognized the clarity, as well as mortification and humiliation which came with that, in the other's eyes. He took a hand previously located on the Austrian's back and wrapped it, with some caution, around the younger man's wrist, which he then positioned barely a foot from his face and at an angle so that he could clearly see every wound that worked to coat the limb.

Austria's face burned with the heat of ten thousand suns. He bit the inside of his cheek anxiously as he attempted to read the face of the man who now knew his greatest kept secret as the Prussian pulled the knife out from where it was lodged in his skin. Prussia closely inspected the blood on the knife - though his face gave away that he hated looking at it at all - in what was almost certainly a quest to make sure that no veins had been broken. Austria knew none had been, so he wasn't surprised when Prussia appeared not to have found any evidence of such a thing happening. Only when the Prussian breathed a sigh of relief upon the discovery was Austria taken aback, and he found himself unable to do anything more than stare as Prussia threw the bloodied weapon across the room in disgust and muttered something along the lines of 'Get that crap out of here.'

'Idiot, why didn't you lock the door?' Austria internally berated himself. 'You didn't even close it, dummkopf, and now Gilbert knows what you've been doing. You know he can't keep a secret; just wait until Ludwig finds out and marches over here to make a big fuss about it.' Silently, he cursed himself, his face continuing to build heat in his humiliation.

"Gilbert, I-"

"What the hell did you do?" Prussia muttered in a voice so heavily laden with emotion that not even its speaker could decipher which one was dominant with complete certainty, staring in some state of pained shock at the damage. His eyes flickered from scar to scar, both the new and the old, inspecting each one in great detail with eyes that could not seem to decide whether to hold worry, concern, anger, confusion, or plain shock in them, along with the ever present horror that shone in them. "Roderich, oh my— crap . . ."

Austria couldn't bring himself to answer. It was no longer a matter of what he wanted to do, no. He wanted to yank his wrist back, declare that it was not Prussia's business, as it wasn't, and be left alone to compose this glorious work of redemption which Prussia, of all people, should understand, but he couldn't. He could argue that it was his common sense preventing him from doing so, as there was but a microscopic chance that he could escape from the well-trained Prussian's grip, if that much, and that was part of it, but he knew better than to lay blame on it entirely. Mostly, it was the sense of overwhelming shame that fell over him for some unidentifiable reason. He supposed that he was not accustomed to being caught in a lie which someone else seemed severely upset by. It was a new and terrible experience, this shame of dishonesty. With it, he found himself unable to little more than cast his gaze at the floor and dig his teeth further into the flesh of his mouth, and because of that, he sat silently for the torturous few seconds that followed.

Once they passed, the Prussian cautiously relieved his hold on Austria without another word, save for one limb. He stood, like he wanted to move, but his hand lingered pleadingly around the pale and bloodied wrist for several more tedious seconds, which passed to the musician like water torture. His release of the wrist happened gradually, if only with the incentive of caring for the thing.

He rooted around the bathroom until he found a fluffy gray cloth and the first aid kit, which was always kept in the room for lack of a better place to put it, but the search felt as though it had ulterior motives, as Austria, even from his place on the floor, could have sworn that he paused and tensed every time he stumbled across any object that was even remotely sharp. However, the search still signified its end with the faucet miserably screaming with rushing water, which the Prussian thrust the cloth under and ended once said cloth was thoroughly damp. Once it was, Prussia took hold of it and the small box and sank back down to the floor beside Austria, who was pulled back into the short circle of distance between himself and the Prussian. Not hesitating for any purpose, he took the limp and throbbing limb back from its owner, managing, somehow, to be both firm and gentle in doing so, and covered the open wounds with the soaked cloth. He pressed the object down with what seemed to be the only amount of pressure he could apply without hurting the younger excessively in the process of ceasing the blood flow.

If you were to ask Austria, he thought stopping the bleeding took far too long, as it left him ashamed and silent with his former rival who began rooting through the first aid kit without releasing the limb, yet also far too short. No, he was not attempting to be romantic in that, nor did he mean that he enjoyed the experience, certainly not, though the icy water stung as it reached his ruined skin, and he almost took pleasure in how well it was deserved. It was embarrassing and uncomfortable by every meaning of the words. But that was part of why he found part of his mind wishing it was a longer experience. Once it was over, he would be that much closer to having to face Prussia and - perish the thought - even have to have a whole conversation about all of this, and the thought of doing that was beyond frightening in itself. And as much as he would never admit this to anyone, in spite of the circumstances, he supposed he had almost hoped it would last longer. He deserved it. He knew that just as well as his own people had once truly known it.

Despite his opinions on the matter, the blood flow had come to a halt, leaving the wounds to be carefully dried with a smaller cloth the Prussian must have found inside the first aid kit. This took longer than the compression and cleaning and during this extended time, the skin of Austria's mouth under pressure from his teeth broke and drew blood. He almost gagged in disgust at the taste of his own blood flowing like short gusts of wind onto his tongue. Instead, he bitterly took note of the irony of how much more of a reaction an accidental break of the skin lining the inside of his mouth received from himself than intentionally drawing blood from his wrist with a kitchen knife. For an instance, he considered pursuing this as well and gnawing at the wound, but biting at the flesh of his own species proved to be too much of a barbaric practice and the idea was promptly abandoned.

Upon the apparent dryness of the wounds, Prussia turned away, focusing his attention once again on the first aid kit, but Austria was not entirely certain what to do with his. His gaze was repeatedly drawn to the albino, and would remain there for a great number of seconds while his mouth formed the first letter of some explanation, or at least some words of any sort, that did not yet exist. Yet, every time there was a chance the elder was about to look back in his direction, his focus quickly retreated to the floor and his mouth clamped shut, which occasionally led to him biting his inner cheek yet again. He couldn't quite explain it, perhaps it was merely pride, but doubted that he had felt worse in decades than he did in that moment. Surely, Prussia had to understand how little he wanted to discuss this. He had to see what the younger was doing and see how unnecessary it was for them to dwell on this, and only how absolutely necessary it was for them to both acknowledge this whole scenario and then move on, and yet, the threat of the Prussian looking in his direction made Austria's blood drain from his face along with his confidence in the realism of that plan.

The Prussian did turn back, this time with somewhat thick bandages from the kit. Once again, he set his focus on caring for the aristocrat's wrist, lost in unreadable thoughts. The look on his face did not leave as he began wrapping the damaged area and nor did it leave when the area was thoroughly covered to completion. It remained as he, rather hesitantly, returned the wrist to its owner, placing it in his lap. Whatever it was that he was thinking was still bothering him, and was likely going to keep bothering him for some time, as was so common in the past. Despite the frequent number of times Austria had witnessed Prussia stubbornly refusing to relent on an idea, this time felt worse. The pianist could count the number of times when he had seen his elder look truly serious on two hands, and this day was now one of them. It felt unnatural to see him like this and the idea that he had caused it resulted in a tidal wave crashing down upon the pool of harbored guilt and discomfort which had already resided inside of him.

