One eye cracked open wearily as the man desperately to resist the urge to fall back asleep. He was tired- so very tired. Dark circles clung right below his lids, punctuating the dull red of his eyes; they no longer shown with the crimson rage as they had in the past. Gilbert missed those days and thought of them often; which was just as painful as the torture, as he became aware of how very weak he had become.
Where was he? This wasn't his room- too bright, too open, too warm.
The fact that he couldn't remember worried him considerably.
Gilbert tried to open the other eye but found it was swollen shut, and when he raised a hand to touch the area, it was tender and throbbing. A small groan escaped his chapped lips as he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Breath catching in his chest, Gilbert gripped the sheets and hauled himself upwards- it hurt- it hurt- it hurt-
What hurt, exactly, he couldn't tell. His arms and legs felt like useless pieces of meat stuck to his body just for the heck of it. His torso was covered with fresh layers of bandages, carefully wrapped to cover the new wounds he knew were there.
His heart, Gilbert was sure, had stopped by now.
Whether he was alive or dead, it didn't matter. Everyone had forgotten he was there, stripped of his home and pride and name. All because a group of men said so. Signed the contract destroying Prussia- his home- and sent him away. Arthur, Alfred, even Francis, a dear friend of his from past times, had grinned like devils as their names had been scrawled effortlessly at the bottom of the page. And poof- Prussia was now under Soviet control and he was dead and oh god he was so, so alone. If clustering was for the weak, he should have been the strongest of them all. He should have been. But then again, his logic had never been the best.
His eyes fell closed for a moment. He saw words, sounds, scenes from the past. All burning black holes into the back of his eyes, taking up residence in his empty mind. Too late to turn back; those thoughts were there to stay.
When ruby eyes opened again, they studied the room intently. It was new, but somehow familiar. It had a bed that could hold mountains under its sheets. A small table with a perfectly aligned chess set was nestled into the corner of the room. Walls of light tan boxed the room into a perfect rectangle, a door leading into the bathroom while another led to a closet. Light from the snow outside was filtering in through huge windows, leaving square patterns on a rug that looked ancient.
This was Ivan's room, no doubt. He turned his head and stared at the huge oak doors, trying to will them to open and free him from the horrors of his life. Gilbert frowned when they didn't obey his awesome command and decided he better get the hell out of there before that bastard came back.
The journey from the bed to the door had been an interesting one.
The thing was, it hurt.
It hurt. It hurt. It hurt so freaking bad. All over his body; everything.
Gilbert had to bite his lip and suck up whatever was leaking from his eyes and be the awesome guy he always was, except now he was tiny and so very hurt. The only sound that pulled him to that door was the dull, faint thumping of his heart as it cried out in pain, each beat a small whimper as more blood was unwillingly pushed through his arteries and veins and capillaries. How he wished he could just put an end to the damn thing, it would be so much easier than-
No.
Ivan was not going to get to him. He was not in control. And Gilbert was far too awesome to give into the vodka drinking, pipe wielding, sadistic, homicidal, smiling bastard. He could outlast that pansy any day.
But he was so very tired.
Taking in a sharp breath as his foot fell onto the rug, Gilbert slowly and painfully made his way to the door, each step creating new shock waves that gnawed at nerves up and down his body. The bandages rubbed against him in such a way to just tug at the new forming scabs, peeling them from his skin slightly when he tried to take a bigger step. After long minutes of painful step after step, the albino finally made it to the door and with a tug, pulled it open. The hall was empty, which made travel for the wounded man easier.
The only thing Prussia found disturbing about the house was that it was so very quiet. Not a sound beside the rush of traffic outside and the silence that billowed in the empty space of the tall ceilings. No light, gentle footsteps of the Baltics. No sneaking footfalls of Belarus. Not even the bear-like tumbles of Russia.
