Soluble

by Pheleon

n. The quantity of a substance that can dissolve in a particular solvent. Gilbert wonders how long it will be before he falls; before he breaks his promise and Ivan gets to him, and he gives in to the darkness reaching through his heart.

7. Ten Years Gone

Soluble Chapter Seven: Ten Years Gone

When the seas are rolling in,
When the stars are shining clear,
When the ghosts are howling near,
When we sing the Russian lullaby…

- Russian Lullaby, E-Type

Warning: Parts of this chapter contain quite a lot of swearing, courtesy of Prussia.

Summer 1949

He let out a whimper, hands spasmodically clenching against the thin blanket. His hair was sweat soaked, though he could hardly afford to lose the body weight. A hand gently rested itself on his shoulder, squeezing slightly.

"It's alright, Gilbert…" The voice was calming, smooth, and familiar in an aching way. "I'm here for you, brother…"

"West…" The word whispered out from between his cracked lips, sounding like the last rattling breath of the dying. "… I missed you…"

There was a light laugh. "And I missed you, Gilbert… so very much."

The albino, eyes still closed, curled closer to the grip, coming to rest up against a solid, warm form. The added warmth was welcome, and he pulled even closer. A second hand reached up, running though his hair slowly, firmly.

Gilbert's eyes slid open slowly, still caught halfway between the world of dreaming and waking. His blinked a few times, and then recoiled so fast that his back hit the wall his bed was against. His lips pulled back into an almost animalistic snarl.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about it, was Ivan.

"Get the fuck out of my room!" His red eyes flashed with anger, and something that was close to terror but not quite.

"You were enjoying my presence until you opened your eyes," Russia pointed out with a sing-song tone, folding his hands on his lap, and showing not the slightest inclination to getting up and leaving.

"Yeah, and that's the problem, you Communist bastard," Gilbert spat back. He was overreacting somewhat, he knew, but – well, waking up to Ivan's presence wasn't exactly… well, it wasn't something he enjoyed waking up to. And to have been caught in such a vulnerable position, to have actually believed that the Russian was his brother…

Ivan grinned again, and only now pulled himself to his feet. "Your mind isn't the sound fortress you think it is, my GDR," he said softly, chuckling under his breath. "There are so many… cracks to be exploited, if one only knows where to push…"

"Get out." Prussia's voice had grown dangerous, and he looked like something feral, hunched there on the corner of the thin mattress. "You gave me this prison… do me the favour of keeping your fat ass out of it."

Instead of rising to the bait, Ivan merely nodded, radiating approval. "I see you have finally taken up my native tongue. This pleases me greatly, GDR." He glanced around the room dismissively, taking in the red scarf scrunched into a ball in the corner, and the kicked over chair that was near it. "I expect you upstairs in no less than five minutes, Gilbert. Take the time to make yourself presentable, please."

"Yes, with all the beauty products you've supplied me with," the other snapped back, making sure it was in German this time. "You haven't even let me near a pair of scissors in two years." He knew, of course, that by "presentable" Ivan was referring to the red scarf and nothing else. Prussia's own clothing was in no particularly good shape; he rarely bothered to look after it.

"You should tell me when you want your hair cut, da? You are such a headstrong little nation, I never know if you're trying to be rebellious by growing it out." Ivan pushed the door open smoothly, which explained why Prussia hadn't woken up when he had first come in; someone had taken in into their heads to actually oil the hinges.

"Want a sponge to mop up that sarcasm? It's making a mess on my valuable cement floor," the Prussian replied back, equally as nasty.

Ivan sighed, but the smile never vanished. "Your time is even shorter now. Be upstairs in three minutes, or there will be consequences." The door slid shut behind him.

With a snarl of frustration, Prussia stalked across the small space and yanked the scarf off of the floor. His hair, longer than it had been in a while, kept on falling in his eyes. There was tightness in his throat that he was firmly and resolutely ignoring.

"Verdammt(1)," he whispered as he wrapped the scarf around his neck. The fabric was chilly from having spent the night in neglect on the floor. "Verdammt, verdammt, verdamnt!"

His foot connected solidly with the already knocked over chair, kicking it into the nearest wall. The weakly held together joints broke on contact, but the Prussian continued kicking, until there was no hope of repair, and there were wood chunks strewn across the corner.

"Du wird nicht gewinnen, Ivan…(2)" He sent one last red-eyed glare at the chair (which really hadn't done anything) and stormed out of his room, making sure to slam the door as hard as he could on the way out, in the hopes that the hinges might fall off.

Gilbert refused to acknowledge the tiny flutter of anxiety in his chest; the creeping fear spawned by the simple fact that, in two short years, he was already unconsciously speaking Russian.

Spring 1950

"Ludwig… you should do some work, non? It isn't healthy, what you're doing." Francis's forehead creased into a frown – he was getting rather used to the expression these days. There seemed very little to be cheerful about in the aftermath of the war. In the wake of Russia and America's newly strained relationships, all of the nations were hard pressed to be happy about much of anything.

"He never wrote back, you know." Germany was standing at the large window in his office, staring out over Berlin. Below him, people moved about their business – if it weren't for the ruin still evident in places, it would have been a normal spring day. "Something's happened to him, I know it."

The French nation sighed softly – enough so that Germany wouldn't hear. Despite the havoc that Ludwig's country had wreaked on his own during the war, Francis had found himself spending more and more time at the German's house. He wasn't sure if the other man appreciated it or not – he never said as much, but he was still let in whenever he came knocking. As such, France had found himself witness to a rather sobering problem – watching Germany retreat further and further into himself with every passing year. There was a slight hunch to his shoulders, as if he was bearing an impossible weight; he had a perpetual frown that, even if it wasn't in evidence on his face, was still clear in his eyes.

"Your brother… was never very big on writing letters anyway, from what Antonio and I figured out. Perhaps he is simply busy with repairing his own country, oui? As you should be doing."

"Or maybe that bastard Ivan's preventing him from communicating with me," Ludwig ground out, hand curling into a fist.

Francis pulled himself off of the couch with a soft groan – his limbs were stiffer than usual these days – and made his way over to stand next to the taller German man. He looked out over the city, the frown still tugging at the corner of his mouth. The people here, he knew, were not happy… they were still reeling from the effects of a terrible war, and ravaged by a terrible guilt. A guilt that, Francis knew, Ludwig seemed to be sharing.

"Perhaps… he simply lacks a method to send anything to you?" He was reluctant to say anything that would give the other nation a reason to hope – his brother was with Ivan, after all, and there was no telling what the Russian would do. "His country was worse off than yours, and I would imagine that the postal system…" he managed a slightly crooked smile, "… is not quite on its feet yet."

Germany glanced at France briefly, before returning his gaze to the window. There was a moment of silence, and then his eyes widened slightly. "A… way to send letters?" He whirled so quickly that Francis nearly fell over in surprise. His hands clamped down on the slighter nation's shoulders tightly. "Francis," he said, and his voice was low. "Can that bird of his understand people?"

"Gilbird?" France's voice was slightly strangled, his eyes wide with surprise. "Ah… oui, I believe he does, in a sense. Gilbert used him to carry letters… to…" Realization struck. "Ludwig, you aren't planning on trying to send that little thing over to Russia, are you?" The look in the German man's eyes was all the answer he needed. "Non. I cannot let you do this. Gilbert would be most displeased… he would not want you to endanger his bird…"

"I have to get word from him somehow, Bonnefoy," Ludwig said, hands clenching tighter for a moment. "And Lithuania won't carry them anymore… Russia isn't letting him anywhere near me at the world meetings."

"L'Allemagne(3), last time you punched him, and from what I hear, broke his nose. He has no reason to do you any favours."

A grim smile appeared on the German's face. "Bastard deserved it, and you know it," he said shortly. "But I don't care anymore, Francis. I haven't seen my brother in five years." The grip he had on the French nation was painful now, and Francis struggled to keep from wincing. "I'm going to get news from him, and I don't care what your opinion is on the matter. Gilbird is intelligent; he'll be fine. I just want some news. Any news."

"Can you not wait for a more diplomatic approach?" France tried to pull himself away, to no avail. "You are in no shape to anger Russia; your people and your country cannot take another war so soon."

Ludwig finally let go, and shook his head. "Ivan won't start anything with me. And even if he does, I'll have America to back me up. He's itching for an opportunity to fight with Russia too, in case you haven't been aware."