"Gil-"

Austria was cut off as gruff hands found his waist and heaved him against the chest of his former rival. Hardly able to process what was happening, he managed to glance upward at the taller man, who was in the process resting his chin on the top of Austria's head. Prussia's breaths were slowed and deep, and could be felt vividly, each one shaking just slightly, which was, somehow, almost as shocking to Austria as the embrace itself had been.

"Dammit . . ." Prussia muttered, burying the lower part of his face into the silken strands of dark hair, his tone betraying his upset. His grip around the younger man tightened, causing said man's breath to hitch in his throat. His fingers curled in around folds in the cloth around Austria's waist and clutched at the curves of the Austrian's sides protectively. And there was reason for that. It was a terrifying thought. A few seconds, a single missed opportunity, and the Austrian might have been on the road to slow, eternal dissolution. Lost forever. He would have lost Roderich. The very musician who he had known for nearly his entire life would have been lost to wherever it was that had taken Old Fritz. He was essentially the only part of Prussia's life which was a constant and his presence had become so familiar that it found ways of commonly being comforting. He couldn't lose that.

Austria didn't move, apart from the short breaths that could be felt, rather than heard. For a moment, he may have considered making a comment, but the moment passed, and he remained silent. Even then, he couldn't be sure whether it was out of solemn respect for the situation or paralyzing shock. Perhaps it was that the situation almost didn't seem real, and he was contemplating what one should do in such a scenario when in some manner of dream, and an improbable one, at that. Yet, there he was - pressed against the firm chest of Prussia, held there by the shaking arms of the same man, and taking silent note of the sensation of the shuddered breathing, how it caused the chest he was pressed against to shake as it rose and fell and how it felt as . Maybe he simply couldn't think of anything to say. What was there to say during such a time? There were few things he could truly know then, but one of those few things was that whatever that man was thinking or feeling in those moments was by no means an act. The things he was doing simply weren't things the Prussian did. He laughed and fought his way out of his issues, he didn't hold, he didn't whisper, and he certainly didn't seem so . . . was concerned right? Was caring? Or frightened? Were they all right? Whatever it was, there was genuine care embedded in it, and maybe Austria had just enough respect for that to understand what he could in silence.

And he did for the time they spent unmoving. Minutes passed with little to no change, before Prussia tensed, as if coming to a realization or remembering a detail, the way that he had when something had gone terribly wrong during a war. Perhaps both. He pulled his head away from Austria's just enough to meet his eyes, his eyes equally divided between troubled concern and firm command of enough strength to rival that of his brother's.

There was so much in Prussia's eyes, so much that it all muddled together until all that was recognizable was the vivid array of emotion too strong for words. At least, too strong for any words Prussia could come up with. Even at the best of times, there were very few good words which he could proudly lay claim to, but now he had none, and was left shaping his mouth into the beginnings of sentences which wouldn't form and comfort which didn't exist. Dammit, he had nothing. This man whom he had known practically his entire life was breaking in front of him and he had nothing to say to him. Hell, he hadn't even known. He had been so focused on everything that was happening and yet, he hadn't even let himself be aware as Austria must have felt like everyone cared so little that he couldn't see the point in bothering to hold on, because no one was ever going to come with a rope or some water or just a hand or anything. He must have felt like Prussia didn't care.

How long had it been until he, himself, stopped caring and just let go?

Hell, Prussia sucked. Out of all the thought he put into that little capsule, did he ever actually do something to help? Of course he did! After all, he-

He . . .

He really didn't do anything. Maybe some of why he felt like such crap right then was because he had known that longer than he had thought. He clenching his jaw once there was no space between his lips. Having given up, at least temporarily, on his words, there was little else to do than just look at the man in front of him, painful as that was. And, damn, it was. Austria just looked so . . . lost. And he looked so lost that he had just lost any and all hope of ever being found again and was just ready to lie on the ground and wait for the bears to come to finally devour him. And the worst part was that no one had even realized that he wasn't there when they left the woods. All of them were so sure that he had just gone and walked ahead of everyone else or found his own way home that no one had even bothered to go and check for him. Practically by chance, someone had stumbled over him just after he had decided that everything would be for the best when the bears got hungry and came looking for him. Just when he didn't even want to be found anymore.

Prussia's eyes softened, burdened by the weight of the sympathy and the pain and the guilt until they just couldn't keep themselves strong anymore.

"Don't-" Prussia murmured, tearing his eyes away from the somewhat startled Austrian to roam the floor until he found the blood - Roderich's blood - and couldn't take looking at that for more than a few tortured seconds and forced himself to look at the other side of the room. He settled for the short tiled gap between himself and Austria. Under normal circumstances, he might have hated to have to speak so directly to the Austrian about something so serious, but the words were coming just a little bit easier now. They were still difficult and uncomfortable to conjure, but they were just a different little bit quicker. "Don't scare me like that."

Prussia paused. That couldn't be all that he had to say. There had to more. There had to be something more, there had to be something better. But what was there? What he had just said sounded idiotic, even in his own mind. It was cliché and sentimental and pushing boundaries which he had always been taught that he should leave alone. But, all things considered, maybe that was what Austria needed - something completely different from what Switzerland or his bosses or Germany or Prussia himself would ever have normally said, which was really all that the younger had ever gotten to hear. Even so, that didn't make it any less embarrassing to think back on his own choice of words, no matter how true they were.

"You know, you don't-" Prussia stumbled, his voice uncertain and drowned in embarrassment as a direct result of how far out of his comfort zone he was with this, but soft in comparison to his normal tone, briefly glancing up at the Austrian, violet eyes unreadable, but this was different. On any normal day, or even if it wasn't, he couldn't read them because they were guarded. They were careful and suspicious and unwilling to share anything he felt with anyone. But, now wasn't like that. Every supposedly indestructible wall of violet had been shattered and everything had just flowed out, but this was still new. After all, even they looked vaguely unsure of themselves. The upset was still there, but Austria wasn't going to stop the Prussian if he tried to keep talking; he was at least willing to listen. "You don't have to, it's just I - why would - I don't know, it's just . . . what's wrong, Roderich? What's actually wrong? You can tell me this time. Ja, I know that last time I asked that really sucked, but I really need to know now. If you tell me right now, I'll listen, I promise."

Something changed in Austria's eyes. He looked melted, like the last stone in the wall which sheltered him and cut him off from from everyone else in the world had shattered and everything else was raw and unprepared. Everything in those broken orbs was so uncharacteristically vulnerable that Prussia genuinely began wondering if tears were going to begin forming in, and soon falling from, them.

'Mist!' Prussia internally screamed upon the first inkling of the thought, a distinct sense of panic filling absolutely everything which made him. 'Mist, freaking mist, freaking crap, no, he can't cry! I thought that this was hard enough already, but now this? I won't be able to take it if he cries! Shoot, shoot, shoot - what do I do? What'll make him feel better? What else does he want when he's upset other than his piano? I don't know! He's basically never upset and I'm pretty sure that he doesn't want his piano right now, so what am I supposed to do?'

