Consanguinity

A/N: I cannot believe the response this story is getting. Thank you people so much for the reviews! It is an honour to hear from so much of you, so thank you again! I honestly love you all with all my heart, and I am totally serious when I say that XD The proof is that I've managed to update three times in the last week. By this rate, I just might be able to get the story done way sooner than expected.

Anyhow, in this Act, we'll see Gilbert's visit to Spain and his less than positive interactions with Antonio, but I won't give it away just yet. In truth, I am not that happy with this chapter. I felt like it was kind of rushed... so have mercy, please. As always, tell me what you guys think.

Leave a review! More reviews mean more motivation!

***Okay guys, I am so sorry. I know this is the third upload of the chapter but this was so hard to write it was stupid. I fixed a lot of stuff and pretty much rewrote it. Again. Hopefully it wasn't as choppy as the first two attempts.***

(The next Act will feature our favourite useless Italian Feliciano, and Prussia will be back in Berlin with his brother again.)

Act Three: Sanguine Ties

The place that he set foot on after stepping out of the confines of the plane, Gilbert found it hard to believe was Spain. The town of Brunete was a ruin littered field of destruction, the bombed out buildings and flattened lots that contained the rubble of their toppled foundations sharply contrasting to what he had previously remembered it as in his mind's eye- an austere but well maintained settlement, around fourty three kilometers from the Spanish capital of Madrid. Empty artillery shells were now scattered on what used to be respectable streets; used up bullets and shrapnel a fair decoration for the sidewalks. The smell of smoke was still heavy in the smog that was the air- tainted with a nostalgic edge that Prussia only knew too well from the aftermath of a battle: the stench of rotting flesh amidst fire, and the overall cloying odour of death.

But even then almost involuntarily, he felt his pulse quicken a little- just a little from under his uniform. Perhaps it was only due to his stirring memory at witnessing such a scene again, since it had been so long since he had seen any sort of violent intentional destruction at all, the closest being a bad accident on field manoeuvres. It had been twenty years. Twenty years of stifling work- often depressing work- shut up in offices, unable to even breathe. Twenty years living a standstill blank that was life, and twenty years of feeling trapped in his own land, precariously handling matters like diplomacy he would never have in any other era even sat down for.

Though any other would perhaps said that the sight of Brunete's ruin was an utter source of shame and regret, it was not entirely so for Prussia. He saw in the desecration not only dilapidated mess, but also a lingering trace of beauty that remained- a dark beauty, one that was the byproduct of Bellona's spirit. It spoke of the bloodlust of combat and the triumphs and self-satisfaction that only victory through arms could offer. In other words it spoke of him, and he was entranced by what it had to offer him. This was where he was meant to belong. This was what he lived for.

The years had passed by and by, but this base side of Gilbert had never successfully vanquished itself- and though he never said much about it, it never would. To forfeit that legacy which proudly made it so that he would have a place as one of the greatest nations in Europe (and the world) would be like forsaking the reason of life. After all- without war, where would one be? Or for that matter, without war- what would Earth have turned into by this date?

That was one of the starkest reasons why he had always hated those pacifists who claimed that war was nothing but harm and murder. Prussia had grown up beside war, and had drank it in like wine as he learned what was best for himself. The basest of all logic was this: when one fought, it was for the attaining of power. With power, they could then reassure themselves of their safety so that they might live another day and not end up as fodder for a neighbour's weapons. Once the wellbeing was there, the people could then start developing their civilizations and improve on everything- but the basis was that all things rested on power. And the only way to seize power was not to sit there and talk but to fight for it so that no one would dare knife you in the back if you disagreed with them in the field of politics.

That had always been a personal belief that he carried within him. It was kind of crude, but it made sense to Gilbert. Philosophy had never been very kind to him when it got more complex than the basics because he never saw how it could contribute necessarily to anything useful in the pragmatic sense. After all, despite everything- he was a practical person. Maybe he was vain and had a thing for collecting stray items he found to be interesting, but that's where it all rounded to in the end: practicality.

