Russia's right eyebrow curves into an elegant arch as East orders a meal for the both of them in perfect Polish. He only makes a silent dismissing sign when the lady working at the milk bar asks him if he'll be needing anything more. They get their meals, find an empty table, sit. Russia has always hated Polish with a burning passion, even more than East absolutely loathes Russian. East doesn't really understand why, but once again he doesn't really understand Russia's quirks much, has never done.
"I thought you had forgotten everything about Polish," he says in his own heavily accented but grammatically perfect German. "You always refused to speak with Poland in any other language than German."
"I forgot everything about speaking with Poland." East shrugs. "It's not the same thing."
He places his fork and knife around his plate with a practiced military exactitude, eats quickly with large, purposeful bites. The milk bar, with its spartiate decoration and bland tasteless food reminds him of the barracks and the flags, somehow, and it's a good kind of feeling. He attacks the pierogis without even taking the time to taste them, and Russia watches him do so with mild amusement, eating the same plate with the slight disdain typical of the monarchy he had killed over a century ago.
"Anyway, I've been practicing a bit since the wall fell down. You took the time to walk around the city, right?"
Russia shakes his head. Of course he hasn't. Russia cannot care about Berlin, not after drinking himself to euphoria as it burnt and grounding it to fine dust before blowing it away. East tries to ignore that fact for a moment, keeps on talking.
"Capitalism, man. It makes the world go 'round. I don't have much to do, I mean, you don't know fucking West but yeah, he won't let me do any significant work if he can avoid it, so I've been talking to the people, you know. I mean, I think I hadn't really done that since Fritz's time, and it's nice, somehow."
As he listens to East talking, Russia takes a sip of water. It's a one of those state-owned restaurants that somehow managed to survive the 1990s, so the glasses are plastic and the water is ice-cold from the tap. East likes it because it's cheap and it reminds him of those god-awful meetings he had to have once in a while with the SED leaders, old men with old ideas pretending they didn't know what he represented. Russia isn't as uneasy as East thought he would have been, and it's a shame, really, because if there's anything that might have made Russia uneasy in any way, it's being in Poland eating Polish food. East realises once again that Russia is different from the others, that he stopped giving fucks about stuff like their collective history and the weight of his past actions long ago.
"And what do they have to say?" Russia asks, his hands folded on his lap.
"Human bullshit, obviously. But their voices sound nice, and I got to learn Turkish. Of course, that fucking little bitch Austria can't help but to make those retarded remarks about me always sounding like a foreigner."
Russia laughs a bit under his breath. It's a strangely unsarcastic laugh. East huffs as he does.
"He hasn't changed."
"Prickly little shit."
"Are you still fucking him?"
East, who has been awkwardly playing with the pierogies on his plate, snorts. It's funny, how keenly right Russia is on certain matters and painfully oblivious he is on others. It doesn't matter.
"Everybody is always fucking Austria. That's his secret weapon."
"Does that mean yes?"
"No."
East puts a piece of cabbage in his mouth, chews lazily and talks with his mouth full.
"I'm not interesting or interested anymore. The only reason we still talk is because West believes we're somehow friends and that I might need a familiar face in my agony. Well fuck if that's the face I want to bring in the grave."
Russia smiles, that annoying smug smile of him, munches on his own pierogis without really seeming to care. He swallows his bite down quickly, takes out a small flask of vodka from his coat pocket, empties it in one long gulp, doesn't offer East any of it. East watches him do so, a bit annoyed.
"Yeah, thanks for your fucking input. I bet you haven't had Lithuania since then, huh?"
"What did you say?"
There's a pause. Russia's face makes this odd kind of blank expression, and East wonders for a moment if Russia might not be able to feel anything else than superficial, fleeting emotions after all. He's probably not, though. Russia is monster like every single one of them, and Russia knows it. He'll never be able to feel anything else than quiet bone-gnawing hate and insatiable fucking greed. East can respect than, somehow. It doesn't mean he doesn't want to push him over the hedge.
"I said that you haven't fucked your dear beloved Lithuania since you tore your own empire to pieces."
Russia's breath goes unusually quiet, as if he's some sort of savannah predator waiting to leap on his prey. The image is amusing and East suddenly misses his time in Africa and that old prick Bismarck. What he doesn't expect is Russia's fork landing directly between his ring finger and his pinky. It's quick and it doesn't make a sound, staying firmly planted up into the wooden table as Russia retires his hand from its handle. East blinks, doesn't move, and looks stupidly at the act of small-time vandalism. The old women back in the milk bar's kitchen are still working, seemingly unaware of anything happening on this side of the restaurant. He swallows the food still in his mouth with a loud sound.
"What did you say?" Russia asks again, playing nonchalantly with his knife this time. It's not a very pointy knife, but East knows how crafty Russia can be with improvised weapons. He rolls his eyes.
"Oh, just grow the fuck up already, Jesus Christ..."
It seems to be a somehow satisfying answer for Russia, who takes a long sip from his glass of water before picking a pierogi from his plate, placing it in his mouth, masticating slowly. East imitates him begrudgingly, his eyebrows frowned.
