Soluble Chapter Two: Arguing in Sub Zero Temperatures

"I used to rule the world

Seas would rise when I gave the word

Now in the morning I sleep alone

Sweep the streets I used to own"

- Viva la Vida, Coldplay

Later, he would be unable to recall much of the long trek that he and Ivan had made, almost entirely in silence. Gilbert wasn't sure when everything started to blur into one seamless mix of sickening, swirling colours, and he didn't want to know. Ivan said nothing – at some point during the walk, the Russian had pushed him to the front, and was using none too gentle a hand to propel the Prussian forward whenever he slowed. When he stumbled, Ivan merely waited behind him until he regained his balance, and then that hand was back – ready to shove Gilbert forward if he hesitated too long.

His world narrowed to the ground just under his worn-out boots. His mind began to wander, if only to distract himself from the pain that the forced physical activity was causing his already battered frame. He remembered when West had shown up – shown up to tell him that he was no longer a nation, that he had been dissolved without even being present for the meeting…

He had been battle weary; barely managing to stagger to his house on his own two legs, let alone take notice of what else was going on in the world. All he knew was that they had lost. He had lost, and he wasn't supposed to lose battles. The wounds of the war showed clearly on his frame; his uniform was ragged and ripped, old blood and new staining it. A horrible gash along his ribs was visible through the ruined fabric.

Gilbert hadn't been able to find the strength to bandage it. He had made it to the living room, with its antique furniture and beautiful wall hangings. He had noticed, with a sort of uncaring emptiness, the way that the walls seemed to be sagging, the wood suddenly looking old. The deep crack running up the face of the stone fireplace that had withstood much worse. At the time, he hadn't considered it worth noting – it took all of his energy to simply collapse on the couch, letting darkness take him.

The fabric had absorbed blood surprisingly well.

The fever caught him only hours after getting home, and after that, Gilbert hadn't had the energy to notice what was happening to his house. His forehead burned, but he couldn't get relief. The constantly present yellow bird had done its best to help him, but even it could only carry so much, being so small. Gilbert hadn't noticed his house collapsing – he had been too wrapped up in fever-nightmares of the past to hear the entire left wing collapse in a pile of groaning timbers. He was too far gone to notice the ceiling in the room he had lain in for the past week was starting to develop cracks.

It had, however, been bearable. Physical pain was nothing new to him, and Gilbert knew, somewhere in his fever twisted mind, that he would pull through this – he was too awesome to not survive. His empire would endure another day, another war. He was heedless of the sheer volume of blood that had soaked into the tan fabric of the couch, the gauntness of his cheeks; the infection that had settled on his untreated wounds. Like always, he had assumed that his status as a nation would ensure that he would heal, with only a few scars to show for it.

"Stupid…" Gilbert murmured softly aloud, shivering slightly. The air had gotten colder in the time he had spaced out.

"Don't stop walking." It was more than just a curt order, Gilbert realized – even in the short time that he had paused; his body had started shivering harder. "I don't want you to freeze to death before we get home."

"That makes one of us," Prussia muttered rebelliously under his breath, watching it cloud in front of him.

"It's the one of us whose opinion actually matters," Ivan said quite cheerfully, "So keep moving." A howling gust of wind and snow swirled by, as if to emphasize the Russian's words. Despite himself, Gilbert let out a low gasp, eyes narrowed against the sudden spray of snow.

With what he hoped was an icy glare over his shoulder at Ivan; Gilbert tucked his ungloved hands under his armpits and moved forward. At least, that was the idea – a firm hand on his shoulder stopped his motion, jerking him painfully backward and nearly making him fall down.

"What now?" Prussia snarled, rounding to glare at Russia, momentarily forgetting just who he was addressing. "You wanted me to keep moving!"

"You aren't dressed for the weather." Russia pointed this out like it was some sort of obscure revelation, as if Gilbert wasn't already aware of the fact.

"Have a fucking cookie," Prussia growled, struggling to turn away from Ivan's grip. "It took you this long to notice."