"I am quite conscious of the tension between those two, Ludwig. I just think that –"

But Germany was already striding out of the room, a good deal more purpose in his steps than Francis had seen in a long while. For a moment the blond hesitated, and then half ran after the other; Germany's long strides meant that they were in the hallway before the French nation caught up with him.

"Be reasonable, Germany –" He put a firm hand on the other's shoulder, tried to twist him around so they were face to face; his words were cut off by a yelp of indignation as Germany whirled and grabbed his wrist.

"Be reasonable?" The man's voice was dangerous, and Francis saw something unpleasant flicker through his blue eyes. "You're asking me to be reasonable? Need I remind you that you stood there and said nothing as they signed away my brother's nation? You didn't agree when England wanted to hand him over to Russia, but you didn't protest, did you? I was the only one who stood up for Gilbert; the rest of you crawled into your little hidey-holes and forgot about the man you called friend for so many years." With a snarl of disgust, he threw Francis away from him; the lighter nation hit the wall hard.

"Germany, I –"

"Get out of my house, Francis." Ludwig turned on his heels, and continued walking. "And don't set a foot past my door again."

Francis watched the other go, and only once he had vanished into a room at the end of the hallway did he allow himself to slump back fully against the wall, burying his head in his hands. It was a remarkably sober expression for the normally flamboyant, excitable man to be wearing.

La Prusse(4)… What you've done… it's killing him. I want to tell him… why this must be done… but my promise to you remains firm. For your brother's sake and sanity, I hope you really are alright over there…

Winter 1951

"It's going to be a cold winter this year," Lithuania remarked from his position on the couch. Prussia, who was lying on his stomach as close to the fireplace as he could get, made some muffled agreement.

"You're going to set yourself on fire, you know," Estonia said, glancing over his glasses at the white haired man. For once, an amused smile was twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"At least I'll die warm," Gilbert said back, twisting his head so that he could see the rest of the room.

It was one of those days when Russia showed that he possessed at least a percentage of humanity. The wind had been howling at the house for the past couple of days, and in a strangely charitable mood, the large man had declared that the four nations living in his house could spend their time in the living room – the warmest part of the house. Not bothering to question this, they had all instantly taken up the offer; right now Gilbert was trying to absorb as much heat as possible, as if he could somehow keep it with him for the rest of the winter. He idly played with the end of the scarf wrapped around his neck; while he hated the fact it was Ivan's way of laying ownership on him, the Prussian couldn't deny that it was warm. Though he made it a point to say how much he hated it whenever the opportunity presented itself, it had become a valuable asset during the cold nights.

"Any idea how the outside world is doing?" He cradled his head on his arms, and watched the three others in the room.

Estonia shrugged, momentarily putting down his book. "News is harder and harder to come by these days. We haven't had an invitation to a conference or meeting in almost a year." He glanced down at Latvia, curled up next to him, asleep. "We are being closed off."

Lithuania frowned slightly. "That's not entirely true… I can still talk to Poland –"

"Yes, because the cross-dressing nation who wants to paint his house pink is entirely reliable in giving accurate news," Prussia said dryly, rubbing at his scarred eye, a small smile appearing on his thin face.

Toris glared at the nation on the floor. "Just because he – what's that noise?" A brief lull in the winter wind allowed for another, fainter sound to come through.

Prussia lifted his head. "Something's… tapping?" He glanced towards the sole window in the room, currently tightly bolted against the wind. "Is someone out there?"

"Good god, I hope not." Estonia extricated himself from Latvia, succeeding in getting up without waking the other, and walked to the window, frowning slightly. He pulled the curtain aside, and peered out into the darkness and swirling snow beyond. "I don't think there – agh!" The nation jerked back from the window with an exclamation of surprise.

"What is it?" Prussia had gone to the effort to prop himself up on his elbows, and was attempting to see around the Estonian without actually moving.

"It's a – bird." Eduard didn't sound entirely sure of himself. "There's a bird. Sitting on the windowsill. In the middle of winter."

Lithuania raised an eyebrow. "Are you feeling alright, Eduard? Maybe you ought to lie down… there's no way anything would be flying around out there in that." He gestured to the storm; though it was quieter now, it was anything but calm.

Gilbert, however, had taken a sudden interest. He pulled himself up off the floor with a groan, and made his way over to the window. His gait was still slow, and he was very deliberate in his steps; despite having healed a great deal, the nation was still unsteady and prone to lightheadedness. He made a shield over his eyes so that he could see out past the light in the room, and a moment later, let out a sound of surprise.

"Gilbird!" Without any further explanation, he was suddenly trying to unlatch the window. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the cold metal latch.

"Let me." Estonia reached around him and flipped the lock open. Almost instantly, a blast of wind burst through into the room, bringing in swirling snow and an icy breeze. The fire guttered slightly, momentarily cowed by the ferocity of the storm. Something else blew in at the same time; landing in Gilbert's outstretched hands.

As Estonia wrestled with the window – now that it was open, it didn't seem to want to stay shut – the albino nation made his way back to the fire, sitting even closer to it now. He used the edge of his scarf to wrap up the tiny little bundle that had flown in with the snow, cupping it gently.

Latvia stirred, blinking blearily, and looked over the arm of the couch. "Why's it cold?" he asked fuzzily.

"Go back to sleep," Estonia murmured, patting the smallest of them on the head gently. "We'll tell you in the morning."

"Mmmkaaaay…"

Once the younger nation was settled again, Lithuania and Estonia turned to Gilbert, questioning looks on their faces.

"Just what exactly is a Gilbird?" Toris asked eventually, trying not to laugh at the name, as he stood up and made his way over to the fire.

"Awesome incarnate, just like me," the white haired nation replied, stroking the little ball of yellow fluff in his hands.

"Isn't that the bird that Germany had on his head at that meeting?" Estonia looked at the chick, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Gilbert grinned. "Seriously? West let him sit in his hair?" He laughed softly; and Toris couldn't help but smile. It had been a long time since any of them had had a reason for a sincere expression of happiness.

The albino nation finally pulled the scarf away, having sufficiently dried off the bird. In his hands, the tiny thing peeped affectionately at the master it hadn't seen in so very long. Another peep and some weak wing flapping, and Gilbert put the bird in its usual place on top of his head.

"Has West been feeding you?" Prussia poked the animal in the side, rousing a tired, indignant cheep from it. "You feel skinny. And why the hell were you flying out here in the middle of winter? Brother didn't send you, did he? Because if he did, I'm going to have his head for dinner when I get back…"

"What's going on in here?"

All three of them jumped, and turned to face the entrance to the room. Standing in the doorway, bottle in hand was Russia, looking them with an expectant expression. He took a few steps into the room, and his eyes found the yellow fluff ball sitting on Prussia's head.

"GDR. Explain." His voice hadn't gotten angry yet, and his expression remained more curious than anything.

"This is Gilbird," Gilbert said quietly, shoulders hunching as if to ward off a blow. "He's mine. You're not having him."

A long silence stretched. Russia lifted the bottle of clear liquid to his lips and took a long pull, wiping his lips as he let his arm drop. Something shifted in his eyes, something close to longing and pain, but it was gone before Prussia could be sure it had ever really been there.

"Нет, my little Democratic Republic. Hет." Ivan took another drink. "I will not take him away from you."

And with slow steps, the Russian removed himself from the room. The nations who were awake watched him go, blinking a little in surprise and consternation.

"Did he just…" Toris watched the Russian go, chewing on his lip. He hadn't missed that look in the other's eyes.

"He's drunk; I could smell the vodka from here." Estonia returned carefully to the couch, picking up his neglected book. "People don't change," he added, a bit too loudly, eyes narrowed. "Especially monsters like him."

Gilbert, who hadn't missed the suddenly interested look in Ivan's purple eyes, clouded by alcohol as they were, couldn't help but agree. Though he was glad to have Gilbird with him, he was suddenly aware that the bird's presence only gave Russia one more foothold.

---

"He's drunk; I could smell the vodka from here."

Ivan, leaning against the wall just outside the room, gripped the bottle in his hands just a little tighter, his knuckles turning white with the effort. He shut his eyes, tilting his head back to the sky, struggling to contend with a sudden strange lump in his throat. The feeling spreading through him… he had not felt it in a very long time. He couldn't remember the last time he had really felt anything but hatred and loneliness.

"People don't change."

It wasn't right to be standing here, listening to his family talk. It wasn't honest; he was supposed to be their authority figure, not skulk around and spy on them. The Russian bit his lip, his free hand tangling itself up in the end of his long scarf. Perhaps he should go inside and sit with them… have a normal evening, all five of them in the same room, relaxed and calm and laughing like they had been before he had come in, when it had cut off so harshly –

"Especially monsters like him."