"Please don't talk about Lithuania," Russia says after a moment. "It makes me very sad."
East sighs, obeys. He would like getting in a fight with Russia, a real, face-punching fight for old time's sake, but the timing isn't right. He finishes eating quickly and in silence. He doesn't even remember why he decided that he wanted to go to Königsberg and bring Russia with him. He's starting to feel dumb about this, but damn if he will back down on this perfect occasion to piss West off. The food tastes bland but it fills him up. They still have quite a bit of travelling to do for the day and he needs the calories, especially on these pieces of shit things Poland likes to call roads.
He decides to light up another cigarette when they exit the milk bar. Russia isn't speaking either, gives him a questioning look as he takes out the blue cardboard box of Gauloises from his own jeans pockets. East shrugs.
"You were sleeping and you don't smoke," he offers as an explanation for pick pocketing him back in the car.
The tobacco smoke has an acrid taste and it feels good now that East's stomach is full. They get back in the car, ridiculously flashy piece of fine engineering in front of a decrepit Soviet building. It feels completely out of place and East appreciates the contrast. It's almost like seeing the lights of West-Berlin from his run-down apartment not too far from the Palast der Republik.
The sun is starting to set, but East likes driving at night, and he has never been one for sleeping anyway. They'll be there by sunrise, if nothing goes wrong.
Russia slides into his seat without a further word. The motor starts. They're gone.
It's a silent drive for most of the night, with East's eyes fixed on the road, the soft, barely inaudible sound of the engines now that they're on cruise-control. The radio is off; East grew tired of The Clash at some point past Krakow. Russia sleeps or feigns to sleep. East's cell phone lies is in his pocket, silent. West hasn't rung. It's a good thing, East tells himself.
The stars shine over the quiet empty countryside and East remembers other travels through Poland, exhausting, aching travels in trains flying through the night and the smell of death sticking itself everywhere, to the wheels of the locomotive and the bodies of starved shadows of human beings. He has never had the same kind of relationship towards the events as West, obviously, possibly because he's older, most probably because he hasn't had America drilling him distilled guilt into his brain for decades. West may be good at hiding it, but East can see it so clearly, how his brother shakes under the weight of it, how his face goes blank when he thinks of the past and of those other names they used to call East. He doesn't blame the self-righteous little shit from the other side of the Atlantic, though. The boy was just playing the game.
East's feelings toward America are somehow a bit complicated. It's different than with, let's say, France or England, mainly because he knows that most of America's decisions are motivated by plain stupidity and an odd kind of wide-eyed idealism everybody in Europe has lost centuries ago. He reminds him of West back in the days, only if West was the kind of irresponsible, disorganised kid Austria and the others had always dreamt of raising.
East's thoughts drift into that no man's land he always tried to avoid in that time of the year. He's tired and he can't really fight it off. He thinks of Saxony and Bavaria, and how they died slow, painful deaths somewhere in the last century. He knows it's not West's fault, or at least it's not West's fault as much as it is his own. He had done what he had to do. They lost. His empire fell apart. Democracy hadn't suited any of them.
East doesn't miss them, not any more than he misses that little brat that called himself an empire and that Austria loved so much. Their kind come and go, the same way humans and leaders come and go. He had always hated Bavaria anyway. Thinking about this does nothing except reminding it of his own mortality, and it's a weird kind of feeling.
As if on cue, Russia opens his mouth.
"You still haven't told me."
"Told you what? Why we're going to Königsberg?"
"It's Kaliningrad."
His hands still on the wheel, East gives a quick look at Russia's face. His eyes are still closed. Smug bastard. East stays silent, hands firmly gripping the wheel. He's too tired to argue with Russia or come up with witty retorts. It's funny how draining Russia's company is sometimes, or maybe it isn't. He hates himself for bringing him on the road, suddenly.
Russia sighs.
"It's not Lithuania that I miss, you know. It's the power he gave me by taking every blow without even trying to fight."
It's an unexpected kind of confession but East doesn't try to add anything, mainly because just a few words from Russia are enough to make anyone painfully awkward. He thinks about turning the radio back on, but doesn't. He's just not that kind of coward, not yet. He's not West.
"I wasn't angry when he left," Russia continues, his voice a soft, oddly cheery tone in the night. "Power had left me years ago. It wasn't enjoyable anymore; telling you and Hungary and the others not to leave had become a chore. I let go and embraced the new ways with that happy ignorance America spreads around him like a disease. I have no more regrets than you do, but sometimes I miss being at the top of the world and watching worms grovel at my feet."
East grits his teeth. He doesn't dare looking at Russia.
"Shut up and go back to sleep."
Russia does as he's told, somehow. He doesn't even look angry or surprised. He turns to face the window with its starry sky, doesn't make a sound. East keeps on driving, but there are heavier thoughts clouding his head now and making his eyebrows frown without him really realising it. He tells himself that it doesn't matter but it does.
Rain starts to fall somewhere around midnight and East activates the windshield wipers as it does. Somehow, he hopes that it's also raining in Berlin.