"Generalfeldmarschall." a soldier- Major, by his rank insignias on his uniform- greeted him as he walked down the ramp that led from the plane, "Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler." Prussia returned the salutations, as a "hello" had long since been replaced with this alternative, "This looks like a pretty beat up reception ground."

"There was an artillery dogfight here. Our tanks, combined with the firepower of the Heinkels and Messerschmitts managed to destroy the Republican batteries with ease."

"Awesome. Your name?"

"Kleist, sir." the man straightened up a little, "Thank you."

The nation flashed a small smile at him after hearing that. At least his own aristocrats could actually stand and fight whereas prisses like Austria just sat home and lauded at the piano all day.

"I assume, Major von Kleist, that you will be showing me to Headquarters."

"Affirmative. This way please." the soldier beckoned over to a cluster of mostly intact buildings, "The main temporary base is just a few minutes North. A car will take the two of us."

"Good. Do you have a report drawn up for me once we arrive there of the battle schematics, casualty lists, and current enemy position?"

"We have done so already. I am sorry that there were not more people to receive you… the damages were quite high, you see. Every man was needed to help out."

At this Gilbert laughed a little, "No need. I'm a soldier like you, Major- not one of those tight assed diplomats who want to be treated like kings during a time of war. I have to say that I regret being absent for the battle though, as unawesome timing has to dictate. I would strangle that brother of mine for securing my order after the initiative phase was gone and done if I could. Scheisskerl."

"Forgive me, field marshal. The last ranking officer to arrive here was dastardly enough to chew out the heads of the most patient we had to offer. He was as arrogant as if he thought himself to be the Fuehrer."

"Oh, I hate those types too. Fuckers think they're higher than the rest of humanity…we get a lot of them at Berlin."

And that was a massive understatement.

The Condor Legion's main headquarters were jammed with a plethora of people, and all of them stood to attention after a few seconds of whispering as Gilbert walked in the room. Though he couldn't deny that he liked the attention- because well, he was Prussia- he returned salute and told them to get back to work. The Major escorted him down to the location of his office in a quieter wing of the building where the higher ranked officers had their private working spaces, and was dismissed to go back to his duties. Well, Gilbert could get used to this. Here he could finally shove aside Lady Politics and replace her with a more fitting girl to take in hand. It was always nice to escape crabby women and find freedom again.

The office was almost as tidy as Ludwig's back in Germany, and so Prussia felt almost a little guilty as he began to tear out paper from their organized folders and such around the room to get a clear idea of what had been going on for the offensives of the past few months. He needed to form a strategy to ensure another decisive battle- or at least, ensure not only a tactical victory but a strategic one as well next time the Nationalists and the Republicans collided. Prolonged skirmishing was useless in effect, after all.

Casualty lists… he flipped impatiently through a file, finally finding the permanent records after five minutes or so had passed, but that wasn't all to it yet. Since the most recent battle- Brunete- was argumently the most important battle since the war began, it took a few more moments to narrow down an in depth report on the events that had transpired. They had seventeen thousand casualties and lost twenty three pieces of aircraft. It was not as bad as he expected, and after reading that the enemy had suffered an estimated amount of around twenty five thousand (give or take, he had realized that people were fond of bolstering up the numbers to sound more professional) with more than a hundred planes down, the facts spoke for itself. Though it wasn't a full tactical victory, Gilbert was farsighted enough to see that the Republicans would have a hard time getting over the losses. A hundred was like what…? Half their entire air force? The poor, poor bastards.

So after rifling through the documents, scrawling messily on the paper margins some notes about supplies and manpower, he started to write the report he was supposed to telegraph to the High Command by 2100 hours- something that annoyingly, Ludwig had told him at least a dozen times beforehand to do. It was almost like as if his brother thought he had some sort of memory deflect or something half the time he was assigned something. Hey, so maybe he had bad short term memory for trivialities, but Gilbert was never late for meetings and took state matters with only a little less steam that Germany did. Either way, most of the talk surrounding him about his horrible work habits were just rumors. They were probably created by some of the stupid bastards in the OKW he offended or made an offhand remark about that they got note of. Or maybe they were just assholes, because their breed was getting more and more common as time passed.

