1943 - Berlin, Germany

Germany does not return from Stalingrad for more than a week.

Prussia paces the house, neglecting paperwork and trying desperately to find something to take his mind off the scenes it keeps reverting back to, replaying in front of his eyes like a newsreel. Alcohol works, but the war is taking its toll on Germany and it's much harder to get his hands on it these days. His vinyls are gone and most of the jazz clubs have been ruined by the terrible economy and war rationing. He almost finds himself wishing for Austria's music, but the piano is gone as well. He even tries reading, but Germany's fiction collection is far from impressive. All the half-good books have been burned and all that's left is official records and copies of Mein Kampf. Prussia takes it upon himself to burn those as well, while Germany can't catch him.

"We're on the brink of a war even bigger than the last one, and if we survive it then we'll have been accomplices in something terrible." Maybe Austria knew what he was talking about after all.

On the eighth day in Berlin with only Austria and unwelcome memories for company, he gets in to find that his brother is finally back.

All the scripts he planned in his head for this confrontation disappear. His brother is in his office and he's going to hear what Prussia has to say whether he's busy or not, whether he has time for it or not, and whether he wants to hear it or not.

"WEST!" he roars, banging open the office door. He storms across the room and, before Germany can react, grabs his shoulder and spins him around so hard he's almost thrown off the chair. "What the fuck was that?"

"Was what?" asks Germany. His expression of annoyed bewilderment only serves to fuel the anger that's already pulsing through Prussia like wildfire.

"You told me they were just work camps!" he shouts, almost too outraged to find words. "You told me they were just places to send people you didn't want so they could contribute to the war effort and the economy! Okay, maybe I didn't agree with it, maybe I thought you were an utter idiot for going along with something as stupid and messed-up as that, but I was willing to tolerate it! If they were looked after properly then what's the problem, right?" Germany opens his mouth to reply but Prussia cuts him off. "Wrong! Do you have any idea what's going on down there?"

"I know that-"

"No! No you don't! You can't. You can't. West, you can't know." He's pleading now, begging to be told what he wants - needs - to hear. Germany is his brother. His little brother, the serious, hardworking boy that he looked after and taught to fight and watched grow until he was more powerful even than himself. They've had their disagreements, but Germany has always been his brother. "You don't know. Please tell me you don't know. Please."

Germany is silent for a moment. They stand as though frozen, a paused scene in a film reel, with Prussia leaning over the chair, his hands still on Germany's shoulders, and Germany pressed backwards as far as he can go in an attempt to escape his brother's shouts. The only things that give it away as real is the colour and Prussia's chest, still rising and falling in gasps, trying to make up for the air he screamed away.

Then Germany's head drops into his hands, his shoulders slump, and, for a moment, he reminds Prussia of Austria sitting broken on the piano bench back in 1938.

Something icy grips his heart.

"No," he says softly, letting go of Germany's shoulders and backing away, staring at him as though he's never seen him properly before. "West..."

"We're in over our heads," he says, and his voice is so cracked and weak it barely sounds like him. "I can't stop it. It's too late."

Prussia's hands ball into fists almost of their own accord. How dare he say that? How dare he let this happen in the first place? How dare he sit there and look so tired and fragile when all Prussia wants to do is beat him to within an inch of his life in a futile attempt to try and make him feel a fraction of the pain he's inflicted on others?

Germany rakes his fingers through his hair and lifts his head to stare at him with blank, hopeless blue eyes. "We're losing."

Prussia stares back, his own red eyes suddenly wide. "No we aren't. We can't be. We're just on the back foot, that's all, we can recover and-"

"No we can't. Russia took Stalingrad and he's coming. Britain and America are about to invade and we can't stop them. We'd need a miracle."

On any other occasion, Prussia would pray for just that. But a God that would help him after what he's been party to isn't a God he wants to pray to. "What... what about Hungary?"

At those words, a modicum of strength seems to return to Germany. He sits up a little straighter and says, "Ah. I was intending to speak to you about her."

"Yeah?" he asks, suddenly anxious.

Germany sighs and almost breaks eye contact. "We have reason to believe she's entered into secret peace negotiations with the Allies."

Prussia stares.

"But," he says, "there are certain higher-ups who believe a miracle is possible, but much less likely if we lose Budapest to Russia."

"I'll speak to her," says Prussia quickly. "I'll talk her out of-"

"I'm afraid they don't believe talking is the answer. There are plans to invade Budapest as soon as possible."

"No!" His hands are fists again, and this slightly more empowered Germany suddenly looks like a much better target. "We can't! Just let me telephone her! We can't just-"

"You're overreacting," he says calmly. "It doesn't have to be violent. Look at Iceland - Britain temporarily invaded him to stop us from getting there first and not a single person died. I don't even think he's that upset." Prussia doesn't look convinced. "Look, I'll even let you come. In fact, I'd like you to come - she trusts you. She'll be better disposed to the occupation if you're there."

"West, you're talking about an invasion," he says, still struggling to comprehend this idea. "You're asking me to invade Hungary. I don't think I can do that."

"It's for her own safety," says Germany. "I was in Stalingrad. I've seen what Russia does to people he defeats. I can't guarantee she'll take it well at first, but once she understands... You're saving her. Whether you think you can invade her or not, I can tell you right now that it'll be far worse for her if we don't."

Prussia stares at him. The worst part about this entire idea - worse than the backstabbing, the betrayal of trust and the treachery towards his oldest and best friend - is that it makes sense. If Germany's telling the truth, and his eyes tell him that he is despite how much he desperately wants to believe he's lying, then they would be helping Hungary. She'll see that, won't she? She'll understand if he explains it to her. It'll be quick and bloodless and they'll leave after the end of the war, after they've rescued her from Russia. Surely she'd rather be invaded by him and Germany than by that psychopath?

He sighs and sinks down into one of the nearby office chairs. "I can't believe you actually convinced me to do this."

"We're in this now, aren't we?" Germany says. "Whether we like it or not, we still have to fight."

Prussia nods. They still have to fight. They owe it to the people they've killed and the people that died for them to keep fighting to the last, even if they did have the authority to make the decision to surrender. His brother is Germany, and while Germany fights, his brother fights. While his brother fights, Prussia fights. That's just the way it is. For better or for worse, whether the outcome can possibly turn in their favour or not, they still have to try.

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