He missed the flash of anger in Ivan's violet eyes. The Russian reached out, lightening fast, one massive hand curling around Prussia's windpipe. With little effort, Ivan hauled the smaller man up to his eyelevel, not phased by Gilbert's thrashing.

"Put… me… down…!" Gilbert's voice was faint in the howling wind.

"We are going to make something very clear right now," Ivan growled, none of the childlike innocence in his face. When Prussia ignored him, the Russian merely shook him like a toy. "You are alive only by my desire, Beilschmidt."

"Keep… dreaming…" Gilbert hissed, despite all of the truth in Russia's statement, "You'll never –" His words were stalled as something cold and metallic pressed itself against the side of his head. Almost instantly, Gilbert stopped thrashing. He knew Ivan carried that damn pipe around, but he hadn't seen it at the gathering, and had assumed that the Russian had chosen to leave it behind…

"You are mine, Gilbert," Russia said flatly, taping the metal object against Prussia's temple. "No one will come help you out here. You will do what I say, or you will suffer the consequences, da?" His grip on Gilbert's neck tightened.

The Prussian couldn't have answered if he had wanted to. The edges of his vision had turned curiously fuzzy and black; his lungs cried for air that would not come. The half healed wounds on his neck burned, the Russian's rough grip ruining what scabbing had occurred.

"I'm glad we understand one another," Ivan said, smiling again. The Russian dropped Gilbert as he spoke, and the slight man crumpled at his feet, coughing violently. "Get up – I want to be home before it gets dark."

"You…" Gilbert hissed, unconscious of the blood that was now staining the bandages around his neck. Being dumped in the snow had robbed him of that last bit of core warmth, and now his limbs were shaking so badly he couldn't stand.

"I said get up." The tone of voice didn't' change, but Gilbert wasn't so far gone that he didn't hear the warning.

"What does… it look… like I'm trying to do?" Prussia scrabbled weakly in the snow, struggling to find strength in his tired legs to stand. It was, if he were to be honest with himself, a losing battle. He paused, panting; he had managed to get to his knees.

The metal pipe prodded him sharply in the back; a wordless threat. Ivan was not known for his patience. Gritting his teeth, Gilbert struggled to get to his feet. One moment stretched into an eternity, and then the ground shot away from him. It took Prussia a moment to realize that he was standing. He had a few seconds to enjoy the feeling, before his legs, abused beyond their limit, simply gave out from under him. Snow rushed up to meet his face – when had it gotten that deep on the ground? – and Gilbert shuddered as the white powder enveloped him. He was beyond feeling the temperature now, his skin icy. Prussia closed his good eye, wondering whether it was even worth trying to struggle for breath.

Suddenly the ground was falling away from him. Ivan's hands were clamped around his shoulders, hauling him up out of the snow.

"You're not going to last," the Russian was muttering to himself, looking at Gilbert. The albino stared back at him fuzzily. Ivan sighed, and in one swift motion, had pulled Prussia entirely off of his feet.

It took Gilbert a moment to realize why he was suddenly warmer. Russia looked down at him with a face devoid of emotion. Prussia's expression creased into a scowl as he realized that the massive nation was carrying him.

"Put… me… down…" he mumbled half-heartedly. The Russian was warm, after all. His shivers were already slowing.

"No," Ivan replied simply, looking up and continuing to walk. His boots crunched loudly over the snow. Prussia's weight did not appear to be a hindrance to him in the slightest.

This was humiliating. Prussia could feel his cheeks burning, though he wasn't entirely sure if that was out of shame or if it was due to fever. Wind scraped chilly fingers across his face; the area under the bandages burned with pain. Instinctively, Gilbert turned his face into Ivan's shoulder, his scarf.

"This never happened," he said into Russia's coat. He was past denying that he wasn't capable of walking under his own power. His only answer, however, was the wind and the crunch of snow as Ivan kept up his measured steps. What does it matter anyway, a small part of him asked. I'm not even a nation anymore. What use is salvaging my pride when I don't have anything to be proud of? Prussia allowed his tense frame to curl closer to the warm Russian, and willingly let the darkness consume him.