Gilbert was there for maybe two hours or so before a knock broke him out of his thoughts. It was probably his secretary or something here getting him some tea or something, so he didn't really pay too much attention as he granted entry. Apparently it wasn't though. A visitor? Then he could stay still for awhile. Whoever came in had the politeness to shut the door behind them, and waited for him to make some last details on the report like he should have. However, after a bit, he heard the man clear his throat and address him with a voice he only knew too well to ever forget whom it had belonged to. Ever.

"Saludos, Prussia."

Wary red eyes looked up, and they landed on the dulled greens of a battered version of Antonio Fernández Carriedo- Spain himself.

The truth was that Prussia had barely recognized him, despite the fact that the Southern nation was one of his closest friends he had. He had lost so much weight to the point where he looked as thin as a rail, and his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones more pronounced than ever. His hair was ragged and overgrown and his uniform too large for his thinner frame, giving him the look of someone masquerading a scarecrow. The civil war really had taken a toll on him. Gilbert hadn't remembered a time where Spain had been this beat up ever since England had destroyed his armada a few hundred years ago and when his Empire had begun falling apart.

"You look like shit." The German said almost pityingly, "Take a seat. I think that would be better for the both of us."

"I will stand, Prussia." Spain replied in a frosty tone that made the albino almost stare because it reminded him so much of Ludwig's, "I am here for business, nothing more. You do understand that."

"Of course, but you know- wouldn't it be nice to have a drink like old friends? I can arrange for some beer to be brought up if you want."

"I must decline, my apologies."

"Really? That's odd of you. I've been working my ass off over here to an extent where even Ludwig would be proud, not that it would ever happen of course. But still, why the formalities? Sit down and talk and later we can do something awesome together like we usually do. Maybe find a few girls and... you know the rest..."

"That will not be necessary. I welcome you to my country, Prussia, and that is all that is required of me. Moreover, it would be unwise to waste time over small talk instead of settling a financial compromise for my economical debt, which is why I am even here."

"Well still- I don't see why not. There's time later, right?"

"The details of my duty are clear. I will remain where I am now."

Two sentences. Two sentences and the atmosphere had transformed into a suffocating prison. What was going on with Spain? Prussia was sure that the civil war would affect a nation's mind in hardly a positive way (he never had one, so he didn't know too much about the specifics) but this nation that had stood in front of his as stiff as Germany himself when addressing the Fuerher in front of the Reichstag was radiating something that Prussia felt was close to cold, apathetic indifference. As if Prussia was no different than a simple acquaintance, and one that he didn't want to involve himself with as well. As if the previous centuries that they had shared together had not even existed. Hell, the German treated people on the streets with more familiarity that he was getting from Spain.

It was like talking to one of those politicians that Prussia disdained back in Berlin. They imitated frost when not trying to win you over to some sort of scheme. This wasn't right. This was not how Spain acted, ever- not once in the two hundred years they had been friends.

"Okay. Tell me what the fuck is going on." Gilbert demanded, standing up so he was on eye level with Antonio, "Why are you treating me like this? What happened?"

"I do not understand what you're implying."

"You. Why are you acting like this towards your best friend?"

"Your meaning still is unclear. I fail so see why you are so upset when I am trying to be polite."

"Polite? Is that supposed to be sarcasm? You talk like as though you're a goddamned rock."

"Is that so? Then I apologize," Spain's voice was now heavy with sugar- and frankly, it successfully made Prussia feel almost sick, "I was hardly aware that there was a law about the way I have to talk, aside from respecting superiors."

The way he spat out the last word made it seem like as if he was handling poison on his tongue, one that he would willingly redirect to Prussia so that he may suffer the consequences. Gilbert more confused than before now, but his confusion was laced with the smallest sparks of irritation. He hated it when people didn't arrive at the point, but the fact that Spain had just seemingly mocked him cut into his pride like a knife- a dull butter knife but one nevertheless. What was going on exactly he still did not guess- all he knew was that Spain was being an irrational cold assed prick, and he at least wanted an explanation. The only reason why Gilbert wasn't as pissed as he should have been right now was because Antonio was his friend. Best friend, since France had deflected from their unofficial triumvirate. He only hoped now that that fact would not rewrite itself.