The house shouldn't be empty. It should be bustling with residents. It must have been well past noon- afternoon tea should be made now. Yes, the tea. The warmth. . .Prussia's mouth watered slightly at the idea of filling his belly with warmth. Alcohol was out of the question, but if he could only get downstairs, then he could be warm.
Gilbert caught himself and frowned. Damn that cold Russian weather. Damn the emptiness of the landscape, the cruelness of the other's amethyst eyes, the terrible loneliness inside his own heart. It created a vortex; a swirling pit that cried for warmth and was hastily thrown a cold Russian embrace here and there.
What he craved more and more was rapidly becoming the warmth. Sure, freedom was great and all, but it was so damn far away. Freedom was meant for dreams now. Warmth was something here, something that was just a touch away. Gilbert's frown deepened, trying to building up the barriers around his usual iron will- No, stop it. Freedom is always the most important. You'll see your brother again. The wall can't stay up forever. You're too awesome and the wall is just a wall. It'll all be better soon.
It'll all be better soon.
He pushed on in silence, managed to trip down a flight of stairs and hobble down another, and found himself in the foyer. Wait.
This was wrong.
The foyer wasn't by the stairs. The stairs in Russia's house led down into the living room. Gilbert swung his head around and inhaled sharply. This was wrong. This wasn't the Russian's house. He was here, alone, at a strangers house.
Who . . .?
Who brought him here? Surely this was Ivan's doing. Some form of torture? Leave him injured in a house with no food? Gilbert checked the kitchen. No, that theory wasn't right. The kitchen was stocked with food; meat and wursts and fruit and dairy and it was all there. The ex-nation pouted and took a seat at the kitchen table, thinking as he chewed on the area by his thumb, creating a raw patch of mangled skin. Whatever that bastard had planned was beyond him.
How. . .? When. . .?
Prussia tried to think. Russia had been saying something about 'good news'. But that had been a while ago. Hell, he'd been preaching about how it would make things 'so much better'. The ex nation snorted. He'd said the same thing about the wall when it had been put up, and look where that had gotten them. Was this the good news? Isolation? Clustering seemed almost appealing to him at the moment.
He must have blacked out for a while. His awesome self would not settle for being brought to a strange place and left by himself willingly. Gilbert chewed at his bottom lip in thought.
Where. . .?
Sure, he was in a house. A strange house.
The Prussian stood up and shakily made his way to the window, bandaged hands barely ghosting the cool glass. He froze upon contact.
That skyline. Those people.
Berlin.
East Berlin.
A tiny whimper may or may not have escaped his lips as the hand fell to his side. There were people outside the house; there was a sky above and a ground below; there was everything. There was the wall.
And on the other side. . .
There was his bruder. His huge, wall of bruder. His tiny, blue-eyed, hurt and confused bruder.
There was everything on the other side. His everything was on the other side.
If he closed his eyes, he could picture it- ah, yes, there you are. All of them, sitting pretty, drinking afternoon tea in the German sun and chatting and sitting with their smiling faces to him, beckoning his tired frame to come, sit, drink. The way the sun would pick up on their faces. The German's, strong and secure. The Austrian's, polite and reserved. The Hungarian's. . .The most beautiful thing one could find. When that face smiled in his direction the world would open to him and welcome him and love him.
But that smile was for another, a gentleman with hair of chocolate brown, with a mouth pressed into a somber line. Never would that woman's smile be for him. And so the world turned its back to him and left him alone and hated him.
The Prussian's eyes opened. There was a sky above. There was a ground below. There was everything. And yet, for him, there was nothing.
---
The Russian watched his prey with hawk-like intensity.
Every movement made, every tiny gesture was analyzed, scrutinized, judged. He hadn't made any attempt to leave, yet. The bandaged man had just stood there, staring out the window blankly. How incredibly boring. Had the tiny ex nation given up so easily? This game suddenly seemed vaguely unappealing. The last thing he wanted was another ghost; no, he didn't want another Baltic to nod and comply and give in so damn easily. He wanted a fighter, something that longed to escape, so he could slowly clip its wings and watch it struggle.