The words made him freeze in the action of pushing himself away from the wall. Estonia's voice was hard and angry, and entirely sincere. Russia flinched, and tasted blood; he had bitten through his lip. He remained there a moment longer, listening to the four of them move around, chatting and joking like a normal family did, and felt something deep in his chest twist.

Without a sound, the massive man pulled away from the wall and continued down the hall. He slipped into his boots without much thought, one hand already on the door. It came open so easily under his hand that he nearly stumbled back. Cold wind raced into the warm entrance, running icy fingers through his hair, breathing snow down his back. Ivan shivered, but didn't hesitate.

The storm was still raging outside; though it had calmed momentarily, it had apparently found a second wind. The snow was nearly blinding, and Ivan stumbled through the dark, shielding his eyes and clutching to his vodka like it was a lifeline. He kept enough wit about him to remain close to the edge of the house, rubbing his shoulder along it as he walked.

Finally he came to the place that almost no one ever saw. Tucked away at the back of the massive construct, a place where the bricks sank inwards. The Russian stood outside it, hand pressing against the stone, head bowed. The wind snickered around his heels, trying to buffet him over into the drifting snow.

"Почему! Why?" With a shriek of anger that was lost in the sound of the wind, Ivan smashed the nearly empty bottle against the stone. The glass shattered, shards cutting deeply into the palm of his hand. Bright, hot pain lanced through him, and blood began to drip onto the snow. He hardly noticed.

Why does my family hate me? What have I done wrong?

With a whimper uncharacteristic of the large nation, Russia sank to his knees in the snow, dragging his forehead down the cold brick of the house. He clenched his hands into fists, staring blindly at the red now spattered across the snow in a brilliant pattern. Ivan shut his eyes, and unbidden, images rose from the back of his mind.

Toris screaming as the skin on his back was ripped open again, blood running over his skin, shockingly red…

… Shoving Latvia out the door on a night much like this and locking it behind him. By morning finding the little nation in a state that would have killed a human…

… Estonia writhing on the floor, screaming and sobbing, clawing at himself as his people died a fiery death…

… Toris's dead expression as he watched a train of his people headed for work camps… knowing that many would never survive the crushing cold and terrible conditions…

… Anger and pain as his own people burned, lashing out violently at the nearest person, hearing the resounding crack of a hand on flesh… watching Belarus's eyes grow wide with surprise and betrayal…

Ivan opened his eyes again, even though the wind hurt them, because it was less painful to have them open than to relive his memories again. He lowered his head into his hands, only to come in contact with a cold, sticky substance. Dead violet eyes flickered down, only to grow wide with something like horror to realize that his hands were covered in red, and now so was his face and his hair and no matter how hard he scrubbed in the snow it wouldn't come off…

Huddling back into that little indent in the bricks, escaping the worst of the wind, shaking uncontrollably… wishing it weren't so cold. Pulling out a second vodka bottle; burning sensations as he tried to wash his hands with that, a burning inside his chest when it did nothing. Taking long, desperate gulps of the liquid, hardly noticing the way it seared his throat, not liking the fuzzy sensation that settled over his brain; knowing it was better than sitting there and remembering, knowing, seeing…

And even though his shoulders shook, with cold or for some other reason, Ivan did not cry. He did not apologize, even to the wind, because the words never came out right when he tried (and he had tried). He hunched further in on himself, and though there was an agony searing through his chest that no amount of alcohol was soothing, no tears fell, because such a thing was alien to him. Because over all those years, he had forgotten how.

Because he was Russia, and their words weren't supposed to hurt him.

Spring 1953

The house was silent; Lithuania found it almost difficult to move through it, as if there was invisible molasses in the air, and he was sticking to it. The rest of the house was quiet at this hour; the two younger Baltic nations having gone to bed, and Prussia likely pacing in his basement room, the door firmly locked.

But despite this, Toris found himself padding down the hallway, bare toes cold even though it was spring. It was only March, after all, and the winter had been a long one. He wasn't much paying attention to where his body was taking him, and so found himself by their shared living room. Strangely, despite the fact that it was only the earliest hours of the morning, a low light was flickering; dying red and yellow colours stretching out pleadingly across the carpet.

"Um…" He poked his head around the door, all the while wondering just why he was doing it. Likely, it would have been safer to go back to bed. His eyes widened at the scene before him, and the feeling that bed was currently very safe increased tenfold.

Russia was sitting in the center of the room, sprawled on the ground, a pile of bottles sitting around him in no particular order. Currently his back was turned to the doorway, but just as Toris was about to pull away, Ivan turned around.

"You can come in, Litva," he said quietly. And for once, there was no trace of an order or a demand in his tone. He stared up at the other nation for a long moment, purple eyes slightly wider than usual, and more than slightly unfocused.

Toris sighed to himself – why did these things always happen to him? – and stepped into the room. His nose wrinkled at the smell in the air; apparently Ivan had been here for some time. He had to nudge a few bottles aside; they rolled into the darker corners of the room with sad clinks.

"Ivan," he said softly, looking down at the other. "Are you… alright?"

"'Course I am," the larger nation mumbled, staring into the fire with a smile pasted onto his face. "Why wouldn't I be? I'm better off for it…"

Toris frowned slightly, and without really meaning to, found himself crouching at eye-level next to the normally terrifying nation. There was nothing terrifying about Ivan now; he was drunk out of his mind, probably incapable of standing under his own power, and Lithuania was beginning to think a few more screws had come undone.

"I… Russia, even you can't be unaffected. It hurts, I know." Lithuania's hand shook slightly as he reached out, and his common sense was screaming madly at him why are you doing this are you mad he's going to rip your arm off and beat you with it you stupid excuse for a nation –

"They pass like snow. Pretty and fresh and new…" Ivan sighed, letting out a breath laced with the smell of vodka. In the corner, the fire – even lower now – glinted off the outline of the ever-present pipe.

"Yeah." Toris was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he was touching the other – his hand was on Ivan Braginski's shoulder, and it hadn't been forcefully yanked out of its socket yet.

"… and then it sticks around for too long; it gets dirty and tarnished and you see all its faults and you start to hate it…" Ivan took a swig from the bottle in his hand, hiccupping slightly. "But when it melts, you realize that you miss it and want it back because spring is even dirtier and there's nothing pretty about it…"

"Ivan… I'm sorry. I truly am." Toris moved a bit closer to the large nation. For a moment their relationship was not servant to master, but what it had once been; not quite friends, but with equal respect. Back before Ivan had lost what was left of his sanity – because he hadn't ever been quite sane, Toris knew. His past was bloody, violent, and it had done something terrible to his mind.

"There'll be another… there always is. I just want them to stop… fighting over it…"

For a while, only the crackling of flames filled the room; the fire spitting at them as it slowly lost momentum and heat. The light faded until only an eerie outline of Ivan's face, lit up with bloody red light, was visible.

"My chest hurts," he said suddenly, plaintively, and once again, Toris saw the child that Ivan had once been. "It hurts, Litva, and it won't go away…"

The slighter nation hesitated, and then tentatively wrapped his arms around his enemy; the man he hated with a passion; the man he was terrified to be near. He sat there with Ivan Braginski until the large nation began to nod off, when he helped him at least get to the couch, trying not to trip over vodka bottles in the process.

"Litva…" His eyes were dropping closed, words stumbling out over one another and hardly audible.

Toris, on his way out the door – so he could pretend this hadn't happened – paused. "Yes, Ivan?" he asked quietly, hand on the doorframe.

"… thank you…"

He wasn't sure he had heard correctly; but when he moved closer to the Russian, he found that Ivan had dropped off to sleep. Shaking his head, Toris reached over and lightly tugged the nearly empty bottle out of his hand, and tucked a pillow under his blond head. He took one last look around the room, and wondered why this didn't happen more often; why they couldn't be like this all the time.

The next morning when Ivan, hung-over and irritable, slapped him across the face for adding sugar to his coffee, Toris would remember exactly why.

Spring 1954

The atmosphere around the table was chilly. There was a definite divide between the countries – the eastern and the western halves of the world. The controversy was surrounding one of their number – a woman with an angular face, her brown eyes narrow and hands clenched into fists.

"So. We should probably get this… started." England seemed to have been designated as the one who would break awkward, tense silences. "As you all know, we're here to decide what to do about… Vietnam, in light of recent… ah… events."

"I don't need anyone to decide what to do about me," the woman snarled in her native language, crossing her arms. The movement revealed the bandages winding their way up her arms. "I know exactly what I want. Why can these stupid nations understand this?"