Now looking at what used to be the Spain he thought that he knew, it was hard to keep his stomach from sinking. Gone was that jovial expression that he had always carried around even on the worst of days, and the vibrant personality that made the southern nation who he was. He was replaced with a statue that oozed silent resentment and wore a look that otherwise looked like one of a haunted animal evading the hunter. It was almost like seeing two different beings altogether and then realizing that they were one the same, despite all the differences they held from one another.

"Do you hate me or something now?" Prussia asked, his voice coming out harsher than he anticipated it would, "Because fuck, you're acting as if I were a bag of garbage someone tossed on your doorstep that knows how to talk."

The brunet looked away almost warily as if he was trying to restrain voicing his thoughts, "I don't know how I'm supposed to respond."

Ouch. That stung. Deep. It wasn't that Prussia wasn't used to the fact of someone stating that they loathed him by now, but at this moment it felt like something akin to a personal betrayal. They had been friends ever since the War of the Austrian Succession of 1740, when Spain had joined France in aiding Prussia of the job of doing what no German state had dare done before: invading the neighbouring Austrian Empire. Ever since then for the almost two centuries that had passed, they were the closest friends could be- even when wars threatened to tear them apart, like the way it had gone with France. Gilbert just had never thought that one day, things would come to this. What had he done to earn Spain's hate, out of everything? Everything?

"Then don't. Just tell me what the hell I did wrong." The German brushed some of his platinum locks back with his hands out of frustration, "Because I'm lost. Sure, you can hate me all you like but I think it's fair for me to ask why."

He expected an answer, but Antonio only stared in an almost ridiculed fashion. It would have been funny in any other situation, and of course if he didn't look like he was trying to contain an inner explosion of sorts within. Even from the angle where he was standing Gilbert could see his knuckles blanch into white as he clenched his hands into tight fists, his body itself slightly shaking. In anger perhaps, the albino didn't know. He couldn't read people too well, but he was pretty sure that was what it was.

He had seen the same expression on his brother's face as the Versailles treaty had been read out to them.

"I can't believe you." when Spain spoke, it was clear he was trying hard not to yell, "You are responsible for this. You're responsible for all of this. My own people are trying to kill each other simply because of your fucking Fascist ideals, and now you send in your own soldiers to lend so called "help"?

Not only are you killing me more day by day but now you're trying to turn me into a breeding place for your brainwashing cult. And then you deny not knowing why I despise you to the point where I would gladly rip you apart…are you stupid?" he punctuated his words with a sneer that was directed especially for Prussia, "You're disgusting, do you know that? You and your brother are both mindless machines. You shouldn't even call yourselves nations anymore. You both have no pride and no honour. You're filth, and your people are as barbaric as you are."

Whatever Prussia was going to say died instantly in his mouth.

Disgusting. Mindless machines. No honour. Filth. He called Ludwig and I filth, our people barbarians.

He just called Ludwig and I filth and our people barbarians.

He just called our people...

To insult another nation the way Spain did was the lowest blow one of them could take. There was an unwritten law among them that they all respected: you could diss anyone however you liked if you hated them, but the people remained off limits. To insult a nation's people was not only just insulting the nation, but it was questioning their right of being alive and in a sense, their very souls that defined who they were. It was like saying that they had no right to hold their own independence, no right to maintain a border, no right to remain on a map. It was questioning the very core of their existence on Earth, and it hurt a lot more than a simple "go die". It was like calling one's entire history a fraud.

And now, Spain had done exactly all the stated.

The German felt his own hackles rise, a giant bubble of pent up anger finally bursting inside of him. No one talked to him like that. No one talked about Ludwig like that. No one would and no one was about to start to. How dare Spain even open his mouth to say such lies towards them both. No honour? Not worthy to be nations? Who did the son of a bitch think he was talking to? He didn't care whether or not Spain hated him or not or whatever the fuck he was thinking stupidly about a while ago. Now he just wanted to gut the other from inside out and stick his head on a pike for the heinous insults and revenge- sweet, sweet revenge.

