1941 - Berlin, Germany
Hungary regards them both across the table, the fountain pen balanced lightly in her hand. "I still don't approve of what you did to Poland, you know."
"We had no choice," says Germany. Prussia doesn't know why he's so tense - the Tripartite Pact is as good as signed. The negotiations have already taken place, and there's no way Hungary would travel all the way from Budapest just to refuse to cooperate. "This is war. Sacrifices must be made in order to achieve victory."
"And what about Romania?" she asks. "He's been annoying me quite a lot recently. Can I expect help from you?"
"Of course. We won't let him take any more of your territory."
"And Russia?"
"We'll protect you from him to the last man."
A wide, dazzling smile breaks out over her face. "That's what I wanted to hear," she says, and signs the Pact with a looping scrawl of a signature.
Germany smiles back. "Welcome to the Axis Powers, Miss Hungary."
Prussia doesn't know why they bother with an afterparty. It's just the signing of a treaty, for God's sake. But, as he leans against the wall and watches the suit-wearing, briefcase-carrying men drink champagne and try their best to enjoy themselves, he supposes people like that have to take every opportunity to party. For them, this is probably the greatest night of the year. For him, it's nothing short of dull. The people are boring, the champagne isn't nearly alcoholic enough and the band is classical. Classical! How is anyone supposed to dance to classical music?
And that gives him an idea.
He scoots surreptitiously across the room and intercepts Hungary before she can reach the government official she was heading towards. He doesn't know who it is - they all look the same to him. "Hey," he says, grinning mischievously. "Want to go to a real party?"
She gives him a sideways look, her curiosity piqued. "What do you have in mind?"
"Come with me." Without waiting for her consent, he takes her hand and leads her out of the room as quickly as he can.
"Where are we going?" she asks as they reach the hallway.
"Somewhere much more fun than this dump." He reaches the doorway and pulls it open, dragging Hungary out into the cold night air.
They hurry down paved streets and across roads, heading further out into the city. It's pitch black and the sky is almost completely starless, but the streetlights illuminate the pavement enough for them to find their way. There are still a few people about - people like them, of course. All the respectable types have gone to bed. The cold bites through his dinner jacket and Hungary's hand shivers in his. She's only wearing an evening gown - green, of course, to complement her eyes, with capped sleeves and a long skirt. Without even turning around, he shrugs off his jacket and throws it back to her.
They reach the their destination in only ten minutes. It's hidden in the basement of a perfectly legitimate bar, invisible unless you know where to look. Prussia grins at the barman and leads Hungary down the stairs into one of Berlin's best illegal jazz clubs.
"I found this place after West chucked out all my vinyls," he tells her, raising his voice to be heard above the dampened trumpets and crashing cymbals. He weaves his way through the dark, smoky maze of tables, chairs and customers and finds a seat right next to the stage, which is only a little too small for the band, singers and dancing girls filling the room with their cacophonous, disorderly, awesome music. "They're all over the city, but this one's the closest and the best. Just do me a favour and don't let West know I come here, okay?"
Hungary shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the back of her chair; it's more than warm enough in here. "Okay," she breathes, too fixated on her surroundings to form a more sophisticated reply. Prussia doesn't blame her; the place feels like an underground wonderland, as though they've slipped down a rabbit hole into a different, altogether more magical world from the dull, industrial city outside. It assaults your senses from every side - the smell of liquor and smoke, the taste of stale sweat and dust, the heat and the noise and the sight of the lights and the dancers. They're a little overdressed, what with his suit (even if the shirt collar is unbuttoned and the tie loosened) and Hungary's emerald evening dress, but everyone here melts into the smoke and the music in a way that makes it impossible to feel out of place. It's overwhelming and downright terrifying, but mesmerising at the same time.
"You won't regret signing that thing," he says, leaning back in his chair and waving for a waiter to bring them both a drink. "You've just joined the winning side, Liza."
