Author's Note: Turning back to Prussia's POV. . .
Monday, December 16th, 1991 : 9 days until Christmas
The boat sways this way and that. Gentle waves knock against the hull, softly rocking the vessel along its way. I've gotten used to this back and forth dance, my balance and mind no longer swirl about helplessly to the movement of the ship. The sirens have been absent since our ship was overwhelmed, but I've noticed the voices of my crew less and less. Sometimes I look at the beige wall before me and it swirls and dances like the ship amongst the waves. The carpet, the ceiling, the wall. All blend together into one dark mass. Sometimes I feel as if I've gone blind. Unable to see anything else but the blurry beige of the wall, the soft brown of the hull.
The rocking comes back but a bit harsher. It pushes me closer and closer to the void. I don't like staring at it for too long. I can't tell time, I don't know where I am, who I am, anything - when I look into the emptiness. All I can feel is his hand wrapped around my throat, threatening to send me into the void. I replay it again and again, my air is gone, his violent purple eyes holding no remorse, no hesitation. No one was there. No one would know. No one can save me. The only thing that saved me was a whim. A whim of his to let me go.
December 17th, 1991
"Here this will help." Germany says softly while handing me an ice pack. I put it on my neck, shivering at the contact. The icy touch reminds me of Russia, cold hand wrapped around me and I drop the pack.
"I- I can't use that."
He sighs sadly and picks it up as I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs.
"I called Canada."
"You what? Why?" I can feel my heart beginning to race already.
"You've slipped back a little and I think it's important for him to come and see how you've been. Not to mention the bruises around your throat look awful, I just want to make sure bruising is all he did."
"He can't come here, I can't see him anymore." I say. He sits next to me on the bed and puts a hand on my back.
"It's okay. France talked to Russia and got everything sorted out. You don't have to worry about him hurting you."
"Really? He listened to her?" I ask, a bit dumbfounded.
"Yes. . . And, I'm sorry for the way I've been acting toward Canada, I guess I've been. . . Jealous."
I furrow my eyebrows and move to a cross-legged position.
"There is nothing to be jealous of. You're like a son to me, I will always love you."
"That's the problem. . . I don't want to be like a son to you," he wrings his hands a bit, sighing heavily, "I have romantic feelings for you."
At first I'm surprised by his confession, but once I start thinking about where this could have come from, I remember that time in Austria when he kissed me. I remember when he tried again in the interwar period and then again during the second world war. It has been so long since I've thought about this I nearly forgot. I can't believe I completely spaced this, I should have known. "But I understand now that you don't view me in that way, and that's okay." He finishes up.
"I'm sorry, Ludwig. I should have addressed this better when you were younger."
"Don't be, I'm the one who should be sorry. I know that I have the tendency to be very forceful, and I apologize for that."
I put my hand on his and he looks up at me.
"It's okay."
"I'm happy for you and Canada, really. But if he hurts you I will kill him."
I laugh and he smiles.
December 18th, 1991
"I think. . ." Canada starts, gently placing his hand on my jaw to move my head to the side, "you are very lucky. The bruising is extraordinary and your larynx is damaged but that seems to be all thank goodness. I would have liked to see this right after it happened, but since it has been a few days and you haven't had any other side effects I think it's safe to rule out internal bleeding." His hand moves to my cheek and he looks into my eyes. "I'm so sorry he did this to you and that I was not there to prevent it."
"It's okay. I'm fine and you're here now which is all that really matters." I say softly.
"Isn't it beautiful." France says while leaning against Germany.
"Uh, sure." He answers, blush spreading on his cheeks.
"Well if we are to stay for dinner, we should get started on that. Would you mind showing me around the kitchen?" She asks him.
"Of course." Germany answers, following her up and out of the basement. I look back to Canada as he pulls a small container out of his bag.
"This will help with the bruising," he begins, opening the container and kneeling in front of me, "you'll have to put it on two to three times a day." He takes some of the cream on the tips of his fingers and gently applies it to my neck. The grip I have on my knees relaxes once he is finished. He closes the container and puts it on my nightstand.
"So, I know that our future is uncertain mostly because of my tendency to hide in the wilderness. That being said, I'm willing to be more outgoing if this is something you still want." He says, taking a seat next to me on the bed.
"Of course I still want this. You have no idea how happy you make me." I admit, causing him to smile.
"Okay, it's settled then."
The door to the basement opens and Germany walks down.
"Ukraine just called. She said that you need to meet with Russia tomorrow afternoon."
"Why?" I ask uneasily.
"Don't worry, I can go with you." Canada offers.
"She didn't say why but she specifically said that you must be alone."
"That's absurd, there is no way I'm letting those two be in the same room alone."
"I don't like it either," Germany begins, "but we have to respect his wishes. Gilbert is a Russian province there is nothing we can do."
