It was another day in the land of the broken man. Night hung around the house like the cold sweat that hung to Prussia's brow as his back arched, peaceful sleep tormented by dreams of darkness and terror. His hands gripped the covers until his knuckles were white and cramped, a breathless scream bubbling in his chest. That foul mouth of his was curled back into a dreadful snarl that a certain Russian found rather "cute". And when he woke with a start, the scream made its way out, peeking through his lips and erupting into the stillness of the air in the room.

"West-!"

His own scream awoke him, and he blinked open delirious eyes to stare at the ceiling. Whose name had he just called? Surely it couldn't have been that brother of his; no, he wasn't allowed to think of him. 'You shouldn't bother yourself with sad thoughts, da?' Ivan had suggested with a smile, 'And what a sad thing your brother is~' Gilbert punched him in the face for saying such garbage. Ivan laughed.

He rolled over in the bed wordlessly, trying to fall back asleep. Russia's vacation house in Berlin had no basement, so Gilbert was allowed the luxury to sleep upstairs where the temperature was appropriate for actual living, not just surviving. The bed was comfortable and his feet didn't hang over the edge; in fact, there was more than enough room to fit another whole body, which left the small Prussian drowning in a sea of blanket and mattress. He should be asleep. It was late enough to be early. The bed was comfortably warm and the air was heavy with sleep.

But the dream was gnawing at the back of his eyelids every time they dared to flutter closed for a moment; a handshake between him and West. They were smiling, but the expressions were hollow. They were in a pit, a grave, and hands of their people were clawing out from the dirt around them, gripping and dirtying the cloth of their uniforms. Prussia looked up at the grey sky above the pit and suddenly saw the other nations holding white roses, standing with demonic smiles. Prussia had looked back to the bruder that should have been standing with him in that grave, but he was alone. The hands were clawing, digging at his uniform until there was no more to scratch but bare skin and then muscle and then bone. He bellowed and roared for help, for West to get him out of that terrible place. The only response he was given was the nations above shoveling dirt back into the pit, burying Prussia and his screams under six feet of cold earth.

"No, I'm not fucking dead yet! You can't do this! Bastards, all of you! France, Spain, help me! Somebody! West! Bruder-"

Kolkolkol. . .

Gilbert's eyes opened again. He sat up, suddenly determined. Dammit, I'm gonna see West if it kills me. And knowing what Russia would do if he was caught for what he was about to attempt, it was a very real possibility. With a shudder of mild fear, the ex nation swung his legs over the side of the bed, being as quiet as possible, so not to wake the sleeping giant down the hall. His feet touched the floor with hardly a sound and stood, hesitating as the silence of the house gripped him at all sides.

Prussia looked around the darkened room. Ways to escape: Door. Window. His list was two items long and looking very unpleasant.

The door option was currently off. The stairs were pass his captor's room, and there was no way in hell he'd be able to make it past there without making noise of some sort. The window, however, looked very promising at this point. Sure, he was two stories up. But gravity was never that important to someone as thick-headed as Prussia. And sure, he didn't have a coat and it was the middle of winter. But he was awesome, and that was enough reason to throw open the window and jump to the ground below.

Ouch.

Prussia stared up at the window he had leapt from, and at the time it seemed like a good idea. Now, when he was laying in a heap two stories below the open window, it seemed like something someone who wasn't as awesome as him would have thought up. The jump hadn't been a graceful or beautiful one; it involved the flailing of limps and a rather un-awesome squeak when his knee came in contact with the harsh ground. He blinked dumbly at the window before rising, knee throbbing. "Ow. Damn, that's pretty un-awesome." Indeed, his leg was far from awesome at the moment; the fall had torn a hole in the pants of his pajama pants, and the concrete had scrapped a few layers of skin off, leaving a raw, bleeding patch right on his kneecap.

But the goal of this midnight escape was not to stay in the back alley of some huge mansion; it was to see his bruder. With that final thought in his head, Gilbert started towards the wall with a slow pace. Moving his limbs so much was new, as was breathing in fresh air and mein gott, was that a breeze he felt? Air was moving past his face, pushing his hair away and stinging his eyes and filling his lungs and for a moment that eagle in him was spreading its wings to the night sky.