"I know," she smiles. "How's Austria, by the way? He hasn't spoken to me since he moved in with you guys." The smile slips slightly into a look of concern and confusion, and something jolts sickeningly deep in Prussia's stomach.
"He's fine," he says, trying to ignore the guilt clawing at his insides. Except it can't be guilt, can it? He hates the piano-freak and he deserves all he got. Doesn't he? "He hasn't been speaking to anyone much. He just sits at that piano and plays all day."
"Maybe he's not coping so well with the annexation..." she frowns. "He always used to use music as a way of taking his mind off things."
He shrugs. The waiter chooses that moment to return with two mismatched glasses of beer and place them on the table. Prussia picks his up gratefully and takes a long gulp, and opposite him Hungary does the same. Perhaps if he drinks enough, he can drown that annoying twinge that always seems to raise its head whenever anyone mentions Austria these days.
"But anyway," he says, changing the subject. "This war is going awesomely. Half of Europe was so scared they pretty much just handed themselves over, and the other half's nowhere near a match for us. You should've seen France's face when we took Paris..." He laughs, the memory of his former friend captured and forced into surrender swimming to the forefront of his mind. Who's the loser now, Francey-pants? "Britain ran back to that little island of his - bloody inconvenient, that Channel - but he won't be able to hold us off for long. And Japan's pretty much got East Asia covered. He was already halfway through China when he joined us."
Hungary's smile returns. "I knew we'd get them back someday. This is like round two, isn't it? A rematch, except this time we're giving them a taste of their own medicine."
Prussia laughs, reaches into his pocket for a cigarette and lights it, taking a long drag. "Damn straight. God, Liza, I've missed this," he sighs, adding to the already thick haze of smoke inside the club. "I honestly thought I was done for after the Great War, you know."
"Me too," she says, and he wonders who she's referring to. "But now it's just like the old days, isn't it?"
Before Prussia can reply, the music begins to transition seamlessly into one of his favourite songs. He jumps to his feet and holds out his hand. "Dance with me?"
She laughs and takes it, and he leads her out onto a dancefloor already almost full of people moving enthusiastically to the steady, thumping bass and the blare of the saxophones and dampened trumpets. Hungary looks at him uncertainly, not sure if she's ready to dance jazz in front of all these people, but Prussia just winks as reassuringly as he can and spins her, lifting her hand far above her head as she twirls and her floor-length skirt dances about her knees.
It becomes easier after that, almost as natural as breathing. They dance as though no-one's watching, like they're back in 1918 and their dancefloor is Prussia's living room and their band exists solely within his gramophone. Once again, and under far more cheerful circumstances this time, they dance a Prussian waltz.
At thirty minutes past one, Prussia catches a glimpse of his watch and, through a mind now as foggy as the air in the club, realises that it's probably time to get home before people start to worry about them.
Laughing and clinging to each other for balance, they stagger up the stairs and out into the street, the sky just as dark and the air just as bitingly cold as it was earlier that evening. Prussia would give Hungary his jacket again, but removing it would require unlatching his arm from hers and if they do that, one of them is sure to fall over. For some reason, that thought is the funniest thing he's ever heard. Renewed waves of laughter bubble up to the surface, momentarily messing up his balance and forcing him to make a lunge for a nearby streetlamp to keep himself from pitching face-first into the pavement. He clutches it for a moment, trying to figure out which way home is, and Hungary hangs off his arm and laughs so hard she can barely breathe.
It takes them three times as long to get back as it did to get out here in the first place, but they're both having too much fun to care.
"Tell me," says Prussia, finding a gap in the uncontrollable laughter long enough to speak through, "that that wasn't better than that stiff, jumped-up afterparty."
"So much better," she gasps, still holding onto him for balance as though she thinks he has any more control over his equilibrium than she does. "We should... we should get some of them in... in Budapest..."
"Maybe you already have some, if you look hard enough. They like to hide," he says, and the thought of a jazz club peeking out from behind a tree makes him double over in peals of laughter for the hundredth time that night.