"What did you say?" Gilbert's voice was a flat monotone that barely veiled the anger dancing underneath, and the desire coursing through him to rip the other's eyes out. He was daring for the other to say more than he had.

"You know perfectly well what I said and I meant every word of it, fascist scum."

He marked it with a glowering smirk, and that severed the last thread between them.

What came after was an abrupt blur for Prussia- he only recalled his fist colliding with something hard that gave way under it, before it happened again and again and again before he was dragged away from the melee by some people who had figured out that something was going on and had bust down the office door. Then when his brain went back to normal, he saw the cherry red stain of blood on his hands, a bright contrast against his too pale skin. He saw Antonio, whose face was a smashed in heap of flesh and bone with his nose starkly broken in the middle of the mess. He deserved it, for daring to insult the Fatherland like he did-

Wait. What the hell was he even thinking…? The Fatherland? When did-

Oh no. What had just happened?

Did he just attack Spain? Did he just break his former best friend's nose and turn his visage into a bloody pulp because he only said what was true, but somehow Prussia had seen the words as insults to the Nazi regime and somehow ended up defending the cause that he swore he would eternally hate? What had he just done? Why did he do what he just did? What the hell was going on?

Spain was still his best friend and brother in arms. Any other nation, Prussia wouldn't have cared- but not Antonio. He felt like a traitor too for violating loyalty, despite everything that happened. Things shouldn't have gone that way. He overreacted, but he should have had more self control. Where had the discipline he was so proud of gone? The very training that made him the country he was?

(Later, Gilbert would recall with a shudder why that incident had not dislodged itself from his consciousness and his heart both: he had enjoyed with some sick and twisted version of pleasure the entire ordeal. He had enjoyed punching Antonio with the intent to reduce him to a broken man, and he had enjoyed the sight of his best friend's gore on his hands. It haunted him. Refused to leave from his mind's eye. Replayed over and over again like a broken record in his dreams…)

He didn't know what was happening to him anymore.

Lessons learnt: Prussia is a dense idiot when it comes to reading people, and never insult Ludwig in front of him or you'll end up like poor Spain. Please leave a review, because reviews motivate me a lot. In fact, this is the fastest I have ever been updating in a long time... so we both keep up the good work? XD

Notes:

1) Brunete was one of the largest battles of the Spanish Civil War, and was ultimately what led to the Nationalists' victory over the Republicans as the war dragged itself on. The Germans played a huge role in the battle with their air support, and they ended up getting the "most favoured nation" status from Spain which gave it advantages when it came to trading. Spain was kind of in debt at that time due to war expenses so they paid Germany by exporting raw materials.

2) Bellona is a Roman goddess of war that personified bloodlust in combat. I think she's a lot cooler than the Germanic equivalent, so hence why this fact is going to be on a Roman deity. Also, more people knows who the hell she is, so yeah.

3) The von Kleists were one of the most influential families of the old Prussian aristocracy, hence Prussia mentioning the bit about Austria and such. Like all the others, they had a solid military tradition. Nearly all their the Kleist males were involved in the military one way or another. Also they have an online family tree that's massive but you have to email them if you want access and stuff, so I haven't done it.

4) Generalfeldmarschall- General Field Marshal, Scheisskerl- a variation of bastard, Saludos- Salutations. Heinkels and Messerschmitts- German manufactured bombers and fighters that were way better than the Russian ones that used to be in use.

5) The reason why Spain blamed Prussia and in turn, Nazi Germany for the civil war was because of the fact that one of the main reasons why Franco was after power and why he even had supporters who was trying to tear the free constitution up was because he was inspired by fascism. That's also not to say that Germany and Italy both were assisting the Nationalists and draining the economy, but like everyone he saw Germany as the greater evil. Thus he went rabid on Prussia, who couldn't tell him that he really didn't support the Nazis because that would have been treason.

6) And we can all see how the affair ended. This is how I thought Nazi Germany would affect Prussia because really, he was still there back then and it must have affected him one way or the other. Where Germany has become a brainwashed robot, Prussia is regressing back and becoming something like a blood lusting war machine.