And then he saw the wall.

And then the eagle remembered the bear had tapered his wings. Clawed the black feathers clean off with its huge paws.

And then he knew he had to leave this crazy place right then and there or he'd go insane as well. He was running at full speed now, blindly pushing past those late night scavengers and occasional Russian officers who were drunk out of their minds, standing outside bars and smoking like chimneys. No shoes covered his feet, and the freezing temperature of the concrete under his foot stung when the skin made contact with it. But that was behind him now, and the wall was in front. The wall was there and his bruder and the world and his friends and freedom and everything was on the other side. To get to that place, to get over that wall, to get away from Russia, that was his goal. That was always his goal, it was something that he could plot and plan when he was left to his own mind.

But Russia was not one to leave the cage door open. The lock on the cage was the guards standing there, barbed wire, the guns. The communist men watched with a strange curiosity the man running towards them; was his hair white, or could it have been the way the moon shone tonight? Was he wearing pajamas? And why, for heavens sake was he running at the wall like his life depended on it? Their questions were left hardly answered when the man flung himself at the wall, barbed wire tearing at his clothes and then skin, fingers clawing at the concrete, screaming in torn German and English and Russian.

"West- West! Wo bist du? Someone- Помоги мне-"

Bam.

Thump.

Silence.

It had happened so fast; too fast. But Russia was somehow there with his pipe and eyes glazed over and that thick, sugary sweet smile of his. And when the faucet came in contact with the back of Prussia's head, it made the entire world shake. It made the city blur and the pain go away. The scream was loud enough to wake West and East Berlin before all the lights went out.

For once, Russia didn't know what to do with himself.

He sat by the bed, unusually anxious, watching the Prussian sleep. He watched the rise and fall of his torso as shallow breaths passed through those chapped lips that had, just hours before, been shooting out curses left and right. He watched those pale hands clench and unclench themselves in the sheets. Lastly, he watched the way Prussia's face turned up in pain as he dreamt; something about seeing the bandage wrapped so tightly around his head made Ivan's gut tighten.

Here Gilbert was, so vulnerable and worn out and hurt and it was all his fault. There was no one he could blame (except for vodka, but it was he who chose to drink that cursed, wonderful spirit) and so all he could do was sit there and wait for Prussia to awaken, because now he was determined. Because now maybe Prussia would listen, and would hear.

Ivan let out a long sigh and leaned forward in his seat. A hand reached out, hovering above the silver locks. He hesitated and pulled that hand back. "You'd move away from me if you were awake, wouldn't you?" There was no response. "I wouldn't hurt you. . ." Ivan shifted and looked away, memorizing the pattern of the wallpaper before taking a deep breath and looking back down.

"You ran away, Gilbert. You were very bad; I had to do something," He reasoned with the body on the bed, eyes pleading, searching the placid face for a response. "Are you not happy?" The Russian swallowed and inched to the front of his chair, knees pressing into the side of the bed as he did. "I'd do anything to make you happy, little one. You know that, don't you?" Something behind his walls snapped, and that something made his body tense and hunch over in the chair so he was practically leaning over Gilbert, hands gripping the covers. "So why do you run?"

"Why does everyone run from me?" Ivan tapped his foot impatiently, eyes wide and lost and absolutely terrified. He needed an answer, he needed something or he would positively go insane, if wasn't already.

He sat that way for such a long time that his back was hurting and he couldn't feel his fingers any more. The sun had started making its way over the grey skyline and Gilbert still didn't wake. And when Ivan finally sat back in his seat and stared straight ahead, he started speaking again. "You say clustering is for the weak, da?" Lavender eyes flickered back down to stare at huge paws; no, they were hands. They were his hands, but they felt like a bear's paws. Was he a bear? "You said it when we were younger, I remember. You always sounded so sure of what you meant," Ivan tilted his head to the side, voice gentle and quiet. "But that was different, wasn't it? That was when you could stand on your own. Heh, look at you now."