"Oh yeah," she giggles, "if Germany asks, where were we?"
He thinks for a moment. "A bar. A bar without jazz," he clarifies.
"Right... a bar. Without jazz. Got it."
She sounds so serious it's funny, and they're still clutching each other and laughing uproariously when a voice echoes down the empty, frost-covered street.
"Prussia! Hungary! Is that you?"
He looks; eight clones of Germany are walking towards them, an identical disapproving expression on each of their faces. He blinks and the eight become four, which then resolve themselves into one, albeit a little fuzzy, version of his brother.
"West!" He raises an arm to wave at him. "We were just talking about you."
"Where have you been?" he demands, reaching them and standing with his arms crossed. But, as he sees Prussia swaying dangerously on the spot and Hungary clinging to him and giggling manically, the look on his face becomes one part disapproving, one part concerned and perhaps one tiny little part amused. "You just disappeared without warning. No-one had a clue where you were. Everyone was really worried about you!"
"Oh, lighten up, Nemetorszag," grins Hungary. "We were just at... at... a bar. Just a bar."
"Your parties are boring," he adds, and the two of them dissolve into giggles once again.
The tiniest hint of what might have been a smile tugs at Germany's mouth. "Come on, let's get you home. You're in no state to be out here."
"No, wait," says Prussia, holding up a hand to stop his brother in his tracks. "You... you tell her what's going to happen."
"Pardon?"
"Last time I couldn't tell her," he says, as though this explains everything. "Last time she asked, I didn't know what was going to happen. But you know... you know how this ends. You tell her."
"I can't tell the future, Prussia."
He sighs. "Fine then, I'll do it. Liza?"
Hungary looks up at him, swaying where she stands. "Yeah?"
"I promise you... I promise you we'll win this war. I know we will. I promise you I'll make you just as powerful as you were. I promise none of us will die. I promise we'll come out of this just as strong... No wait, stronger, than we've ever been. I promise you we'll win."
She smiles a lopsided smile and reaches up to brush an unruly strand of white hair off his forehead. "I know we will."
Germany is tapping his foot, watching them with a mixture of amusement and impatience now. "If you two are finished making predictions, I should really get you home."
"Right," says Hungary. She turns to follow him and loses her balance, tips sideways towards the curb. Prussia's reflexes kick in almost as quickly as they do when he's sober; he darts forwards and grabs her, using her own momentum to swing her back onto her feet.
And then, as quickly as the flurry of movement began, it stops. She's very close. He can see the green of her eyes, smell the smoke and alcohol on her breath. His arms are around her waist and her hands are resting on his chest.
There doesn't appear to be any other logical course of action. Without consciously deciding to do so, without even thinking about Germany barely feet away from them, he leans down and kisses her. Her lips are hot and forceful as she kisses him back, her hands leaving his chest to wrap around his neck, and he holds her as tightly as he can and kisses her like he's never kissed before because Goddamn it, it's been so long and it feels so good and she's so beautiful.
Time seems to have broken, but it can't have been much more than a few seconds before Germany's hands are on their shoulders and pushing them firmly apart. "Okay," he says, and there's no doubt about it, he's definitely smiling now, "now is not the time or the place. Let's all just calm down and go home, and you can think about this again once you've had a good night's sleep. If you can remember it, of course," he adds under his breath.
Sleep? He doesn't want to sleep. He's wide awake, more so than he's been in decades. He's about to tell him so when Hungary, seemingly having entirely different ideas to his own, pitches forwards into Germany and just has time to cling onto his shoulders before her eyes flutter closed and she slides unceremoniously down towards the pavement.
Prussia makes a move to grab her, but Germany puts an arm out to stop him before picking her up and placing her as gently as he can manage over his shoulder. "Home," he says firmly, and suddenly home sounds like a fine idea.
One of his arms in Germany's for balance, they start unsteadily back up the street.