China carefully put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it, and sending an icy glare across the table, mostly directed to America. The Western nation was, for once, not indulging in hamburgers or soda. He was sitting just as quietly as the rest of them, face drawn and equally stormy. Vietnam shrugged off the comforting gesture, glaring at China with as much fury as everyone else.

"I'm not going to let you spread this Communist disease any further," the younger nation said shortly, glasses flashing. "It's done no good for anyone."

"I disagree." Russia steepled his fingers, leaning forward on the table, smiling pleasantly. The two superpower nations were, these days, almost certain to take entirely opposite sides on whatever issues arose. "My people are quite content with what this new rule has brought them. And I would ask you politely to not refer to it as a 'disease.' It is far more effective than your… capitalism. Or have you forgotten your Depression so swiftly?"

"I haven't forgotten, and I'm not going to do anything you say, you frigid assed –"

"Mon dieu, can we just get this over with?" France, leaning his head on his hand, had drawn his eyebrows into a frown. His hair was messy, and his clothes looked as though they had been slept in the night before. The involvement of his country in Vietnam's problems was taking its toll.

"You can haul your troops out of my business," Vietnam spat, half out of her seat. She was normally not so violently tempered, but there was a good deal of stress on her as well. The warfare had hardened her quite a bit. "You have no reason to be there. I don't belong to you just because you and your friends decided that at the end of the war, so get out." She slammed her fist on the table as she spoke, nearly upsetting Germany's coffee over his lap.

"Da, see? The girl knows what she wants, so I say we let her choose as she would. That's the good thing about our system… everyone is equal." Russia leaned back, his chair letting out an ominous creak.

"Yeah, equal to wait in line for food and starve. Don't you pretend that everything is fine and dandy, Ivan. I know your country isn't everything you claim it to be. Ever since Stalin went and kicked the bucket –"

Ivan's expression twisted. "I would advise you to shut your mouth, Comrade Alfred, but it makes it so much easier for me to rip your jaw off when you have it flapping open all the time."

Ludwig, who was sitting between the two groups of nations – an unwise move that he was now regretting – sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He, personally, didn't really care to be here. This was an issue that had nothing to do with him, and apparently all he was going to get out of it was scalding hot beverage in his lap in the near future. Beside him, Vietnam was shaking with the sheer effort of not screaming across the table, but it was only a matter of time before something gave…

"I think perhaps Ivan had the right idea. Why not just let her pick, aru?" China seemed to have learned his lesson, and was no longer trying to comfort a nation who clearly didn't want it.

"Oh, you would say that, you terrorizing bastard. Did you think I'd forgotten how you treated my people? Because I haven't, and you can just go shove your righteousness up your –" Vietnam degenerated into a series of unintelligible words, eyes flashing and dark.

"There, see?" America crossed his arms and offered the long haired girl a triumphant smile. "Clearly she wants nothing to do with the rest of you –"

"Don't you start with me, Alfred. You're just as bad as the rest of them! You and your idiotic Allies, who seem under the impression they can just sign nations away because they won a war!" Vietnam let out a derisive laugh. "Remember Prussia? You dissolved him and handed what was left over to Russia, because he was trouble. Remember Japan?" She ignored the stricken look that was appearing on the American's face. "Why not just do to me what you did to my brother, hm? It was such an effective way of preventing him from doing anything."

"I think perhaps we should conclude this meeting as soon as possible." Germany, speaking up at last, kept his voice quiet. For that reason alone, it was startling enough to get the arguing nations to look at him. "We are accomplishing nothing, and I have work to do. I'm sure the rest of you have the same." He was strongly resisting the urge to reach over and throttle Ivan at the moment. Not since he had sent Gilbird over to his brother had he had anything approaching news. He was beginning to wonder if Francis hadn't been right, and the little thing hadn't even survived the journey…

"Yeah, and I'm getting tired of seeing all of you here all the time." Switzerland, across from Germany, wasn't looking very happy with the proceedings. His concern seemed largely based on the worry that his meeting room wouldn't survive far into the immediate future. "So figure this out and get lost."

"We're here to work out a world issue, Vash, and you can't –" England started to talk, but the Swiss man just stared him down.

"I can, and I am. You're all hopeless when it comes to working something out, especially when you might have to give up personal stakes in the matter." A pointed look at Francis, who was apparently dropping off to sleep. "So stop nattering at each other over personal issues, and help this girl figure out where her life is going."

"I don't need –"

Germany sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers; this had nothing to do with him, and he didn't want to be here. He was tired of fighting.

Around his small island of exasperation and irritation, the meeting degenerated once again into yelling.

Summer 1955

He didn't look up from his desk as the door was nearly kicked off its hinges; his lack of reaction was mostly due to the fact that only one man would ever dare to enter in such a manner. The yelling of the two soldiers standing guard outside had been a bit of a hint as well. Those same soldiers leapt into the room, guns ready, in the wake of the white haired man behind them.

"Germany." His brother's voice was calm; but Ludwig had known the other too long, and could almost hear the strain it took Gilbert to keep it so.

He still didn't look up, though he did wave a dismissive hand at his two guards (not that he needed them… it was unlikely that Prussia was going to try and kill him.) "What is it, brother?" Germany didn't bother to hide the irritation in his voice; he was under a lot of stress right at the moment, and didn't want to deal with the albino and his issues.

"Look at me, brother." Still in that unnatural tone.

"Gilbert, I don't have time for this right now. Go and pester one of your soldiers if you want some cheap entertainmen – what the hell are you doing?" His sentence ended in a startled yelp as a gloved hand swept across his desk, knocking all of the papers to the floor in a white blizzard. Germany half stood, his blue eyes furious. "You ass, I need –" His words died as he caught sight of Prussia's face.

The albino's pale cheeks were streaked with tears; there were still some slipping from his eyes. He had a hunted look on his face, but that wasn't the worst of it. His red eyes, which Ludwig had rarely seen looking anything besides mischievous, were dark with rage.

"You stupid little fucker," the Prussian snarled, and before his brother could react, his hands had shot out and grabbed onto his collar. They were yanked almost nose to nose, and Ludwig found something inside of himself try to shrink away from that stare. "Has this war made you forget everything I taught you?"

"I – Gilbert, I don't know what you're –"

"Oh, don't you start that with me, you asshole. I thought we were brothers. I came into this war because you damn well asked me, not because I believe in any of your shitty Nazi dogma. And this is how you repay me? Keeping secrets, not telling me anything, leaving me in the dark all the time?"

"Gilbert, I really don't –" Ludwig's desperate attempt to get a word in failed.

"I'm older than you, brother; I'd like to remind you. I know things about warfare that would make your hair curl. And you always share information with your allies. Always."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Germany finally managed to finish his sentence, as Prussia heaved in air that he had apparently been forgoing to lambaste his brother.

"I'm talking about the fucking English Lancaster bombers that my chain of command just fucking told me about. And you know where they're headed, you thick headed –" His words failed for a moment, unable to come up with a suitable insult.

Germany went very still. He was speaking the truth when he said he had no idea what Prussia was talking about – but this didn't sound good. "Where are they headed?" His voice was suddenly a lot quieter.

Gilbert looked at him, and there was agony in his eyes. "Königsberg."His capital. The heart of his nation since the Teutonic Knights; since before Germany had even existed.

Ludwig stared back, his blue eyes empty with shock. "But – I –"

"Didn't think it was important enough to warn me, did you?" The anger was now less, but the bitterness was sharp and painful. "Your boss has you brainwashed. Let me guess. It's for the good of the nation, isn't it?"

"You have to believe me, Gilbert. I didn't –"

Prussia let go of him roughly, and Ludwig fell back into his chair simply because he was so surprised. The white haired man stared at him with a face that was suddenly alien in nature; sharp and angry and nothing like the brother he knew.

"I don't have to do anything, Ludwig. I've meant nothing to you in this war; you've made that very clear."

"Prussia, you haven't meant –"

"Remember Auschwitz? The other concentration camps where you're sending people to die? You told me they were work camps. 'Work is freedom,' yeah?"

"You can't –"

"I've had enough, Germany. I lost my taste for this war a long time ago, when I realized that my chances of surviving it were pretty fucking slim."

"What's that supposed to mean?" His face was still blank, not quite comprehending what had overcome his brother.

"Do you think there's room for Prussia in your new empire? I don't. It's for Germany. It's always for Germany. I'm just another stepping stone in your leader's lunatic vision. I'm the first nation he'll turn on if he wins; I've been through enough wars to recognize the signs."