"Gilbert, I . . ." In the midst of Prussia's frantic decision making, or lack, thereof, Austria had paused, and looked about in unsure consideration. And, for a moment, he bit his lip and truly did seem to consider answering, really answering, the whole of Prussia's world put on hold for any little fragment of an answer which he could find, but, a quiet clicking - a grinding, almost, - sounded from the floor below and his attention was stolen, at least partially. "It's not —"

A distant thump came unexpectedly from the downstairs.

'Was that . . .?' Prussia's thoughts echoed in his mind suddenly as he pondered the question. No, it couldn't be. The two of them were, after all, upstairs. It was, of course, very likely that he had misheard. It had almost sounded like a lock being turned on the floor below. There really was only one door on the lower floor which even had a working lock, aside from an old closet in a remote area of the kitchen which, as far as he was concerned, hadn't been opened in nearly a century. Germany wasn't supposed to be at the house for another few hours at least. There wasn't any possibility that he could be. It had to be a soldier's instincts, left over from war. After so many near countless years of harsh, vicious warfare, nearly every sound was enough to capture his attention and get him prepared for whatever was to come - expectations set for the very worst. Often times, it was wild and random, merely an instinct, as the name stated, and hardly the best resource in the residing peace of the modern day. Then again, those instincts were based around hundreds of years of training, and had served him beyond expectation during the wars of the previous century, though those two were far from his favorite things to reminisce about.

Whether it was justified or not, Prussia's body stiffened and fell into a more stable silence. Austria shot him a perplexed gaze, the window of opportunity for his revealing himself collapsed into oblivion, - a verbal cue that he had heard nothing of what the former nation was listening for. Under normal circumstances, Austria would likely have been treated to a hissed interrogation about the sound, then an exasperated and irritated scoff, glance, and remark upon his admitting that he had not heard whatever it was that he was apparently meant to have heard, but the pianist was pooled on the frigid flooring of his bathroom after hysterically clawing his wrist open with a steak knife in whatever unspeakable horrors were haunting him from the inside, and had been for some unspoken amount of time. With that in mind, Prussia held his tongue and focused his line of vision on the hanging door. It was hardly another few seconds before a dull creaking echoed throughout what must have been every room in the ancient house. With that, the fragile nation held so close grew stiff and froze, as his captor had. Even Austria, delicate and so unlike a soldier as he was, had to have heard the hinges of the front door yearn for oil with a cry powerful enough to shake the very foundations of the abode. No matter how either one chose to think of the situation, surely, someone else was inside of the house.

"Gilbert?" Called a rough German voice from the doorway below, accompanied by a relatively quiet shutting of the front door. It was just like him to be careful, even when no one else could be. "Roderich?"

The familiarity of the voice flooded Prussia's very bloodstream with relaxation, if such a thing was at all possible considering the situation. Was it midnight already? He swiftly pulled one hand away from the Austrian's waist and dropped it down into the ripped front pocket of his jeans, rifling impatiently through its contents as quickly as was possible until his fingers settled around the sleek, yet beyond scratched, case of his phone. He fixed his grip on the object and yanked it out of his pocket. With a instantaneous press of a button, the screen lit up, an image of Germany and himself near collapsed at some nightclub he couldn't recognize, beyond intoxicated, yet having the time of their lives, the light fixtures above casting an unnatural vagenta shade over both of their faces, decorated by one simple number - the time - filling the screen. That time read '22:47'.

'Geez,' Prussia thought to himself. 'How early did he leave home to get here? It's not even eleven! He must have had the world's best traffic, too!'

The disbelief which came with the unbelievable timing aside, Prussia was beyond grateful to have his younger brother by his side during such a time. Without him, the Prussian was, for lack of a better word, for he truly hated to be described using the word which follows and would gladly challenge anyone who was so brave as to refer to him by such, quite helpless in the matter. Any mild form of comfort, especially when he who required assistance was Austria, of all people, was challenging enough as it was, but this? Yes, he was getting better at doing this sort of a thing, but this was another matter altogether. If he froze up trying to offer anything more than a pat on the back or a rather awkward word of assistance, if you could even call it that, how on Earth was he supposed to convince a man he had spent half his life tormenting that he was worth the air that he breathed?

The answer was simple - he couldn't, if his response to this recent revelation had taught him anything. There was absolutely no way that he could ever possibly do anything of the sort. But his brother was another story entirely. Yes, Germany was far from the picture of a socially comfortable man, but if there was anything he could do, aside from conquering nations who dared to challenge him to a wrestling match as if the act were as simple as swatting a mildly aggravating insect from his shoulder, he could think logically and talk to Austria worlds better than his elder brother could, though Prussia supposed that the latter didn't take much. A burn of guilt and fury inflamed his conscious as he reminded himself of how he had frozen up moments earlier. If that proved anything, it proved that he couldn't help Austria, as much as he wished he could. But Germany was another matter. If anyone in the world knew what to do in such a situation, Germany would. And, with Germany's help, nothing was going to stop Prussia from trying.

"Ja," Prussia called back to the younger German, his voice not quite betraying exactly how relieved and ecstatic he was to share in the company of his own flesh and blood during such a time. "We're upstairs!"

"Which room are you in?"

"I left the door open!"

"Alright, thank you!"

It was with this previously mentioned enthusiasm that Prussia returned his gaze to Austria once the series of heavy footfall became audible. From the moment that he did so, it became starkly apparent that the Austrian was far from sharing in his enthusiasm. To put it simply, he looked absolutely mortified. Though Prussia would have thought it difficult, perhaps impossible, especially for one who spent such extensive amounts of time indoors, the pianist's face had paled considerably. His eyes had grown wide and held in them an almost manic terror which Prussia hadn't seen since his days on the battlefield and his mouth was held open just slightly, from which his breathing was anxious and shallow.

Prussia's expression twisted into a confused frown, ridden with concern, and glanced down at Austria's wrist, scanning it for any sign of increase in damage, in case this was blood related. Upon inspection, there didn't seem to be anything more than the last time he had checked, though that wasn't saying much. Just to be safe, he covered it with the cloth again and took hold of it once again. It could hardly be considered a stretch to believe that it might need further compression.

"Hey, you okay?" Prussia asked, scooting backward just enough to distance the two immortals, for fear that the closeness was either scaring or hurting the Austrian in some way. Weird, he'd never thought he could ever really scare him, but here they were. He grabbed ahold of the damaged wrist to at least keep some kind of small hold on the other and look after that which required care, and cocked his head to the side just so in a further expression of his perplexity.

If Austria ever was going to answer the question, though it didn't look like he would have been in the state to do so for quite some time, the opportunity was once again stolen from him as the thundering footsteps came to an abrupt halt, averting the attention of bother elfer Germanics from one another. The new object of their shared focus wasted no time in making himself visible through the opening in the doorway, and upon doing so, pulled the door further open, allowing his visibility to the other two living figures to increase - the image of the well-built German, clad in the white button-up and faded beige slacks he seemed to favor on uneventful days, in front of them clear, were it not previously.