It had been like that when someone had finally taken it into their heads to see if he was still alive. He was, of course, though it was stretching the term quite a bit. His wounds had stopped bleeding, at least, but they were not healing. He had been delirious for the past week; the few hours where he was consciously aware of his surroundings, he had been too exhausted to get up.

The blood would never wash out of the couch.

Ludwig had been the one to come find him. Of course, West had been expecting to find his older brother either sulking, drunk out of his mind, or both. Not barely clinging to life, unaware of the crumbling ruin that his house had become around him.

"Brother!" He remembered the voice breaking through his fever dreams. It had been so long since he had heard any voice but his own. Gilbert hadn't recognized it at first – normally, his brother's voice was controlled and level; his exclamation had been bordering on panic.

It had taken what seemed like a year to crack open one eye. The other was gummed shut with dried blood – in any case, the slash running down it was not much incentive for Gilbert to try and open it.

"West?" His voice had been whispery, throat worn raw from screaming. It was barely audible in the desolate silence that had consumed his house. "Is… that you…?" He wasn't sure what was real and what was his imagination anymore.

"What happened – why didn't you ask for help?" He could tell that Ludwig was torn between yelling at him and trying to soothe him.

"They… did it… didn't they?" Gilbert could feel his grip on consciousness slipping, but for the first time he fought the pull of black oblivion.

"Did what?" Ludwig tried to stand, tried to dismiss what his brother was saying, but Gilbert reached out a hand that shook violently with the effort, and placed it over the younger man's fingers. He didn't notice Ludwig flinch – both with the heat that was rising off of Gilbert's wasted skin, and with guilt.

"Did they… think I wouldn't… notice?" Gilbert panted wildly for breath, his mouth dry and cracked. A demented smile spread across his face, and a trickle of blood ran down from a split in the center of his lip. "That… I wouldn't… feel…"

"Gil, I – this is my fault," Ludwig said, sitting back down bonelessly, looking at his brother with such a look of despair that Gilbert almost closed his eye again. "I tried to stop them, but – they thought it was – I can't – I didn't – you –"

And then he was crying, silently, in the way that he always had, but crying just the same, and it wrenched somewhere inside of Gilbert, the one place that didn't already hurt. The ex-nation raised the same trembling hand to Ludwig's face. The tears were cold on his skin, so high was his temperature. But despite that, there was something that Prussia had to say, something to comfort this overgrown, bandaged child in front of him.

"It's…not… your fault," he whispered, voice cracking slightly. "Stop… crying… I'll be… fine." It was a pretty lie. Gilbert knew that he was far from fine. His physical wounds were not healing; his body was consuming itself in an attempt to rid itself of infection. But worse than that was the gaping sense of despair that had fallen over him when his tie to his people had been severed. Even feeling their pain – which multiplied his own – had been better. It had been like a sturdy cord he had been able to depend on all of his existence had been cut – and the whiplash had caught him straight across the face. But for his brother – for his stupid little brother who should know better than to cry over something like this – he would put on a brave face. Neither of them believed the lie, but it was easier to pretend.

"Stop… crying… West," Gilbert mumbled, the world blurring strangely. A great leaden heaviness had settled around his limbs, and he was finding it difficult to keep his hand from dropping off of Ludwig's cheek. "I'm… not… worth… crying over." Was this what he had been waiting for, why he had managed to stay alive these past two weeks, despite all logic? Had he really been clinging to life just to see his younger brother one last time? It certainly felt like it.

And suddenly he was tired, so tired. Even keeping his one eye open was difficult, and he let his hand drop. It whacked off of Ludwig's knee with a lifeless motion, dangling over the couch like some discarded toy. Gilbert didn't bother trying to move it, despite the fact that the motion had ripped open the bullet wound there. He could feel his eye closing, and this time he didn't try and resist.

"No! Gil, you can't disappear!" Germany was grabbing at his shoulders, but there was no reaction. The only sign of life from the albino was the sliver of red under his eyelashes; the red that was overly bright with pain and fever.