I put a hand on Canada's thigh and look up at Germany.
"You two don't have to worry. I'll do what he wants. It'll be okay."
December 19th, 1991
The inside of the taxi was warm, but I shivered nonetheless. He pulled up to the old house and I paid him. I really wanted to just get back into the car and tell him to drive off as fast as he could, but when I turned around he was already driving off.
Still shivering, I knocked on the intimidating old door and waited. A few flashes of his hand wrapped around my throat come back to me causing me to sigh shakily.
The door opens. "You're early." Russia says in a soft voice.
"The traffic was really good." I answer, avoiding his eyes.
"Hmm. . . Well, there is no use in standing outside." He steps aside and gestures toward the inside of the house. Nervously I step in and look around. He closes the door and breathlessly walks over to the closest chair in the front room. His face is awfully pale, lips dry and cracked, eyes dark and sunken.
"You wanted to meet with me alone?" I ask, breaking the silence.
"Yes. . . I wanted to apologize. I know that my reaction was unwarranted, and I am sorry that I allowed myself to act so violently. It is true that I have a small concern about national security but the root of my actions stemmed from jealousy. . . It's hard for me to see you be so happy with another person, not that that excuses my actions at all, but I think you should know how I feel." His voice is soft and weak, cracking every now and again.
"I forgive you." I say, matching the softness in his voice. He looks up at me, eyes tired, body weak.
"I figured you would say as much, you've always been a forgiving man. But I'm not sure if I could ever forgive myself for the things I've done. . . I've done so much wrong in my life I'm overwhelmed by it all."
I sit down on the small couch in the room, unsure of what to say. We sit in silence for a while, his labored breathing filling the room.
"We've all done horrible things," I start, "especially me. It'll take a while but we will all heal from this."
He gives me a hopeful look before coughing and drawing in a shaky breath.
"I appreciate you coming all this way to speak with me. I wanted to say this to you in person. . . Obviously my physical body is not well enough to make the trip out to Germany."
"You weren't this ill the last time I saw you. When did this start?" I ask, getting up from the couch and walking over to him.
"Two days ago. . . Please don't do this, don't care about me after I did that to you." He says, gesturing to my neck.
"It doesn't matter what you do to me, it won't change the way I feel."
"I don't deserve you, I never will. . . My love for you is stronger than my selfishness, that North American nation will be so good to you."
I bite my lip and cast my eyes down. That's when I notice how much his hands are shaking and the blue tint to his nails. The way I feel about him is hard to describe. I'm terrified of him but also care so much about him. We used to be friends before the world wars, before his revolution. He helped me handle the loss of Holy Rome better by offering what he had learned when he lost the Byzantine Empire. He saved me from Sweden before he could completely force himself on me. He knew how much I liked books and would constantly gift them to me. He saw how much I liked to write and would send me beautiful journals at the beginning of every year from 1815 to 1917. We were such good friends before the world wars. And I still like to think of him as he was before all this. He frightens me but I'm still drawn to him. I just wish I knew how to help him. Knew how to stop his pain. Watching him die like Holy Rome fills me with sorrow. I feel just as helpless as I did then.
"I'm going to call Ukraine." I say as I notice the blue color spreading on his lips. Rushing over to the kitchen I take the phone off the wall and dial her number. It rings four times.
"Natasha speaking." Belarus answers the phone.
"Natasha I'm in Russia's house. Something is happening and I need you and Ukraine to get here as fast as you can. He's having trouble breathing."
"We're on our way." She says in a serious voice, hanging up soon after. I hang the phone back up on the wall before going back to the front room. I kneel beside Russia and take his hand. His eyes are closed and his breathing is more of a wheeze, maybe a gasp. I worry that Ukraine and Belarus might not make it in time, but they soon arrive.
"What happened?" Ukraine asks, rushing over to us.
"I don't know, he was doing pretty bad when I got here and just started getting worse."
"Alright. . . Help me get him to the guest room down the hall."
All three of us slowly help him onto the bed. I look around and remember how Lithuania would be locked in here for days on end. I push the memories away as I watch Ukraine take his hand.
"Ivan? Can you hear me?" She asks.
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, is he going to be alright?" Natasha begins to freak out. I wrap an arm around her and she fully embraces me. "He's going to be okay, right?" She asks into my chest.
"I hope so."
"I'll be fine. . . Just tired." Russia answers weakly. Ukraine smiles sympathetically at him before turning to Belarus and me.
"Gilbert, do you mind staying for another day? I'd like to get all of us together." She asks.
"Of course I can stay."
"Good. Do you mind helping Natasha to bed? She should relax."
"Of course."
December 20th, 1991
"So he's dying? Good. Now we can stop worrying about him." Poland comments insensitively.