Eyes still burning with that mixture of anger and pain, Prussia wiped angrily at his eyes, and turned smartly on one heel towards the damaged door. Germany raised a hand to stop him, but it was unneeded, as just before the door the white haired nation paused, back going rigid.

The next thing Germany knew was that his brother – the man who had helped him get this far, who had cared for him for as long as he could remember – was on his knees, screaming.

The sound was unearthly, but the German didn't waste any time scrambling out of his chair. The door, too, flew open, cracking the Prussian nation across the head. He slumped to the floor, but remained unfortunately conscious. Germany lunged for his brother, ignoring the frantic questions of the soldiers.

Prussia writhed under his hands, red eyes wide and blind, clawing at himself madly, ripping through parts of his uniform. Germany grabbed at his hand to try and stop it, but all the other did was arch his back, screaming even more, thrashing wildly on the floor.

"Gilbert!Gilbert, what's happening?" He wasn't even sure the other could hear him.

"Mein volk! Sie verbrennen, sie verbrennen!"Prussia's voice was hoarse, as if the air was being ripped from his lungs by some unseen force. His screaming became one long drawn out noise. Ludwig was quite sure he had never heard such a horrible thing in his life.

Eventually the screaming stopped, replaced by wet, poisonous sounds as Prussia hacked up black blood; it spread over the floor in a sinister pool, staining both his and Germany's uniforms. Ludwig didn't care; he wasn't aware of anything else as he sat there, supporting his shaking brother who didn't even know where he was anymore. When the skin over his heart began to bubble and burn under his uniform, the white haired man couldn't summon the air to make anything more than pitiful whining noises.

"This is my fault," Ludwig whispered, eyes dark, lost as to what to do. "I'm sorry, brother. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

He said the words until they ran together and lost all meaning, until Prussia collapsed into merciful unconsciousness, left side of his uniform dark with blood and melted to his skin.

With a gasp, Germany wrenched himself awake, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. His eyes were unnaturally wide, but the darkness in the room pressed around him malevolently.

"What the hell…" He pulled himself up into a sitting position, and clenched his hands to stop the trembling. It had been a while since he had dreamt of that day.

The bombing of Prussia's capital had been a terrible thing to witness; for days afterwards, Gilbert had said nothing. He had vanished from Germany's headquarters shortly after he could sneak away, and hadn't returned for some time. When he had, his hair had been grey with ash, his features haunted, and a new bitterness had grown in his heart.

Ludwig ran his hands through his hair, sighing deeply. He still had not heard from his brother, and it was beginning to worry him that he no longer looked up for Gilbird. He was already growing complacent. Ten years, and he was already starting to accept that Prussia was, for the moment, out of his reach, though not for lack of trying. Perhaps the other simply didn't want to talk.

With a groan – it was too early to be thinking such things – the blond man fell back onto his pillow with a thud. A moment or two later, and he had fallen back into an uneasy sleep.

This time, Gilbert was not bitter. He was not crying, and he was not in the least bit ready to forgive. This time, Ludwig knew, the albino had been pushed too far. And the worst part was, everything that the other was screaming at him was entirely true; he hadn't warned his brother, or his brother's people. And now they had paid the price.

The other merely fixed him with an empty red stare whenever Ludwig attempted to say anything. He didn't try to apologize; he knew that words meant little to the hardened warrior. Prussia wanted an action in compensation, and he was not in a position to gift his brother with the terrible revenge that he would expect.

He still received reports from the man – but eventually Gilbert came by less frequently. Eventually he stopped delivering them personally altogether, relying instead upon civilians. There were no soldiers to spare. Those reports were grim, clipped, and clearly meant to impart Prussia's exact feelings on the matter.

Finally, Germany had disobeyed his boss – for the first time since this war had begun – and gone to find Prussia himself.

What he had found couldn't compare to what he was expecting. The proud capital was in ruins; Königsberg had been utterly crushed by both the previous year's bombings and the Russian attacks. Gilbert himself was faring little better; Germany found him hiding in a hovel of a building, skinny as a rail, vicious as a dog, and his chest still looking like it had been freshly wounded.

"They've done it now," the albino had said, laughing softly as Germany propped him up in one of the rickety chairs and pressed a bottle of something strong on him. "They've gone and done it now."

For a moment, Ludwig wondered if this was why his brother hadn't come back – he had gone completely mad. "Done what, Gilbert?" he asked cautiously, half expecting the other to whip out a knife.

"Sealed their fate. I'm going to kill that Russian fucker and use his skin for a cape." Prussia laughed again, taking a swig of the bottle. Germany wondered if giving it to him had been such a good idea. "He's killed my soldiers and citizens, raped my women, and stolen everything of value. I haven't got anything left to lose in this war; Prussia is at your fucking service, Ludwig."

"Brother…" Ludwig stared at the other long and hard, a sinking feeling in his chest. Perhaps this was just Gilbert being Gilbert – perhaps he had been alone too long with the pain of his people. "Brother, what if I told you… that I don't want to… to fight anymore?"

Gilbert blinked owlishly at him. "What'dya mean, don't want to fight anymore? You always want to fight. I tried to pull that shit on you a year ago – three years ago – and you said no. You said it was for the 'good of the fatherland' or some sappy sentimental shit like that. I can't quit, you can't quit."

Germany sighed. "Haven't enough people died because of us, Gilbert? Because of me? I'm tired of killing. I'm tired of this war. What have we gained?"

"Psh. You don't fight to gain. You fight because that's what you have to do to get by. You fight because your boss is a fucking mental ex-artist with a retarded moustache. I fight because you tell me to. You ain't gonna tell me now that I've got to stop, not after this." He gestured vaguely out the window of the dirty hovel.

"But that's just it. Where does it stop? You get back at them, they'll get back at you, until both of you are beaten bloody and choking on your own pride."

Prussia had nearly drained the bottle, but he paused in his drinking at this. "You didn't feel it," he said softly, eyes burning with a light that Germany didn't hesitate to label mad. "You didn't feel my people as they burned. I did. And I won't forgive that."

"I'm not asking you to forgive it, Gilbert, I'm asking you to let it go, at least for now. And maybe you and I can get out of this war."

"Why're you suddenly using my name, by the way? For the past five years it's been 'Prussia this' and 'Prussia that,' and now you're calling me Gilbert. Something going on that you aren't telling me about? Well, more than usual, I mean…" Prussia squinted at him, voice sharp. "And next time don't bring me watered down shit. I need something stiff to get through this one."

"We aren't winning this war, Prussia," Germany said deliberately, folding his arms. It was painful to admit it. The second war, so soon after the first, with no change in results. All to help his country… and only managing to destroy it all over again.

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "I could've told you that last year, brother," he replied waspishly. "With Russia on their side, and you refusing to send me extra soldiers…"

"For the last time, it wasn't me, it was –"

"I know. I need someone to blame. You aren't letting me blame Russia, so I'm blaming you. Because it is your fault I'm in this war to begin with."

Ludwig wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to that. Prussia stared back at him with that strange look in his eyes; steeled and slightly insane. His brother had never been affected so badly in battle… but then again, modern warfare was, they were all learning, not like any kind of battle they had ever faced before.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I hate apologies."

"Just… can you let it go?" Germany leaned forward in earnest, almost pleading. Prussia watched him, red eyes unblinking. "I'm not asking you to forgive Russia… just let it go."

Gilbert's lips thinned and his grip around the bottle tightened slightly. "Fine," he ground out, looking away from Ludwig's blue eyes. "For you. For now."

"Thank you, brother." Uncomfortable quiet followed.

"We'd better clear out." This came from Prussia, muttered after the silence stretched too long and thin. "They do random sweeps; I've been moving every couple of hours."

"It's not like we can die." Germany's smile was thin and humorless.

"No. But I'd rather not see how far their creativity stretches, either." He carefully placed the bottle in his hand on the empty space next to the table.

Germany watched it fall as if in slow motion, turning over and over in the air. Before it could hit the ground, however, there was a deafening, concussive blast, and he found himself flying forward, thrown into the air by the sheer force of whatever had gone off. Prussia's mouth was open wide in what was probably a yell of surprise, but the younger brother couldn't hear anything, ears still ringing.

All at once the sound came back, as if the blast had momentarily sucked it away, and was now giving it back. There was a deep, rumbling boom, and while logic told Ludwig that it happened in seconds, it seemed to take minutes for the house to explode around them. He heard an outraged howl from his older brother, but by now dust and debris and smoke were blocking his vision, and he lost sight of the other. He could hear the endless stream of German curse words coming from somewhere in the wrecked crater that had been a house (not much of one) and he tried to follow them (try not to trip on anything).