He chuckled, a small, hollow sign of amusement.

"Can hardly be called a country. Wouldn't be alive without that wall separating you and your brother." Ivan paused and fingered the end of his scarf. What he had said was very true; after the war, when Prussia had been dissolved, he should have died. Russia took his land and his capital and his everything and that meant he was nothing. But somehow he became East and Prussia became a ghost. And if that wall went away (there were rumors, words whispered, that it wouldn't last, but Russia knew those were lies and hopeless thoughts) then there would be Germany again. There would be Germany; a single country. There would be Ludwig, but Gilbert, Prussia, would be gone. He'd be engulfed by his brother's shadow and people would forget. Humans have a way of doing that, Ivan thought bitterly. People would forget his smile, his laugh, and his presence. They would raise German flags and boast about German pride.

That was exactly what Ivan was trying to stop. Why didn't his sunflower see that? Why didn't he see all the sweat and blood he put into the wall? Why didn't he see it was all for him? It was to keep him safe from the people who would forget and hurt and kill him. He promised to keep Gilbert in a golden cage where no one could touch him. Where that horrible bruder of his wouldn't be allowed. He'd have the eagle all to himself, and he very much liked that idea.

"Do. . . Do you think. . ." Ivan hesitated and looked down. His hands gripped the scarf tightly as he buried his face in the soft material. Its comforting scent didn't seem to soothe him at all; he still felt sick to his stomach. "That you'd like to stop being alone?" His voice was tiny and could have belonged to a child. "That you'd like to stay with me? That we could be. . . friends?" Ivan's eyes traced the shadows on Gilbert's face, searching in vain for a sign that he had been heard. He hadn't.

He was weak; pitiful. Here he was, the fucking Soviet Union, nearly begging for the friendship, for the love, of a useless satellite country.

Russia sat there, waiting for his answer that never came. He waited for hours, and he would wait for days, for years, until Gilbert answered. Was he still afraid? Did he still not know enough to know that there was nothing to fear?

What else was left to tell him? Ivan's brows knit together as he thought. He'd actually managed to have a single conversation with the stubborn Prussian that didn't end with either lunging at the other's throat. It had been. . . pleasant. Yes, it was very nice to not fight. It had started when Russia found Prussia in his library, in his atlas to be precise, taking a red marker to the world and marking in sloppy German the places he'd like to invade. Russia, England, France, America, China, and Italy were just the first of several that the power-hunger man had set his sights on. Russia had been scribbled over until the marker bled through and stained the next three pages with its ink.

"What are you doing?" The larger man had asked while leaning over Prussia's shoulder to steal a peek at whatever was the other had been so amused with.

"None of your fucking business, commie! Go jump out of a plane or something, ya freak!" Gilbert had squealed and desperately tried to cover his secret plans; Russia finding out would seriously put a dent in them.

"Da, Gilbert, no need to be so mean~ I just want to see. We all share in this house, remember?" Ivan had simply chuckled and swiped the large book away, eyes narrowing as he scanned over the page. "Oh, I see you've found my atlas. And done some. . . strange things to it. What is this?" He pointed to a large circular blob that seemed to have a face of some sort.

Gilbert had spun around and looked at what the finger pointed at: a small (and rather cute) bird that he had doodled over the majority of Europe. He let out his trademark laugh at the other's obvious stupidity and shook his head. "That? Kesesese~ that's my army of chicks! Obviously! For when I invad- I-I mean-" He sputtered and shook his head, desperately trying to grab the book back. "Shit! Ignore what I just said! G-gimme the book!"

Russia was amused. His lips had curled up in a smile and he himself let out a small laugh, which only increased when he saw the look on Prussia's face. Oh my, it was priceless to see the self proclaimed 'awesome one' get flustered. "Hehehe~ an army of chicks? Oh my, I am sure all armies will tremble in their boots. You will certainly be a force to be reckoned with, little one."