"Don't… be stupid… West…" The corner of his mouth twitched in a parody of a smile. "I'm… too… awesome… to dis…sa..." His words trailed off, and with a rattling sigh of finality, Gilbert let his eyes close, deaf to his brother's frantic pleas.

Gilbert had been half dozing, his body wishing to sleep, but his mind far too active to slip into pleasant oblivion. The sudden change in both light and pace was what pulled him out of his foggy half-dreams, his good eye flickering open warily. It had grown dark while Russia had carried him over the snow, hardly seeming to notice the cold wind. But now they were standing in a pool of warm yellow light, and there was a low, monotonous sound in the background.

It took Prussia a few moments to gather enough wits to realize that they were standing on the front steps of a massive house, and that the pounding sound was Ivan kicking the door with his heavy boot. The Russian could not, after all, open the door when both of his arms were full of the other nation. There was a scraping sound, and the door opened a crack.

"I'm sorry, but visitors aren't welcome –" The soft voice was cut off as Ivan stuck the toe of his boot into the opening, wedging it there.

"It's cold out here, Toris," Russia said quietly, inching closer to the warmth that was leaking out of the open door. Almost instantly, the door opened all the way, the man behind it practically throwing himself at it in an effort to get it open. Russia didn't have a particularly kind disposition on a normal day, and it only worsened when he was cold.

"Sorry, Mr. Braginski, I – we weren't expecting you home so soon." Lithuania stood to the side as the massive nation stepped inside, banging the snow off of his boots. His wide brown eyes fixed on the snow-covered figure in the Russian's arms; whoever it was, they looked terribly small and fragile.

"It went faster than expected, da. Tell one of the others to put tea on – General Winter isn't happy with me, or so it seems." The violet eyes flickered to the still open door, and Toris jumped to shut it.

"Of course," he said breathlessly, "I'll just go put the kettle –"

"I said one of the others," Russia said patiently, as if he was talking to a small child. "You are going to help me while they do that. Get Latvia to do it – I like the way he makes it."

Lithuania nodded, and darted off down the hallway a way, turning a corner. He and the other two Baltic nations – Estonia and Latvia – had been looking forward to a night together, without any of Russia's head games to keep them on edge. While a night in the massive house wasn't exactly pleasant no matter who was home, it would have been nice.

"Who was it?" Estonia was lounging back on one of the couches, a book dangling from his fingers. The fire was roaring in the grate, and for a moment Toris felt like he could pretend that this was all normal; that they were here of their own volition.

"It's Ivan," he replied quietly. Latvia looked up with the usual expression he wore whenever anyone brought up the Russian in his presence – or when said Russian was actually in his presence. "I'm surprised you two didn't hear him come in… he's got someone with him, and I'm not sure who, but he wants my help." The nation glanced at Latvia, who was sitting curled by the table, building a house with a deck of cards that he had managed to find somewhere. "He wants you to make tea."

There was no need to clarify the order – Latvia jumped up so quickly that he upset the creation he had spent the better part of the night working on. The paper rectangles fluttered to the floor in a cloud. Estonia looked up, and nodded – he would tidy up, seeing as Ivan apparently didn't want anything from him. Lithuania offered him a small smile, before turning out of the room and back into the hallway. Russia was no longer standing there – the melting snow on the floor gave Toris a watery path to follow, up the winding stairs, down the long and empty hallway, to the room at the end of the house.

He entered the room just in time to see Russia drop his burden onto the bed before straightening, his back cracking with an unpleasant sound. Though Toris was sure he hadn't made any sounds, Ivan turned around at that exact moment, a small smile in place.

"He's heavier than he looks, especially when you have to carry him halfway home." The Russian was methodically taking off his gloves, tossing them onto the bare stand by the bed.

"I – I'm sure," Toris said; and though he wanted to know who was lying there, he didn't dare take his eyes off of Ivan as the other moved around the room, flicking on lights. There was only one window in this room, and it was small and high off the ground – large windows let the heat escape faster.