"Gilbert!" He shouted the name, but smoke rushed into his throat and nose, and he choked. "Gilbert, where are you?" No answer.

Overhead, the warning shriek of shells continued.

Fall 1958

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Ludwig let out a long, low groan, and rolled over, trying to bury his head under the pillow. The one day he tried to actually sleep in seemed to be the day the universe was conspiring to get him up as early as possible.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Damn it, Feliciano, if that's you, I swear…" he muttered, blearily cracking an eye open as the annoying sounds continued. Pushing his bangs out of his eyes, the German man pulled himself into a sitting position. He took a moment to enjoy the fact that such a movement no longer caused him pain – his wounds from the war had disappeared.

He turned to glare at the only window in his room, prepared to see a chipper Italian tapping on the glass – and nearly fell off the edge of his bed.

Sitting on the windowsill was Gilbird.

Ludwig was on his feet and at the window almost faster than was physically possible. He struggled with the latch for a moment, his hands were shaking so badly, and finally managed to wrench it open – nearly smashing out the panes on the wall.

"Piyo~!" With its usual cheerful greeting, the little yellow fluff-ball hopped into the room, choosing to land on Germany's shoulder, which were shaking a good deal less than his hands.

"Gilbird!" His voice was hoarse, both from surprise and due to the early hour. "You came back!"

The chick peeped at him again, and then stuck out one of its legs. Germany nearly shook the poor thing to pieces when he tried to take the tightly rolled paper off – once he had, Gilbird fluttered to the top of his head, nestling in the tangled strands.

Ludwig made his way to the chair in the corner of the room, struggling to unravel the paper. It was a good deal smaller than he had been hoping – and it looked as though it had been written quite hastily, as if the person had been in a great hurry.

Brother –

Long time no see! Thanks for sending Gilbird. Meant to send him sooner; weather's been really bad, and I don't have much time for letter writing. I want to see you again. Going to try and get away after Christmas. 21:00. Not sure what day. That place we always went to before the war.

Gilbert.

He had to read it a few times before the message sank in. Eventually his hands lowered, and the scrap of paper settled on his lap. Gilbert was coming? For the first time, he allowed a little bubble of happiness to rise in his chest. It filled him slowly, with a warmth that he had been missing since the end of the war.

"I'll be there," he murmured, receiving a sleepy cheep from the bird on his head in response. Even if I have to wait every damn day, I'll be there.

Winter 1959

In the silent streets of East Berlin, a man was on the move. He flitted from shadow to shadow, quiet as the snow falling around him, and took great pains to keep out of sight of any windows. Occasionally his steps would falter, and he was stumble and have to catch himself against the nearest object. But no matter how bad the stumble – no matter how frequent they were becoming, he continued onward relentlessly.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was thinking of only one destination, and he wasn't about to let something like exhaustion and hunger to slow him down. The scarf that Russia had "gifted" to him was wrapped tightly around his neck and stuffed down the front of the thin coat he had stolen earlier in the journey. The red was still obvious, but the material was warm. And in the Russian winter, through which he had traveled, warmth was the difference between life and death.

In his boots, he knew his feet were bloody; they were ill fitting things, but he hadn't bothered to waste time stopping to look for better ones. Every hour he delayed brought Ivan that much closer to his position. So he kept running, taking the most obscure and winding routes he could think of. It was strange to think that, after all these days, Ivan could still be on his trail – but Gilbert couldn't shake the looming sensation that the Russian was right on his heels, and would at any moment reach out and grab his shoulder –

He glanced again at the watch on his wrist – again, stolen from an oblivious passer-by – and cursed softly. Nearly nine. He wasn't sure how long Ludwig would wait past the stated arrival time – and then there were still the border patrol to worry about slipping past. Pulling his collar tighter around his neck to ward off a sudden gust of wind and snow, the albino man pressed forward again, disappearing into the shadows.

---

Getting past the barbed wire border had been easier than he expected. The guards were sporadic in their watches, and it had taken him what seemed like minutes of observation to realize that no one was watching his particular section at the moment. After that, it had been relatively simple to get through to the other side – hell, he had gotten out of Russia's house earlier, without the Russian's permission; anything was easy compared to that.

West Berlin was blanketed in a silent white shroud. The streetlights shone off of it, and for a long moment, Gilbert simply stood in the shadow of one of the buildings, looking at it. A wave of nostalgia swept over him; tainted by just the barest hint of anger and jealousy.

Why do my people not have this? He wondered silently, hands clenching in his too-long sleeves. Why are my people robbed of this life, when we didn't even start this war…? Gritting his teeth, the albino shoved these thoughts as far away from himself as he could. He had promised that he would let go. That he would forget, if not forgive. But sometimes it was difficult, in the darkest hours of the night, huddling in his freezing mockery of a room –

With a mental snarl, the Prussian pushed himself away from the side of the building, and stumbled off down the streets. As he drew closer and closer to his destination, he made sure to slow his steps, to even out his breathing – everything had to look like it was normal, that he was fine, had been allowed to come here. He curled his toes in his too-tight boots, and forced himself to walk without a limp. There wasn't much he could do about his newfound thinness, but he had always been scrawny, and could probably just bluff his way out of that one.

The letter had been his largest worry; he had given up a good deal of his already meager food to make sure that Gilbird would be as fat and fluffy as ever when he arrived at Ludwig's house, so that the other would think nothing was wrong.

There's nothing the matter. Everything is fine, he repeated to himself silently, as he stepped through the wrought iron gate and into the dimly lit park. He had chosen this for a reason, so that Germany might not see the strange, pale cast to his scarred eye, or the new shadows that lined his face. Russia is an ass, as expected, but I'm doing fine, he isn't hurting me, he hasn't done anything, his food is just shit and I'm sick of paperwork…

Keep it meaningless, light, and superficial. Because he knew if Ludwig tried to dig to the bottom of what had been happening for the past years, he would discover new depths to darkness – depths that Gilbert was determined to shelter him from for as long as possible. I have forgotten, I have let go, I am not clinging to anything…

So focused was he on his internal thoughts that he almost missed the only other figure in the park. He glanced at his watch again, and realized that he was a full two hours late. Hesitantly, he moved up towards the other, trying to pick out features to see if it really was Ludwig. His halved vision made such a task difficult, and again he cursed whoever had given him that particular injury.

But his worry was short lived – apparently he hadn't been as well hidden as he had first thought, and the figure on the bench stirred and looked directly at him. Blue eyes grew wide, with surprise, disbelief, and joy all mingled in one expression.

"Gil –" Emotion made his voice hoarse and strangled as the other man half stood from the bench, heedless of the snow that had gathered on his shoulders while he had been sitting there.

"Long time no see," Gilbert replied, forcing a smile onto his face. He was already regretting this meeting.

Germany hesitated a moment longer, and then he was on his feet and running. He crossed the gap between them in moments, and wrapped his older brother in a bone crushing hug. Gilbert remained unresponsive for a moment, almost unsure how to react, before his arms came up, and despite himself, he was burying his face in Ludwig's shoulder, hugging back as tightly as he could.

"I've missed you," he whispered; in the silence surrounding them, the words seemed so much louder.

"I've missed you too," Ludwig replied roughly. He wondered to himself when Gilbert had gotten so thin – he felt as if the other would break in his grasp if he squeezed hard enough. They stood there, under the trees, trying to press the memory of the other into themselves through sheer physical contact. Around them, the snow started falling softly, filling the world with a soft, superficial silence.

"Ok… enough hugging now," Gilbert said at last, voice muffled by Ludwig's coat. "I haven't hugged you since you were… good god, I don't even remember."

Germany laughed softly. "We were hugging goodbye, brother," he said back, unable to remain bitter about it. His doubts were pushed away – Gilbert was still Gilbert; skinnier or not.

"Oh." The word felt flat and sour in his mouth, and suddenly their contact became awkward.

The two of them gradually pulled apart, and simply stood there, staring at one another. Gilbert couldn't help but notice, with a twinge of jealousy, that Ludwig was looking stronger and healthier than he had before the war. Not to mention that he was pretty sure he had gotten taller – Gilbert didn't remember having to look up this far at him before their separation.

"You're looking well, brother," he said eventually. "I'm glad that you haven't starved yourself to death pining over my absence." You should have been. It was a bit of a struggle to keep the accusation out of his voice.