Prussia's nose crinkled in anger; how dare that communist laugh at his awesome plan! It was bullet proof, he was sure! "Hey! Shut up! It'll work because the awesome me can't fail! Hey! I said to shut up!"

After he had amused himself with the elder's childish drawings and plans, Ivan had handed the book back to Prussia. He needed a new atlas anyway; this just gave him a reason to finally get one. "Of course it will, dear." He watched the other reopen the book and examine it carefully; he seemed to forget that he was in the presence of the most threatening country in the world. And that he had so rudely vandalized a very expensive atlas belonging to said country. "I've had that atlas for many years. It was a gift from one of my bosses, you know."

That didn't seem to interest Prussia, whose gaze flickered up at the mighty Russian for half a moment before returning to the book. He sat himself down on the floor and Ivan sat next to him. "Huh, really? Figures it was from one of your weirdo leaders. I can't read anything of this anyway." Gilbert pointed to a sentence with his index finger. "Honestly, look- there's a backwards three in here. How the hell can you read this language-"

"Cyrillic."

"Cyrillic. How can you read it?"

"Simple. It's like how you learned Old Prussian or German."

"But neither of those was as weird as this."

Russia laughed, shaking his head. "It is not 'weird', it is different. You are just not used to it, da?" He pointed to himself. "I learned it in no time; it is very easy."

"Doesn't look very easy. . ." Gilbert was pouting, and it had to be single cutest thing that Ivan had ever seen.

"Look, I'll show you. It is quite simple once you understand it." He looked at Prussia and smiled, and it was a real smile: it was hopeful. "Пруссия."

". . . What did you call me?"

"Пруссия."

"The hell does that mean?"

Russia sighed; okay, maybe this wouldn't be as easy as he had hoped. But on the other hand, Prussia wasn't running away from him, nor was he trying to set him on fire. That itself was a huge accomplishment as far as Ivan was concerned. So he raised a hand and slowly, gently brought it to rest on Prussia's chest. He had felt the smaller man suck in breath and stiffen under his gloved fingertips, and he remembered the look of pure terror that passed over Gilbert's face for a split second before it was replaced by a serene one. No, don't be afraid. I won't hurt you, sunflower. He tried anyway, feeling the heartbeat under his palm.

"Пруссия."

"Prussia. . .? Me?"

Russia nodded and pointed to himself. "Россия."

". . . Russia."

"Very good, little one."

Russia shook his head at the memory; he remembered sitting there for the next few hours, pointing out every country the atlas had to offer them and naming each one for Prussia, reciting them until he had memorized all their names and left the library with a smug smile. He had chanted a tune of mixed Russian countries and German phrases all the way down the hallway, very proud of himself. Ivan had been proud of himself too; he had gotten closer to that which had eluded him for so long. He had gotten a smile out of the sunflower, and for a moment his heart had bloomed in his chest. It was warm, and it was beating.

The man swallowed and looked down at the sleeping body. Gilbert had smiled, smiled, in his house. It had to be coaxed and fed; yes, the Prussian's smile required complements and encouraging nods whenever he got something right, and gentle corrections when he didn't. He smiled because he was proud. Ivan had given him something to be proud of; and that thought made him want to give the ex nation so much more. He wanted to see the other man smile on his own. One day, he'd be the first one to smile. One day, Ivan would wake up with that smile greeting him.

There was hope. Yes, Пруссия, there was plenty of hope.

England was anxious. He was going to surprise his beloved by arriving three days earlier than planned, and his taxi had gotten lost on the streets of Washington DC. Of course the Brit thought it was absurd that someone could get lost in their own bloody capital, and he voiced it to the driver, who replied with a grunt and tapped the end of his cigarette against the dashboard. So now all he could do was sit back and cross his arms and stare out the window like a brain dead idiot. I could really use a cup of tea right about now. . . He thought as he scratched the space behind his ear.

As the cab drove through the city, the Englishman observed the sheer amount of American flags strung about the building there; each must have each sported at least one of the grand banners. A slight blush wormed his way to his cheeks when he spotted that a small building carried the Union Jack, and stared down at his lap, trying to will it away.