"What are you two doing over here?" Germany began to ask, arctic eyes dragging themselves over the familiar figures in front of them, quickly learning to favor the wrapped Austrian forearm cradled quite gently in the hands of the dissolved nation he knew so well. Upon noticing this detail, his entire face seemed to tighten, his eyes briefly widening in realization, before narrowing slightly, not in anger, but in what could only be described as somewhat horrified and suspicious inspection, the interest he had previously held in the answer to his question forgotten.

"What happened here?" Germany inquired slowly, a calculated caution lacing his tone and coloring his eyes.

"It's nothing, Ludwig," Austria hurriedly assured the younger German, his face having regained all of its previous color and more, now horribly heated in overwhelming humiliation. He wouldn't look at Germany, carefully avoiding eye contact in his embarrassment, his head just slightly hung. His previously apparent panic was now delicately hidden from sight in place of the stronger feeling, but still existed in his rather poorly disguised tone. "I simply-"

"The hell do you mean it's 'nothing'?" Prussia demanded, not flinching under the harsh and betrayed glare Austria shot him. "You cutting yourself is not 'nothing'!"

"He what?" Germany exclaimed, loudly enough that Austria visibly flinched, his face so pained with ruined pride that Prussia almost felt bad for announcing his doings. Arctic eyes widened in shock and rapidly passed between the two, frantically searching for some clue, verbal or otherwise, to either confirm or deny this accusation, though a quick glance toward his younger brother made Prussia fully aware that the younger was actively hoping for the latter.

Prussia couldn't blame him, he really couldn't. Of course the younger was close to Austria, they both were. After the Great Wars, they really were just about all any of them had. And of course that only made this entire situation so much harder to deal with. It broke his heart to see the desperate yearning for his elder brother to tell him that it wasn't true and that Austria really was okay in his younger brother's eyes, but there wasn't anything he could tell the taller which would possibly comfort him. Besides, if life experience had taught him anything, the both of them would be better off knowing the truth. After all, he always had been a firm believer in ripping off bandages rather than peeling them off a millimeter at a time like Austria preferred to. Fortunately, though Austria seemed to very strongly disagree with this sentiment, Prussia knew exactly how to go about tearing this one off.

A number of marched steps across the floor led Germany to his brother's side, where he made haste in kneeling down beside the elder. Having found his seat on the tiles, he delicately wrapped his own fingers around Austria's more distracting forearm, being careful to avoid brushing any area where one of the numerous scars might be. Once his hold was secure, he began steadily bringing the limb closer to himself than his brother, silently and attentively coaxing said brother to release his protective grasp on the thing. Prussia was, as expected, hesitant, but, after a reassuring glance from his younger brother, doubtfully and sluggishly uncurled his fingers, stopping for a moment and grazing his fingers across the pale skin before inevitably pulling his hand away, though he refused to move this hand more than twenty centimeters away and his eyes stood their ground on the two connected arms which were not his own.

With a pace just slowed enough to be careful, yet just brisk enough to prevent the pianist from actively protesting, Germany, having no suitable words but being just uncomfortable enough that he felt he needed to do something, pulled back the dampened cloth from rough surface of the bandages. He knew when he managed to locate his elder brother being unable to continue watching and forcing his stare away from the corner of his eye that what he saw once he pulled back those bandages was going to upset him. But, even so, he doubted that he ever would have been able to prepare himself for the sight which got when he did so. The pale skin of the ruined forearm, revealing the series of fresh scars littering the otherwise perfect skin which, though they had now ceased their blood flow, sent horrified chills through his body. How many even were there? Too many. One would have been too many, this was panic inspiring - a hideous number. There were more than ten, that much was sure, though he couldn't bear to look at those things long enough to really count them. But that which was most concerning was that the depth was so impressive - though it felt repulsive to describe such a thing with such a word intended for praise - that it would have easily required a frantic rush to the hospital, were the musician any regular human being.

"Ludwig!" Austria hissed in undignified fury, before sending an anxious look at Prussia. The youngest man looked outright horrified, his eyes softening in upset and his mouth pressed into a tight line, but not entirely surprised. After a few mere moments, though they felt anything but mere, the Austrian's pride couldn't bear it anymore and he returned his sights to the Prussian, who, though he had been a soldier for so many years, looked visibly sick from the sight of the wounds alone. He seemed to search for the appropriate words to say for a few more tedious seconds, before settling on an indefinable look, which was retorted by a sharp, though somewhat desperate, demand. "Don't involve him in this!"

"It's not my fault!" Prussia responded defensively. "He has a right to care about you."

"This is what you meant when you asked me about him a few weeks back, " Germany interrupted, breaking the tense conversation with an equally tense address. "You knew about this. Why didn't you tell me?"
"What?" Prussia responded dumbly, turning to stare at his younger brother in puzzlement. When he did so, he was met with a stern expression, arctic eyes brimming with an emotion Prussia couldn't read. Perhaps it was anger. It seemed somewhat angry. Or perhaps it was betrayal, or disappointment. Germany was far from being easy to read, more so than most, though his elder brother could usually get some vague idea of what he was thinking after so long. After all, he had known his brother since the younger had been formed. Maybe he was upset. Yes, there was definitely some level of upset, but something else seemed thinly restrained. From Prussia's experience, what he said next could very well determine exactly which emotion would soon reveal itself. So, his response came somewhat carefully, especially since he knew that he was playing dumb. "Why was I supposed to call you? I already did that a week ago."

"Gilbert," Germany reprimanded, his voice rising in volume and irritation flaring in his eyes, this emotion now quite apparent, a clear indication that such a response was very much unwanted. "You're supposed to tell me if anything is wrong!"

"I didn't have time to tell you!" Prussia snapped. It was only partially untrue. He wasn't sure what the rest of the reason was, but it seemed important at the time and still seemed pretty significant now, even without a label.

"This is the kind of emergency you need to make time to tell me about immediately!"

"Well, sorry, if I was too busy actually doing something to call you in your freaking lightspeed car!"

"You can't drive at lightspeed, Gilbert, but I would have come damn near it if you had told me this was happening!"

"I don't care!" Prussia screeched, some level of his true panic seeping into his tone. "What does it matter now? Can't you see that there's blood freaking everywhere? Are you going to lecture me or help me?"

For a few seconds, Germany remained silent, no valid argument nor response seeming to take priority in passing through his mind to his tongue. Instead, he grunted, one last audible clue of concerned enragement, before at last releasing his next murmured words. "Be more careful next time."

As he turned back to the unfortunate, yet very much eye-catching, sight before him, it was obvious to both of the other individuals in the room that Germany had now clearly discovered that the damage was more heart wrenching on closer inspection. Perhaps having it so close somehow made it seem more real. Now that their active blood flow had come to an end, the severity of the scattered, yet disturbingly organized, wounds could be deduced with increased clarity - an opportunity the German wasted no time taking full advantage of. His eyes trailed up and down the limb, narrowing on occasion in what Prussia could only assume was his version of concern. After a number of seconds, a sigh escaped Germany's lips.