"I'm going to get bandages," Russia said, rather unexpectedly – usually he made the others run around madly for the things he wanted. "You stay here and make sure he doesn't die in the next five minutes, da?"

"Of course," Lithuania mumbled as the massive man swept past. He waited a moment, listening to the other clump off down the hallway, and then moved closer to the bed. He wasn't sure what he was expecting – the things Russia dragged home were never in very good shape, and if there was imminent danger of this one dying in the next few minutes…

It wasn't who he had been expecting, that was for sure. Perhaps if he had paid more attention to what had been going on in Russia's office, he wouldn't have been surprised – then again, the northern nation rarely deigned to actually informing any of them what he was doing. Toris had the suspicion that the other nation liked keeping all of them in the dark.

"Stop… staring… you idiot. It feels like… you're boring… holes… in me. And I have… quite enough of… those, thanks."

The voice nearly had the Baltic nation jumping out of his skin. He hadn't realized that Prussia was even conscious. He covered the last few steps between him and the edge of the bed; while he and Gilbert had never been on good terms in the past; it was still strange to see the normally enthusiastic and loud nation lying there, shivering.

"What happened to you?" There was something close to wonder in Toris's voice, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Prussia had always been a tenacious fighter – he rarely lost, and when he did, he was almost instantly plotting his comeback.

"Didn't he… tell you?" A sickening smile flashed across the un-bandaged part of his face, and Prussia winced.

"Tell me what?" Toris managed to hide the confused look – even lying there, bandaged beyond almost all recognition, Prussia was managing to lord something over him. It was irritating, in a way only the albino man could possibly be.

Prussia laughed softly – rather, his body shook so suddenly that for a moment Toris feared that the other was having some sort of fit. "No… no, I suppose he… wouldn't tell… his underlings… anything." Pain creased his features again. "You'll be… happy… I expect. You and I… always were… fighting." A distant look came into his eye for a moment.

"Just tell me what you're talking about, Prussia," Lithuania hissed, glancing over his shoulder. He hadn't heard Russia clomping back yet, but the huge nation had shown a frightening potential for appearing places without ever making a sound, despite his size.

"Don't… call me that," Gilbert said, eye shutting as if he didn't want to see anything anymore. "It's… Gilbert… now. Just Gilbert."

Horrible realization struck Toris as he stared down at his once-enemy in shock, eyes wide. They had dissolved him. Prussia was gone… and this was all that was left. That explained why the other nation – ex-nation, his mind supplied sadly – was so badly injured; he didn't even have the thin protection of status anymore. That must have been what the meeting that Russia had gone to had been about – and it would also explain why Felkis had been even more cheerful than usual.

"Da." The voice from the doorway, sudden in the ensuing silence of Gilbert's statement, made Lithuania jump and whirl around. There, with his trademark innocent – not to mention terrifying – smile in place was Russia, his arms full of bandages. A bottle of clear liquid dangled from his fingers, the contents sloshing against the sides. Toris swallowed hard, and stepped a few paces away from the bed.

"Gilbert is no longer a nation; Prussia has been chopped into pieces and given to others," Ivan said, as if the thought gave him pleasure. It probably does, Toris thought, squirming inside. "But I got the biggest chunk of it, so Gilbert is going to be living with us from now on." There was silence in the room as Ivan stepped further inside, dropping the bandages and the vodka without much ceremony on the bed next to the injured man. "It's going to be such fun!"

Though they didn't know it, both Toris and Gilbert were thinking identical thoughts; whatever the psychopathic Russian considered fun, they most certainly did not want to be a part of it. And both of them had the same bitter realization a moment later, one that left a sour taste on the tongue –

Neither of them had much choice in the matter.

A/N: Alright, I updated again. =3 Most of the time, it will not be on a once-a-week basis, but this is out for a special reason. Fairy Struck is getting her wisdom teeth yanked out today, so I figured that a new chapter might cheer her up. Not that this is a particularly cheery fanfiction, but there you go.

I appreciate the feedback I've been getting! :D

If you've read, please review!