Arthur had not planned on showing up early; he, being the overworking gentleman, found that his work for the week had been done, and instead of leaving on Sunday afternoon, he left late on a clear Friday night. Though completely terrified of planes, he resisted the urge to call America afterwards to be comforted, hoping to save the surprise. The strange thing was, his over enthusiastic boyfriend was always calling during the day, which was half the reason he always finished his work so late; even the hardest working person could only juggle so many things. That week, however, Alfred had only called him once. They'd spoke for a few moments before the American abruptly cut their conversation short and hung up. Appalled, Arthur tried to redial, but only met that obnoxious answering machine nearly five times before he lost his nerve and gave up.

Probably too busy stuffing his face with bloody hamburgers to pick up his damn phone.

Arthur kept telling himself that, but the conversation still had left him a bit shaken. So by the time he finally arrived at Alfred's house, paid the (overpriced) fee to the (stupid) driver and hauled his bags up the driveway, his heart was more than just racing. He wanted to see Alfred. He wanted to see his hero. He wanted to be wrapped in those strong arms and be swung around until he was dizzy and he wanted to be smothered with kissing until he couldn't breathe.

The front door was opened a jar when he finally got to it. Arthur hesitated before sticking his head in. "Hello?"

There was a muffled sound from the kitchen and the Brit rolled his eyes. Figures, that idiot was too busy stuffing his face to close his door. "Honestly, Al, people could break in if you don't close your door." Arthur dragged his bag in and placed it in the foyer before straightening his coat and striding into the kitchen. "What, not even going to welcome a guest? How rude can you get, you gi-"

Alfred looked up in surprise.

Ivan just smiled.

There they were; the two superpowers, one with Primorsky stuck halfway up his ass, the other grinning like everything was fine and dandy. Bent over the kitchen table. In front of Arthur.

"Oh my God." Arthur stared. He stared and couldn't move. This wasn't real; no, it couldn't be. That couldn't be his hero with another nation. They hated each other, after all. Didn't they? Arthur remembered how Alfred had ranted for hours about how much of a bastard Russia was. He blinked, recalling the specific conversation. No, Alfred had never specifically said that he hated the other superpower. He just ranted.

"A-Arthur! It's not what it looks like- I swear!" Alfred said, trying to reach out to the statuesque man across the room.

The room blurred around him, and for a moment he was grateful that the tears were blurring this picture that was sure to haunt him for the rest of his eternal life. Was it quiet, or was that noise he heard the shattering of his pitiful heart as one of America's precious missiles shot right through him? He wasn't sure, but he was sure that there was bile in his throat and it was burning him. It was burning his gut and his heart and he was sure his skin was burning too, because his face felt hot and the tips of his ears were on fire. It was burning right through him, and soon, Arthur thought, his innards would only be a mass of burnt soot.

He took a step back from this nightmare. Ivan didn't stop his thrusts, which earned a small groan from the man under him. No, this wasn't happening. Those were his noises; Alfred made them for him and only him. He took another step, and another. His mind was gone by now. It shrunk back into his body, curling up into a tiny, pitiful ball and set the shell of a man on auto pilot. The nation felt raw and exposed and hurt as he turned and ran out of that dreaded house.

Arthur didn't hear Alfred's yells to him. He didn't hear them slowly shift from pleas for the Brit to come back to loud moans of pleasure. He didn't hear the small exchange of words after the dirty act was done and he didn't see the two nations slowly redressing. Arthur didn't see the exchange of money and he didn't understand why on earth a hero would ever break the princess's heart like that.

Author's note: Let me just say that I am sooooo sorry for not updating faster. School is finally coming to an end, and I've been swamped with finals. I'll try to update more frequently throughout the summer, though. :D

Oh my. Seems Alfred has gotten himself in a bit of a pickle, hasn't he? I know it probably seems confusing at the moment, but I promise the plot will all come together in the end. Anyway, I hope you guys all like this. It's my first fic, afterall, so of course its not that good. . . But RussPruss is my OTP and deserves WAAAY more attention. So, let me know what you think!