"My goodness . . ." Germany muttered, lifting his head to meet the Austrian's eyes, or, at least, as much as was possible, considering how determined the man in question was to avoid eye contact. "What the hell were you thinking, Roderich?"

"I-" Austria stammered, his conception of any possible excuse dissolved under the German's piercing gaze and the ignominy which came with it. His eyes fleeted about the room, particularly favoring anything which was located in such a way that looking at it did not mean seeing either of the other two men in the room - most of these favored sights being the tiles of the floor which were not coated in liquid. For a favorable portion of time, his mouth remained ajar, tongue seeking words which refused to come, until, eventually, he closed, accepting the lack of words to speak with a bit of his lip.

"These scars next to the ones you've just made are nearly healed. You've done this before." Germany stated. "More than once, if I'm not wrong."

Both elder nations in the room froze, both pairs of eyes widening in some undesirable form of horror, though those two which were violet took the role of mortification rather than the pure horrified shock in those which were painted crimson. Prussia's head snapped up, mouth fully agape and his face molded into incredulous upset.

"You what?" Prussia shrieked, eyes wider than the nation he found himself staring at, whose eyes flickered toward him and who bit his lip uncomfortably, though whether the Austrian reacted this way as a result of this being discovered or simply of the crimson-eyed man's dramatic - and strangely hurt - response, Prussia couldn't be entirely sure. Frankly, it wasn't a question whose answer was significant enough to take priority in his mind. His head whirled toward his younger brother, eyes flowing with distress.

"What the hell do you mean he's done this more than once before? How many times?" Prussia demanded, not waiting for an answer from the blonde before his head flew to another direction, his eyes now locked onto Austria's pools of lilac degradation. No, Austria couldn't have, he was - well, he wasn't fine, but Prussia at least would have noticed if he was cutting. No. No, this was Austria. This was Roderich. He couldn't- he wouldn't . . . would he? Had he? "No, you can't- you're- I- Roderich! What happened to coming to me?"

Austria looked down in such a way which almost looked just the slightest bit guilty, though that could very well have just been the result of his former-rival's unexpected and quite overwhelming response. He made no attempt to justify himself or deny this accusation, which both made the oppressive weight forming in Prussia's stomach grow tenfold and his temper flare. The Prussian just couldn't help it. How had this even happened? Maybe it hadn't. Maybe this really was only the first time. Sure, Austria really didn't look like it, but maybe this was all just a joke. It had to be. Now, all he had to do was prove it to himself, and there was only one way to do that, so, he reached over and took hold of the familiar wrist, which was willingly relieved from the hold of the other Germanic in the room when he gave it a relatively soft tug.

"Gilbert, don't," Austria protested weakly, covering his face with his free hand, but did little to stop Prussia from probing the damage with his eyes when he tried.

As had previously been decided by whatever any of them called fate, there was more than what Prussia had originally perceived. It was strenuous trying to find the marks, but they were no doubt there to find. Just barely poking out from the more noticeable injuries was, indeed, a collection of several dulled marks. There wasn't anything else they could be. They had to be the deliberately inflicted wounds of a knife. They weren't all that noticeable on their own, but once they had been pointed out, it wasn't especially difficult to locate them. Prussia's throat constricted. He felt sick. Sure, he had been pretty much certain that they were there before, but he hadn't seen them, so he had always carried some supply of hope that he had been mistaken. That, and he didn't know how many of them there were. It was just - how had any of this even happened?

"Roderich . . ." Prussia found himself pleading in a tone weighed down by helpless emotion, unable to find any other word to speak.

"Roderich, this is an issue," Germany continued, reminding both of the others of his presence in the room, though Prussia did not seem to appear as though he had heard him, doing little other than flickering his eyes about the scars. "You need help."

"I-" Austria stammered, forcing his eyes away from this abnormally emotional version of the Prussia with a swallow to gather the courage to look the younger nation in the eyes. "I'm not a child."

"I know, but this won't get better until you talk about it," Germany pressed. He reached up and rested a hand against Austria's cheek gently, and let his thumb brush back and forth across silky skin patiently. Prussia tracked every move silently, his eyes narrowing as something inside of him boiled. He wasn't supposed to be touching him like that, and Austria wasn't supposed to let him. Everyone was just supposed to know that, so why didn't his younger brother? "Accepting help doesn't make you any less of an adult. Will you tell me what's wrong?"

Austria only shook his head persistently and drew his eyes back to some inconspicuous object toward the back of the room. This response drew a tired and defeated sigh from Germany. Dissatisfied, he drew his hand back, but Austria wasn't watching. With a grunt, he hauled himself back onto his feet and clasped his hand on his elder brother's shoulder - a gesture which snatched the Prussian back to the present from his thoughts and rotated his head over to the object of his refound attention - meeting crimson eyes with his own.

"Take him to bed, alright? It's been a long day and we're all tired." Germany instructed wearily.

"I - yeah, sure," Prussia agreed with a disorganized nod. "Yeah, I'll get him to bed."

Germany's only response to his brother's compliance came in the form of a thankful glance sent his brother's way, and he then rose abruptly from the floor. He paused, looking in conspicuous worry once more at the Austrian - which for a moment drew something defensive out of Prussia - then turned and trudged out of the room once he recognized that this glimpse was not to be returned, leaving only two near-human creatures left in the room, the harsh reality of the current circumstances more than felt between them in the place of any distinct sound, aside from the pounding of boots against wood just outside the room.

"How long?" Prussia asked in what was intended as a demand but came out as more of a strained plea, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice. "How long has this been happening?"

"I-" Austria began to decide, exhaling in the quietest manner which he was able. His face was now marginally less scarlet in color. Perhaps having two people in the room while he was forced to reveal something which he probably had no intentions of ever sharing was just overwhelming. Now, it was obvious that having Germany aware of any of this had brought his guard up again, practically erasing nearly all of the progress which Prussia had made with him just mere minutes prior. He wasn't even looking at Prussia now. "I don't see why that's any of your business."

"Roderich, we've been through this," Prussia grumbled, not denying even to himself that the undoing of all connection which he had worked so hard to build up a few minutes prior was incredibly frustration. "It's my business when it's something like this, because I'm going to make it my business when it involves you- you doing something to yourself like this. At least tell me this. How long?"

"Let's not do this tonight, Gilbert."

"Why not? I just pulled you out of a puddle of your own blood - when will there ever be a better time for this?"

"Gilbert, I really don't see why this is necessary."

"Just get it out of the way and I won't ask again."

"Do we really have to do this?"

"Roderich, please."

Austria froze, finally looking back at Prussia.

"The first time was in 1788," Austria admitted reluctantly.

"1788?" Prussia repeated dumbly. Panic began seeping into his veins, and his eyes bulged in their sockets. "1788? But that was forever ago! You've been doing this for that long? How did no one ever notice?"

"I wasn't finished. I was a foolish drunk and Turkey was closing in on my men. It was very stressful and I acted impulsively. After the fact, I withheld the information for as long as I could, but the news of what I'd done spread eventually. It took so long that people don't believe it ever happened anymore, and I'm glad for that. I never touched a blade to do such a thing again until recently. That was about a month ago, and tonight, now."