"Felix." Lithuania says dejectedly.
Poland sighs and leans back into the couch.
"I know, I'm sorry. Still working on it."
Lithuania smiles and puts a hand on his knee, eliciting a smile from the Polish man.
"Clearly I have called you all here to tell you that the end is imminent. It should only be a couple of days now. . . What the human leaders decide to do after the fall will determine whether or not Russia will come back to us. There is a possibility that he will die permanently and be replaced with something else. We should all prepare ourselves." Ukraine announces. A heavy silence hangs in the room until Poland breaks it by standing up abruptly.
"Really? Like, I don't mean to be rude to your feelings or whatever, but honestly? This guy gets your sympathy? After everything he's done to us, you feel sad?" He addresses the room.
"He's like a brother to me, Felix." Ukraine says softly.
"Do brothers beat and rape their sisters?" She falls quiet, looking down at the floor. "That's what I thought. This is ridiculous." Poland leaves the house in a huff. I look at Lithuania who sighs sadly.
"I'll talk to him." I offer, leaving the house before any of them can protest. I see Poland standing on the porch, lighting a cigarette.
"Before you say anything Toris, I can't believe that-" he turns and looks at me, stopping mid-sentence, "oh, it's you. Fan-fucking-tastic."
"I wish we could get along better." I say, leaning against the wall near the front door. He turns around and puts a hand on his hip.
"We've hated each other since the beginning of our existences, why do you want to get along now all of a sudden?"
"Because we've been through this for sixty years." I say, gesturing to the house. "We shared a room for a decade of that, and I thought we got closer. But after the wall came down it seems you hate me just as much as you did in the forties."
He takes a long drag and slowly blows out the smoke.
"Yeah, sure, totally, we got closer when I was forced to live like that with you. You were the only person I could talk to so I opened up. It was incredibly lonely, and very hard on me, and you were just as desperate. It doesn't mean I like you, or want to be your friend or whatever."
"It didn't mean anything to you?" I try.
"Oh, did you catch feelings for me?" He teases cruelly. "Whore." He says under his breath.
"I'm just trying to extend an olive branch here, I don't need your forgiveness nor your friendship. I can live perfectly fine without them."
"So why do you keep trying?"
"Because it'll make this easier, especially on you. Lithuania looked so dis-"
"Don't talk about him like you know him. I know full well what he thinks about my attitude and I don't care. . . I just. . . Like, it's so hard living with the memories of what you did to me. And to top it all off, after everything that happened, I got to be stuck here for sixty years. I didn't do anything to you or Russia, so why do you both keep trying to erase me?"
I've hit it, how he truly feels. I sigh deeply and look off to the horizon.
"I understand how you feel, and I'm so sorry for my actions. I have no excuse, I should have known better, but I didn't care. Of course, sorry will never be enough and I don't expect it to be. I would like your forgiveness, but I'm not going to demand it or force it out of you. And no matter what you say now, I know that we had a connection. I know that you are torn between forgiving me and hating me, remembering the man I was and seeing the man I am today. . ."
His face slowly softens and he takes another drag.
"Fine," he sighs the smoke out, "I did realize that I liked you, and that you were so different from the person I remembered in the Second World War. And it did eat me up inside. . . I know you've changed, but the scars still mark my body. . . Thank you for speaking with me, you've given me some things to think about."
I nod, fearful that if I say anything more I might ruin this moment. He finishes up the cigarette and walks inside. I follow him.
December 21st, 1991
"Are you sure you'll be okay alone?" I ask Ukraine. She smiles and nods.
"I will be. Thank you for caring so much, Gilbert. You should enjoy your time, you deserve it." I nod and look out the window. Germany is not here quite yet, so I decide to go to Russia's room. His breathing is still labored, but at least he isn't blue anymore.
He opens his eyes and looks at me, tired eyes reminding me of Holy Rome on his deathbed. I kneel beside him and take his hand.
"I'm leaving in a few minutes. . . I'll come visit you again after the holiday."
He squeezes my hand and I smile lightly.
"I'll be looking forward to it." His voice is soft and weak, as expected.
Ukraine opens the door and I look at her.
"He's here." She says. I nod before kissing the top of Russia's hand and standing up to leave.
"I'll visit you both on the 26th." I say as she walks me to the front door.
"Thank you. I'll save the holiday meal until then so there will at least be three of us to celebrate." I smile at her and she opens the door. "See you soon."
I walk out of the house and down the old wooden steps. As I open the passenger side door I look back at the old house. Something doesn't feel right. A weight settles on my chest, warning me.
"How is he?" Germany asks once I'm in the car.
"A little better. Hopefully by the time I return he will be well enough to leave the bed."
As we drive away I just keep thinking.
. . . There won't be a next time. . . Will there.