"You're looking skinny, Gilbert. Are you eating enough over there? Russia isn't keeping food from you, is he?" Ludwig was painfully aware that he sounded like an overprotective mother.

"Eh." Of course I'm not. You know as well as I do what Russia's like. And you know how he and I felt about one another well before the end of this war. Prussia waved a hand noncommittally. "You know how it is. We're all a bit pinched for food right now… especially under his government system. So disorganized they couldn't even sell milk, if they had it." It was official. This meeting had been a bad idea.

Gilbert loved his little brother to death, he really did. But he hadn't survived as a nation as long as he had based on charitable feelings alone. There was some streak of self preservation still within him that was demanding to know why he had to suffer, when the real cause of the war was standing right in front of him, right as rain, with that stupid, uncertain smile that he had no right to be wearing.

The other half of him was trying to shove those nasty thoughts as far away as possible, so as not to spoil their first reunion in over ten years. It was proving to be a surprisingly difficult struggle, and a moment that should have been sweet was being tainted with bitterness. In the time he had spent wrestling with himself, the silence between them had once again become awkward.

"Are your injuries healing up?" Germany was looking down at him with that worried expression on his face, brow furrowed.

"Psh. Like they would have kept me down for long," Gilbert said back, stretching his lips in a parody of a grin. "They're fine. Between me and Lithuania, we managed to clean me up pretty well." This part, at least, was true. His injuries had scarred over – and while his left side was covered in hard, raised ridges and whorls of shiny scar tissue, the only trouble it have him was stiffness in the cold of the morning. His eye hadn't improved much; everything was still a dark, indistinct blur when he bothered to try and see.

"Russia hasn't been hurting you, has he?" There was a sudden hoarseness in Germany's voice; he had been tearing himself apart with worry over what was happening to his brother on the other side of that barrier.

"As if I'd let that asshole so much as touch me," Gilbert sniffed, acting offended at the mere thought that Russia could ever lay so much as a hand on his awesomeness.

Germany didn't buy it. "Gil… I'm serious. He hasn't done anything to you, has he?"

The fading bruises under his jacket twinged at the question. The soles of his feet, bloody in their boots, suddenly hurt. Gilbert was briefly consumed by an irrational desire to tell his younger brother everything that had happened; to cling to him and beg him to bring him back home – and to demand why he hadn't done that already.

"… He pushes me around a bit, yeah," he muttered finally, looking away. "It's Ivan. That's what he does. But it isn't like he's holding me to the floor and raping me." Yet, anyway. "I've got a couple of pretty spectacular bruises, but that's mostly because the bastard refuses to salt his sidewalk." And because of that stupid fucking pipe that you gave him. "But enough about me. My life's fine. All in order. My chicks are, as they say, in a line."

"Speaking of chicks…" Germany grinned, reached up to his head, and pulled down the ball of yellow fluff that had been hiding in his hair for the past few hours. Gilbird cheeped loudly when he set eyes on his master, and fluttered from Germany's outstretched hands to Gilbert's.

"Gilbird!" The joy felt fake. It was. He had wanted Germany to keep his pet. Russia had, so far, not made any moves to do anything to it… it was only a matter of time.

"Nearly scared the hell out of me when he got here. I thought he was Italy tapping on my window." Germany laughed, having missed the flash of disappointment that had crossed Gilbert's face.

The albino carefully reached up and placed Gilbird on his head. Despite the familiar eight, he still felt out of place; and it wasn't just the rapidly cooling blood in his boots. This wasn't turning out how he had thought it was. He wasn't, obviously, as well adjusted to his separation as he thought he was.

"How're you doing, Ludwig? You look less like road-kill than you did last time I saw you. How're the people?" Gilbert couldn't meet his brother's eyes; he didn't want the burning coil of resentment in his stomach to shine through his eyes.

Ludwig sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, brushing the gathered snow off. Gilbert seemed intent on keeping this conversation in the depressing category. "The people… are getting by. They're still reeling. Hell, I'm still reeling. They're not sure what to do just yet… but they're getting past it. My Berliners are very upset about the division."

Your Berliners. Gilbert's hand clenched into a fist in the pocket of his coat. They're mine too, Ludwig. "Well… you can't really blame them."

"I don't."

"Good."

The funnel of silence surrounding them in the falling snow suddenly seemed oppressive. Gilbert rubbed his arms, glancing over his shoulders. Though he was beyond the border, on the West side – he couldn't shake the feeling that Russia was still behind him, following him with those slow, measured steps of his. The wind was suddenly cutting, and he shivered unconsciously.

"This is awkward," he said eventually, shoving his hands back into his pockets. He looked up at Ludwig, and saw that sad truth reflected there as well. It had been a long while, and it was as if there was something in between them.

Germany sighed, and copied the motion. "Yeah. Has is really been that long?"

This time Prussia's smile was genuinely painful. "I guess it has. Thirteen years is a long time."

"A very long time."

Both of them looked in opposite directions, two shadows in the park; a caricature of lost potential and emotion. They had never been very good at expressing feelings – and it seemed that was holding true.

"Why'd you do it?" Germany's expression was suddenly pained, and he shuffled his feet, creating drifts in the snow.

"Do what?" Prussia's voice had a slightly sharper edge than he had intended. Great job. Way to lift suspicious. Truly you are the epitome of subtle.

"I heard rumors before it came into effect, you know. They weren't ever talking about you. It was about me. They thought you had just gone along with it."

Oh. Shit. "England and France have wanted to get rid of me for a long time, Ludwig. This provided their excuse to do it."

"France didn't seem like that after the meeting. He stormed out as quickly as he could." Germany reached out, and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You have to stop trying to protect me, brother. I don't need you to anymore. Just tell me. Why'd you go?"

Gilbert looked up from the snow, and his red eyes were filled with a strange mix of feelings. "Because they were going to send you," he said at last, the words spat out as if poisonous.

Something inside him seemed to freeze. "… And you took my place?" His voice was soft, and even in the darkness around them, it was hard to hear.

Gilbert looked away again, and shrugged off Ludwig's hand off of his shoulder. "What would you have done?" he mumbled, turning away. "They were going to take you away. I promised when I found you all those years ago that I'd never let anything happen to you." Honestly, I'm surprised Francis didn't tell you. Usually he has problems keeping his mouth shut."

"I kicked France out of my house over a decade ago. He kept coming by, and it was creepy." Germany's chuckle was only slightly strangled. "So he never got the chance."

"That would do it." Gilbert's smile was, for a moment, reflected in his eyes. It faded quickly, though, leaving his red eyes dimming again.

"So… you just did it to… save me?" Germany came up behind him again, and the hand was back. Gilbert wished he would stop doing that. "There wasn't any… other reason?"

"Should there have been?" He turned his head, dead looking eyes narrowed slightly.

"Gil… you weren't exactly… normal." It was difficult for him to get the words out; admitting your older brother and role model had momentarily lost his mind. "At the end of the war, I mean."

"Oh." Gilbert shrugged, ignoring the tugging sensation it caused up his left side. "That. No. It wasn't about that." He paused. "It was never about that." At least as far as you're concerned, Ludwig.

"Good."

Sighing, the albino man leaned back, allowing himself to rest his – insignificant – body weight against the pillar that his brother seemed to have become.

"I'm sorry about this," Gilbert said eventually. "I didn't want this meeting to turn out this way." They had spent what seemed like forever, standing there in the snow. He didn't feel the cold much anymore. The blood in his boots had solidified at last; his socks were sticking to their bottoms.

"We'd have to be extremely optimistic to imagine this going entirely happily," Ludwig murmured back, wrapping his harms around his older brother. For a moment, he felt like he was the older of the two – it didn't help that Gilbert was so much skinner than he had been before the war.

"Yeah, that's us," the shorter said, half smiling. "Two optimistic peas in a pod."

"Mmhm."

This time, as they stood there, watching the snow swirl down to gather on the ground, the silence wasn't tense with things left unspoken. They were comfortable standing there – two brothers who hadn't seen each other in a long while, surrounded by darkness and flickering park lights.

"Thanks for coming," Ludwig murmured at last, resting his chin on Gilbert's head. "It's the best New Year's gift I've ever gotten."

"It hardly beats the lingerie that I bought you when you turned eighteen." The albino chuckled weakly.

"It's less mortifying, at least. And less pink."

"You didn't answer my question, by the way." Prussia closed his eyes, sighing heavily. "I want to know how you're doing, without my awesome presence to keep you young."