"So, it's not constant?" Prussia asked, a glimmer of relief glowing in both his mind and voice.

"No," Austria answered resolutely. He sounded almost offended by the very idea that he would have done this consistently for such a period of time. Prussia didn't know what Austria thought was the better alternative, but he wasn't quite sure that he wanted to either.

"And what about . . . wanting to do something like this? How long has that been around?"

"It mostly occurred in fleeting eras. But that was mostly just foolishness; it only ever started to become real during the 1940's and the 1950's."

"Why the fifties? That was your big independence decade. I thought you were super proud of your place during then 'cause you wouldn't shut up about getting to have neutrality before West and me."

"I did appreciate it, but there were . . . a number of reasons," Austria admitted tentatively. He paused, but upon a curious look from Prussia, he cleared his throat and went on. "I had more time on my hands to think about — certain matters."

"Which matters?"

At that, Austria drew the line. His eyes grew hard and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"The Wars? The divorce with Liz? The Wall?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Roddy-"

"I said I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Prussia said nothing but simply held his gaze. However, it was changed, now scanning the Austrian, whose inhales and exhales of air could be easily heard, just as the rising and falling of his chest could be seen, looking him up and down and across every inch of his face with an unchanged expression. His grip tightened until it bordered on painful, but then relieved itself after a few moments, loosening almost to the point of letting go altogether. And then it did. He took his hands away from Austria's wrists, leaving the biting air to nip at the bandaged skin in their absence.

"Alright. C'mon," Prussia sighed. "I'll take you to your room."

"I do not need you to carry me."

"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna trust you with a whole lot right now."

Austria was by no means satisfied with the idea, but he didn't protest when Prussia reached over to gather him up in his arms and he only huffed when he was pressed flush up against the Prussian's chest. The two of them rose up above the floor, and Prussia caught Austria taking one last look at where the knife had been flung across the floor. He held the younger man a little bit closer after that.

Then, with the Austrian in his arms, Prussia ambled across the floor and out of the door and started his way back down the eerie corridor

"Do you have to hold me like that?" Austria grumbled miserably after a few doors had been passed.

"Like what?"

"Like we've just gotten married."

"Like we've just what?" Laughter laced Prussia's voice and poured into his eyes at the sheer absurdity of hearing something of that nature coming out of Austria. A teasing smile crept across his face and he cocked an eyebrow down at the man in his arms.

"Well, it's popularly called bridal style," Austria explained defensively, his face heating up a little in embarrassment. "And we're not married and I'm not a woman."

"Well, now you just made me want to hold you like this more often!"

"You're so difficult,"

"Remind me of that when we're married,"

"I didn't mean it that way!"

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, Gilbert, I'm very sure,"

"Alright, if you say so," Prussia hummed teasingly, and he very much appreciated the frustrated grumble which came from the Austrian in his arms. Even as he came to a final stop at the door second closest to the ballroom, he found himself chuckling under his breath. He turned to his side and pushed the door with his shoulder just enough to knock it open all in the same amused mindset.

"Gilbert?" Austria piped up in a confused and correcting voice. "Why are you stopping here? You should know very well by now that my room is the next door down."

"I know," Prussia assured him, nudging the door to his own room open with his foot before slipping inside to greet the darkness. "I'm stopping here because you're sleeping in here with me tonight. Last time I left you alone, which turned out to not exactly be the best decision I've ever made because it didn't work out very well, but I did have to call West over, so I did have a reason, and- Basically, I'm not leaving you alone this time. You've had more than too much of that."

"That is hardly a decision for you to make,"

"Hey, if you're going to try and kill yourself as soon as you're alone, you've had too much of being alone. I'm not going to see you die tonight. Or any other night, for that matter."

It was quiet for a minute after that.

"I'm alright, Gilbert," Austria insisted quietly after a moment of shocked silence. And he could feel Prussia's eyes linger on him. "Really. You can go."

It was quiet for a minute longer. But this time, the atmosphere was new - brisk and arctic.

"I'm not going anywhere, Roddy," Prussia assured him when he finally gathered his speech back in an equally hushed tone. "I'm — just gonna stay here for a bit. I'm not gonna leave you here by yourself."

Pushing past the words and the air, Prussia edged forward in the room and gave the door a brisk kick to force it back into its frame. The Austrian resting in his arms hadn't spoken a word of protest since their last conversation, so the march toward the lavish bed in the center of the room was no less than effortless. And as soon as he reached it, he set the Austrian down on top of it like he had been carefully sculpted of easily breakable glass. He stood where he was for a minute, then tentatively took a seat on the bed's edge, just next to his former enemy, and began a period of uncomfortable silence, which was only broken by the sound of soft breathing coming from the two of them.

"You know," Prussia began after some time had passed, trailing off as any and all words ceased their flow to the overwhelming awkwardness that pulled at his throat. Are you okay? Is everything alright? Do you need someone to talk to? I'm here for you. Any of those things would have been suitable, and he tried to say them, at least one, he really did. He opened his mouth and looked over at the aristocrat, then turned away as he found himself unable to hold his stare any longer. "If you're, uh . . ."

Upset? Hurt? Lonely? Going to do this again? Wanting to do this again? Scared? In need of someone?

"I'm not, and I'm fine." Came Austria's curt response, causing Prussia to pause, in part due to the undeniable frost of the other's tone. Without any comment between them, the two remained in uncomfortable silence for nearly a minute, a time with the Prussian spent mostly dragging his eyes across the floor in thought, only looking back rarely. On one such occasion, he seemed to find his voice and spoke again.

"You, uh, you want to tell me what's going on?"

"No."

Another stretch of silence passed, with not a word spoken and not a sound made other than the soft rustling of fabric and quiet creaking of the bed.

"Roderich, why didn't you tell me?" Austria froze. "About this, whatever it is? About feeling like this? About doing this? About doing this before? About wanting to do this? Hell, I don't even know when this all started, I just - I don't know, I just - damn, why didn't you tell me?"

For half of a second, Austria looked like he was at least willing to sincerely consider putting up a fuss, but he met Prussia's eyes and shrunk back. From that, Prussia could safely assume that he looked as hurt as he sounded. As he felt. He didn't understand why he felt so hurt, but he could recognize the feeling anywhere, and it more than looked like Austria could recognize the feeling on him as well. Now that it was out there, they both held their tongues.

"It's . . . complicated," Austria whispered tentatively, and the discomfort broke his eyes away from Prussia.

"Roderich, look at me," Commanded Prussia with a gentleness about him that clearly made Austria uneasy. Maybe it was because of this uneasiness that he did what he was told cooperatively. Regardless, the Austrian's responsiveness gave him the opportunity to make stronger eye contact with him than he had in who knows how long. He could make the steady plea in silence. He could mutely let the younger know that he was looking for the Austrian he'd come to know for almost his entire life to speak to him. From one soldier of war to another of the same, he could call wordlessly on any and all trust they had ever built up over years and years, and years on top of those. Just by staring deep into the familiarity of eminence irises and knowing they were staring poignantly back at him. "Why'd you do this?"