And to his delight, Gilbert was a fighter. From the first second he had fallen under Ivan's control he had been fighting; he refused to leave on his own will, far too busy screaming nonsense at everyone, but then fell quiet and murmured words to his brother. Even then, he still had a fighting flare in those red eyes as they left the room silently.
Russia let out a happy sigh as he recalled the day when he brought Prussia home.
Oh, what a joyous day. His new bird sang such pretty songs. All of his pets sang for him; they barked and chirped and purred for him.
Russia had smiled on that day, ten years ago. He had smiled as Prussia cried for a certain brother. He had smiled when Prussia passed out in a pool of his own blood. He had smiled when that same Prussian swore at him mercilessly. He would always smile for his pet, for his sunflower.
It was really a shame that his sunflower never smiled back.
He had such a face; such a pretty face. Ivan only wanted that face to smile at him, smile for him. But no, it only cried and turned up in agony and never smiled.
How to make his caged bird smile?
He'd do anything for a single smile; he'd paint the sunflowers red, he'd turn his vodka into wine, he'd bring an eagle home to show his little bird. Prussia liked eagles, didn't he? Surely he had to; wasn't there an eagle on what used to be his flag? Russia thought. He thought of why his Prussian never smiled, of possible reasons. He was afraid? But what was there to fear? Oh, wait.
Prussia feared Russia; Gilbert feared Ivan.
People fear the unknown, yes? Maybe that's why people feared him; the always changing moods, the uncertainty of every word that past his lips. Russia was a bit of a mysterious fellow, even he accepted that, and he liked it that way. Having people on their toes was quite an enjoyable feeling; how he could frighten nearly anyone out of their boots with a single look. But that's not what he wanted this time; he wanted to smile and have a smile returned.
So, in theory, to eliminate the fear, he simply had to eliminate the unknown. All of the unknown, both good and bad, and there would be nothing to fear. His sunflower could finally smile for him. Russia pondered this; how would that perpetual frown look as a smile? He tried to picture it and shifted in his seat, leaning back into the plush of the armchair.
Ivan's eyes fell upon his sunflower again, in all his mummified beauty, standing by the window. The sunlight created an eerie glow on his snow white skin, but looking at his mangled masterpiece, the Russian couldn't help but feel his heart beat painfully in his chest. This feeling, this want for the man who he hurt so much, was dragging him into a cycle; he'd try to move closer, to touch Gilbert, only to be met with a mouthful of hateful words. That in turn made his temper flare and he'd lash out, then find himself in the same position hardly a week later, desiring from afar. How Ivan wanted to break the cycle, but keeping a grip on his temper was difficult enough, and vodka only loosened that firm hold.
However, he was also determined. Determined to see that smile, to see a change from the horrible grey frowns. So Ivan leaned back in his chair and spoke in a clear voice, breaking the barrier of silence and making his presence known. He would eliminate the horrible unknown between the two one way or another, but it had to start somewhere.
"My name is Ivan Braginski. I like vodka, borsch, and folklore. I was born in a very cold land, and have two sisters."
---
Alfred collapsed next to the tired form of his British lover, body slick with sweat, limbs fatigued by their previous activities. Their chests rose and fell in sync as their bodies, hot and raw and exhausted, finally started to come down from their euphoric high. He looked over to the flushed face of Arthur and smiled wearily, a hand reaching up to brush the sweaty bangs from his face.
"Princess," he cooed in a tired voice, referring to the Brit with the pet name he had made up when they first got together, not long before the Second World War started. For every hero, a princess; for every Alfred, an Arthur.
And the princess smiled back at his hero, and smile that was reserved for only one face, for only one emotion. Arthur poured his love into his smile and sent it in the American's direction. Had he known what the American did when the British princess was away, that smile might be reserved for another. Had he known who visited the hero on the weekends, he might have never smiled in the first place.