He felt Germany shrug more than saw it. "I'm doing better. I'm not… lonely, exactly. Feliciano comes by as often as Romano lets him, and America seems to have taken to dropping by recently. The house seems emptier, though."

"And Apache? He's adjusting well?" Why did the conversation sound so fake and superficial to him – as if they weren't really talking about anything of significance?

"Your wolf? He's fine. More than fine. He eats all my food and he's still hungry. Sort of like someone else I could mention."

"Shut up, you. He's a husky, not a wolf."

On his wrist, Gilbert heard the faint beeping of his watch. His brows furrowed, and with a great deal of reluctance, he pulled himself away from his brother. Germany grunted in surprise at the movement, but didn't try to tug Prussia back. The albino turned and looked up, and sighed.

"I have to get going, Ludwig," he said at last. I've been here too long, and it's only caused us both more pain.

"… Alright." The concession was clearly made with reluctance, but Germany, too, could sense the distance that was between the two of them now; he didn't want to try and force Prussia to stay. "Will you try and get back again, sometime?"

No. "I'll try. No promises." His grin twitched slightly. "I'll send Gilbird along with the message if I'm going to come."

"Ok."

"… Well… I guess this is goodbye. Again." He shuffled his feet uncomfortably; he had never been good with the whole emotional parting thing.

"Take care of yourself, Preußen," Germany said softly. "I'll find a way to bring you home soon."

"That would be…" Gilbert couldn't think of what to say. It would be nice to be home… but he wasn't sure what would happen if the barrier came down; if there was no longer a clear division between East and West Germany. "… Awesome." His trademark grin appeared again, though this time even Germany could tell that it was slightly forced. "You take care of yourself too, Deutschland."

Gilbert stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Don't let this country go to ruin without me, brother," he said, laugh slightly strangled. "And I haven't forgotten that promise of beer for when I get back."

"Of course not." Ludwig fought to get the words around the sudden tightness in his throat. "I'll see you again soon, Gil."

"Soon," his brother agreed, nodding.

And like that, he was gone. Stealing away into the darkness, scarf fluttering behind him; a red accusation directed right at Ludwig. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and the German man found part of himself regretting the meeting. Ten years was a long time, and both of them had changed. There was something different about the other now; a new coldness and a new distance that hadn't been there before the separation. Something else was there too, though Ludwig wasn't sure if he had seen it or merely imagined it; something lurking.

"Don't do anything stupid, Gilbert," he muttered, staring at the vague shape that he could still see, moving silent and swift down the street. He watched until he couldn't see his brother anymore; until the sky started to lighten and the snow was thick on his shoulders – as if by simply looking, he could bring the Prussian – the last Prussian – back into his sights.

Summer 1961

Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop…

He was curled in the corner of his room, hair plastered to his forehead. Prussia's eyes were shut, wandering wildly beneath his lids as his forehead burned and his body felt like it was being torn apart.

What the hell is this?

It had started not too long ago; a strange feeling in his chest, as if his heart were being chewed to pieces. Now that sickness had spread, and his entire body felt like it was being pulled and tugged. His people cried out in misery, but he didn't know why. Russia had refused to let him out of this room for some time, and he damn well knew it was something that Ivan had cooked up.

He was hardly aware of the door opening, of the footsteps that crossed the room with a measured pace, stopping next to him. The metal pipe poking him in the side, when all he wanted to do was to be left alone, got his attention. His eyes cracked open, slivers of red shining brightly; too brightly.

"This is an interesting reaction." Ivan smiled down at him, his violet eyes filled with a sadistic glee.

Prussia turned his head enough to spit at the other. "What the hell have you done, Russia?" he rasped, opening his eyes just a bit further. Even in the cloudy, sightless one, fever burned brightly.

"I've made sure that you won't leave me," the other said, smiling in what he probably thought was a cheerful way. To Prussia, who could barely focus on the other, it merely looked twisted.

"Screw… you," the albino groaned, his words drawing out as a sudden stab of pain shot through his middle.

"Now, now. That's no way to talk to your savior, little GDR. I've made sure that you'll never fade."

A sudden chill spread through Gilbert as he heard those words. Somehow he found the strength to shift enough to face the Russian fully. His eyes were filled with a strange rage now, sweat beading on his brow. His hands reached out, and before Ivan could step away, Prussia locked his fingers onto the edge of his coat. Using the Russian as prop, Gilbert hauled himself into a standing position. He had to stand on his toes, and still barely reached Ivan's eyes.

"What. Have. You. Done?" His grip spasmed, and he nearly fell; Ivan stumbled slightly, eyes wide with something that was close to alarm.

Russia put a hand on Gilbert's chest and shoved – the other lost his tenacious grip and staggered back into the wall. "You'll never leave now," he said softly, moving until he had the other pressed right up against the cool stone. "You'll be a member of this family forever, GDR." That sick, twisted smile appeared on his face again. "And now… I can do whatever I want to you, Gilbert. Now the rest of the world won't know." His words ended on a giggle.

"Just spit it out, you smug bastard… what've you done to me?"

Russia leaned in closer, in such a way that Prussia found he couldn't flinch away without outright dropping to the floor. "I've made the barrier permanent," he said softly. In the ringing silence that followed, he might as well have shouted it.

"… What?" Prussia's voice came out hoarse, and his eyes widened. The sickening sensation in his heart grew.

"I've made sure that you'll never get out to see your beloved West again, you ungrateful little fool." Ivan laughed softly. "Physical punishment is hardly enough to… make an impression on you, GDR, you've made that clear."

The scars, still raw, on Gilbert's back ached at the comment – Russia had been far from happy when he had returned from his secret meeting with Germany. Hours bought in blood and pain and a chill in his heart that had yet to fade. But even as he stood there, his knees growing weaker by the second, something bright was burning in his stomach; a little tiny coil, innocent enough at any other time.

"I've built a wall, GDR. A wall to keep you here with me forever, away from the rest of the world."

Prussia felt his shoulders start to shake in a detached sort of way, as if it was happening to a stranger. A pounding began in his brain, a thudding that beat a tattoo on the inside of his skull. Everything was tinted red; red like fire and Communism and the blood of his people as it ran through the gutters of his ruined capital. He could hear a strangled, rasping sound coming from somewhere, and it took a moment to realize that it was him, and that he standing there, pressed against a wall, and that he was laughing, and laughing, and it was grating on his ears and sounded like the laugh of a madman.

"Stop it." Russia's order came as if through electrical fuzz; muffled by the pounding in his brain; the drums of war, the blood running through his heart, the building rage of his people. He saw more than felt the punch delivered to his chest; heard the cracking of his ribs in a detached sort of way. "Stop laughing!"

His mouth was filled with thick liquid, and everything was redredred, and he could see his capital burning as his brother did nothing, saw his people murdered and raped by Russians and left discarded in the snow like so much trash. He spat it in Ivan's face, because he had been waiting for so long for a chance, and now he had been handed it by his own worst enemy. And even as the darkness closed around his vision, and the red faded to black as Ivan grabbed his head and smashed it against the stone, Prussia was laughing, blood running down his chin, blood to match the red of his burning eyes, the violence burning in his heart, and to feed the tiny coil of glee that was growing in his stomach.

They were apart from the world; blocked off by a wall of stone from the sight of the world, and more importantly his brother, who couldn't make him keep his promise of there was such a barrier between them because he wouldn't know.

And as Gilbert sank to the floor, head bloody and ribs cracked, his only thought was of revenge.

---

(1) "Damn!"

(2) "You will not win, Ivan…"

(3) Germany

(4) Prussia

---

A/N: Hey guys~! I'm still here! And this is why you've had to wait so long for this chapter - nearly 16,000 words worth of story! That's... kind of really huge. Probably the longest bloody chapter I've ever written.

If the conversation between Germany and Prussia wasn't as heartfelt and tender as you might have expected... well, it was sort of meant to feel really awkward. I dunno. It was probably the hardest scene for me to write out of this whole thing.

Also! I'm a regular participant in NaNoWriMo, which takes place in November. As such, I probably won't be starting Chapter 8 for some time. Hopefully this will tide you guys over for that period. I may try to update, but I can't promise anything.

Writing a drunken Russia was the most fun I've had in a really long time... the poor dear. XDD

As for the ending... well, I wanted to do something different with this fanfiction. Can you believe the entire reason for writing Soluble was for that two-page scene? Yeah. I have problems, evidently.

If you've read this chapter, please review! It means a lot to me! If you're looking to know if I'm updating, feel free to PM me!

Ok. Enough author notes.

Have an awesome Halloween!

~ Pheleon.