Even by only looking at his eyes, Prussia could see the younger acutely tense. Austria shifted uncomfortably, and the now stronger desire for Prussia to leave was threaded into his knitted eyebrows and melted into his eyes.

Prussia, himself, must have looked almost helpless, because he wished to offer some form of comfort, but lacked the knowledge of how to do so. It was common knowledge that this particular topic was a difficult subject on its own, but was more of his own personal knowledge that it was worlds more so with someone even remotely similar to Austria. If it were France, he would have known what to do. If it were Spain, he would have known what to do. If it were Italy, he would have known what to do. Hell, if it were Germany, he probably would have known exactly what to do. If it were practically anyone else, he would have known what to do. But, it wasn't. Instead, it was the reserved man who followed tradition before all else and whom he had known for most of his entire life. He couldn't think of how to comfort or coax gently, either. He was a soldier - trained in combat, not personal relations.

"It's none of your concern," Austria choked out eventually. And Prussia almost groaned because Austria wasn't even trying anymore.

"Oh, come on, cut the crap!" Prussia grumbled. What little patience he had gathered, to begin with, was all but drained and his concern absorbed just about all which he had left. "You've already given that to me. Whether I should or not, I'm damn concerned and I'm going to keep asking until you give me a real answer."

"You wouldn't understand!" Austria spat in a sudden burst of pent-up fury. Every word dripped with suppressed intensity, every drop swarming in a raging sea which electrified the amethyst waves. He would never admit it, but Prussia nearly jumped back because it was so unexpected that Austria could ever have such wild eyes. Even during times of war of suffering, he was used to seeing Austria maintain some aspect of control, but that barrier of restrained sophistication was just gone.

"You won't know that until I try," Prussia pushed, still in something of a daze.

"I don't want you to try!"

Silence fell. Silence stretched. Silence dripped with the echoes of the truth spoken in both active minds. There it was. He'd said it. Both of them knew well that it was the truth and neither one of them could do anything to change it.

"Yeah, I know you don't want me to," Prussia admitted. "But I'm — I'm worried

about you."
"Don't waste your time," Austria growled bitterly. "I don't need pity from anyone, least of all you."

Frustrated, Prussia scowled. But he couldn't find any words to vocalize what he felt. If anything, he felt reasonably betrayed that Austria really didn't trust him in the least. Naturally, that would be normal for anything a couple centuries back or something trivial today, but he had thought that the First and Second World Wars had forced them into making a connection which he had thought was, at least to a certain extent, still in tact, but it seemed that the sentiment wasn't reciprocated. Like most of what they shared, he had assumed it wasn't a fact he would ever have to state because it was stronger unspoken than not, but it seemed now that he had taken a leap of faith without knowing the chasm was too wide to bridge.

"It's not like that kind of pity," Prussia bristled. And Austria burned.

"Then what is it?"

"It's like — it's more like Weltschmerz."

"I'm not the world, stupid."

"I know that! English is just a stupid language which doesn't have any good words, so I have to get the good ones from ours."

"Mine is much better."

"No, it's not — you've got too many dialects! And it's not even your own language!"

"I only made it so that most cities have their own. And it may not be recognized as its own language, but it's far better than yours."

"You don't need a dialect per city! No one else can understand you guys and your weird code languages."

"Precisely why we need so many."

"You're ridiculous,"

"If I bother you so much, leave,"

"A thousand years and you still don't get that I'm not going anywhere?"

"I don't 'get' why you stay,"

"That's a dumb question,"
"Then what, pray tell, is the answer?"

"I stay 'cause I like staying. Duh,"

A minute passed, an insult to Prussia's intelligence was mumbled, but nothing more. There had been a lot of moments like those lately, the ones when nothing was said or done. Or maybe there were things to be done and more still to be said, but neither man was willing to take a blow to his own pride and go about doing and saying those things.

"Aren't you going to change into your nightclothes?" Was the first thing Austria said or did since their latest of those moments had begun. Actually, he asked, but a conversation had been sparked nonetheless.

"Nah, I didn't bring any with me," Prussia answered casually.

"That's disgusting,"

"Hey, if you want to go and change, go ahead, but I want you back here when you're done and not in that bathroom,"

"What was your plan for staying here if you didn't bring any clothes with you?"

"I've got some left here from the last few times I've stopped by,"

"If you have clothes here, then why don't you change into something new for the night?"

"I'll change into something in the morning, don't sweat it,"

"You've been wearing the same clothes since yesterday, at least change into something new before I share a bed with you,"

"Fine, Mutti," Prussia complied irritably. "I'll get changed, so go and get dressed in your room before I do,"

"Alright," Austria agreed and was on his feet and to the door before Prussia even had the chance to make it to the drawers where he had learned to store his clothes.

By the time Prussia was the only person left in the room, he had made it to the drawers and soon after, he'd carelessly pulled out some old pair of faded pajamas in his favorite color - Prussian blue. He wriggled his way out of his shirt and tossed it into a hamper located just beside the drawers, then repeated the action with the rest of his clothing, before redressing himself in his pajamas, which he honestly couldn't tell the age of. Naturally, with how professional he was with his ridiculous number of clothing layers, Austria was not knocking at the door as soon as Prussia was done, so he took the opportunity to stroll over to the half bath attached to the room. While he was there, he gathered the effort to find and use his toothbrush.

After that, he lounged around on the counter for a minute or so. He couldn't tell what the countertop was made of, but it felt welcoming to the touch. Inevitably, the feeling of refreshing stone against the skin of his palms was not enough to satisfy him and he hopped the short distance to the floor. The wood of the floorboards wailed in misery, but the sound wasn't unfamiliar now and he put it off in exchange for getting to the much more comfortable footrest which was the room's only bed. Unlike most everything else in the house, there was a surprising lack of distressing noises of death produced when he sat on it

"You don't have to knock, Roddy," Prussia called at the man just beyond the door. On cue, the wooden barrier was broken and light from the hallway seeped into the bedroom.

"I didn't want to walk in on anything," Explained Austria as he slunk into the darkened room, the door falling tightly shut behind him. It would have been weird seeing him so dressed down if his pajamas didn't look like they ought to be in a history museum. Instead, Austria himself was the only one who seemed to think that being seen so informal was uncomfortably out of the ordinary, but that, in turn, served to make it more normal.

"Roddy, you wear so many layers of weird old clothes that there's no way you could ever be done before me,"

In turn, Austria rolled his eyes, but held a silence unnatural to him. At least, Prussia thought he had rolled his eyes. It was much more difficult to read expressions well in the dark than fictional characters were given credit for. But he could tell when Austria was moving, and he did move to wander through the room in the direction of the one prominent piece of furniture in it. All the way toward the bed in the center of the room, he held his attitude of reservation together. Then again, walking wasn't famous for including an awful lot of conversation, nor was lying down on a bed and crawling under the covers. Under this example, Prussia made himself comfortable without much to say as well.

When he had himself faithfully tucked under the thick blanket, Austria had himself meticulously positioned at the very edge of the mattress with his back toward Prussia. That wasn't uncommon. Generally, he wouldn't imagine that the Austrian would be very excited about the idea of the two of them sharing a bed, so of course Austria would move as far away from him as he possibly could. However, tonight, Prussia made up his mind that he wasn't going to take that.

"Hey," Prussia called. He didn't get a response, so he tried again. "Hey, Roddy."

"Hm?" Came Austria's less than enthusiastic response.

"Hey, hey, hey,"

"What is it?" Austria groaned under his breath. He rolled over to frown over at Prussia, which fortunately was exactly what the Prussian was hoping he would do. Austria had little time to anything other than give a squeaky noise of surprise before calloused hands found and wrapped around his waist, then pulled him all the way across to about the middle of the mattress, where he was met by Prussia's waiting form.

"What are you doing?" Austria demanded as he found himself dragged snuggly into Prussian arms and against an awaiting chest. He had a feeling he wasn't going to get out of this one, and a quick glance up into Prussia's eyes only confirmed that suspicion.

"I said I wanted you to sleep with me tonight, so tonight you're sleeping over here with me," Prussia explained nonchalantly, then let his eyes fall shut and nuzzled into Austria's hair. "Now go to bed, Prinzessin."

If Austria really felt like protesting, he didn't put much effort into it. He made a few irritated sounds and struggled briefly to worm his way out of the hold, but ultimately surrendered to the affectionate gesture. After that, he let himself be held, but held his posture intact. That didn't seem like it would be very helpful for falling asleep - which was something he very much needed to do - so Prussia took a hand away from the Austrian's torso to bring up to the back of his head. Austria initially made a motion to pull away, but made a noise of surprise when Prussian fingers began running through his hair in soft, comforting caresses, and melted into the touch with no further argument.

The only remaining issue after that was how completely and utterly awake Austria was. After the minutes kept ticking by without any signs of future success, Prussia privately concluded that Austria was having some trouble falling asleep. He had never had issues like that during peacetime. But this side of the continent was living peacefully, so he was probably either bothered by the idea that someone else was in his bed - which would be kind of stupid, considering how many times he had been married off to some random nation whom he had met maybe once beforehand in his entire life - or this was another one of those medication things. Or he was still up because all the things which had made him hurt himself in the first place were still on his mind.

Prussia wished that they wouldn't be. He wished that they would just leave Austria alone.

Austria seemed tired, but he wasn't sleeping. He seemed pleasantly calmed by the presence one person at his side - even if he would be caught dead before admitting it to anyone - but he didn't seem entirely comfortable with the idea either. There were still walls and boundaries standing erect in place. He seemed alright, but he also seemed like he was at one of the worst places in his life. Everything about the Austrian in that moment was so contradicting in a way that was simultaneously understandable and incredibly confusing.

And maybe because it was one of those nights when pushing boundaries seemed more acceptable, Prussia began to methodically rub a little above the small of the younger man's back with his hand already resting there, letting the fingers of the opposite hand slow to a halt midway through a series of locks to rest out of commission for the time being. His fingers flew across the light fabric which coated the skin in obscure patterns which he was certain he would never remember again, but was able to repeat consistently in that moment. After all, consistency was a habit which one would usually pick up on after being enrolled in the military for more than half of a millennia. There was something he was quietly humming in the back of his throat, but he doubted his ability to name whatever it was, even if he had an eternity to do so. It was something Austria liked playing, which didn't really narrow it down, but it might have been Mozart, which seemed appropriate. As far as he could remember, Mozart wasn't Austria's favorite composer, but he appeared to find it soothing to hear something familiar. He was also pretty sure that he was going back and forth between multiple compositions which he wasn't sure were even by the same person in a way which wouldn't make any kind of sense to anyone who actually knew anything about music, but Austria's posture softened and he seemed relaxed by it, so Prussia kept going.

In the beginning, it was straining to keep it going. The acts of humming and gentle massaging were not in themselves difficult, but he could feel reticent eyes peering into his skin. They watched him, waiting and focused, and he couldn't tell what their owner had on his mind, which made him so eager to do what was more comfortable and flee the room altogether. He didn't, despite the pounding urge in most corners of his mind, and the next time he checked on the pianist, deciphering eyes had been hidden away behind lazy lids.

Truthfully, it was the most relieving sight he'd seen all day. He kept up whatever incoherent mash of random snippets of compositions he was humming for a while, but Austria must have been tired because he fell asleep sooner than Prussia had expected him to. Much sooner, actually. It would have felt out of place, were it not for the reminder that it was easier to fall asleep after a loss of blood. Fortunately, Austria was a nation, so something blood loss, as horrifying as that concept was on its own considering the circumstances, could not even come remotely close to dealing any real damage. The only damage it would really do was in how much it made others worry. Besides, Austria needed his sleep after all of this, and plenty of it. So, for the meantime, Prussia was just relieved to see that a calmer expression had planted itself on the pianist's face.

One that didn't intend to cut itself with a knife.

One which was the person he had come to know — lazy and carefree, but so held together.

One that was safe.

One who didn't have to live in a world where Prussia was clutching him so desperately because he'd never had to be faced with the possibility of him really dying before, and now he couldn't be sure that Austria wouldn't wake up a corpse the very second he let go.

He thought to himself without satisfaction that he had been right in describing this as Weltschmerz. For the same reason which Austria probably opposed it being used, it was perfect. Sentimental pessimism or melancholy over the state of the world, it was supposed to mean. Either Austria was the world and it made him sentimentally melancholy to see him in this state or it broke his heart seeing that the world was in such a state that it could let something like this happen. To be fair, both were equally true, so it didn't especially matter how Austria interpreted it. The only real difference was that it broke his heart to see the pianist like that, but it more infuriated him beyond measure to see the world which had done that to him. But he didn't want to focus on the fury for the next few hours. Instead, he only wanted to hold Austria close and sleep soundly through the night. So, he let himself fall into a state of enough relaxation for sleep to coax his eyelids shut. At the very least, the both of them would be alive when the sun rose in the morning.

Like it or not, he was going to make sure that the both of them lived to see the end of this.

Translations:

Dummkopf - General term for a stupid person

Mist - Crap

Ja - Yes

Weltschmerz - Sentimental pessimism or melancholy over the state of the world; no direct English translation

Mutti - Mom

A/N

hAhahahAHAHa, I laugh but I cry. I hope you sort of had fun with this one? It's three times the length of my normal standard for chapters (5,000 words), so hopefully, that makes up for the time it took to get this thing done? I spent a long time contemplating whether or not I should move the rating of the story up because of this chapter (and because I graphically mention WW2 a lot), and I decided that I'm better safe than sorry. Anyway, it's a roller coaster from here on out, so please try and refrain from hating me; Y'all knew this was coming from the (admittedly poorly written) prologue and the tags. Whelp, hope you have a good day! Thanks for reading my weird, depressing crap!

~Aleberle