With heaps of thankyous to SpadedHeart and Artemis1000, without whose lovely reviews this'd probably be another month in coming!
The first time he'd seen Romano after the war had been during the next world meeting, some time after the surrender of Japan. Both were pale and gaunt, one because of a ravaged nation, the other because of that and the heavy reparations forced upon him by the allies. Spain, still uncharacteristically serious, stuck close to Romano's side as thought waiting for his once-ward to collapse. Ludwig tried not to think about the empty space next to him, or about memories of Gilbert's special brand of nursing.
'Aww, you had a nightmare? C'mere, kiddo. Don't worry, the nightmares won't dare come after you when the awesome Prussia is here! Hey, you wanna hear a story? How about the time I awesomely chopped this one soldier guy into a million little bloody pieces? Kesesesesese!'
'Aww, has mein poor little Luddy got an unawesome stomach-ache? You wanna know the best cure for a stomach-ache? Bier! Er- but not til you're maybe twelve, ok? Here, d'you want a strawberry cake to make you feel better?'
He sat through the meeting in silence, never once meeting anyone's eyes.
The end was signalled by England throwing a book at America's head and a good deal of nervous muttering about Russia and Cuba's quiet talk in the corner. Ludwig waited for everyone to leave, feeling awkward standing in their presence. He might be thinner and a little sickly, but he was still taller than most, and it just didn't feel right to remain towering over their heads when his people were grovelling at their feet.
When the conference room doors finally clicked softly shut and the space fell into cheap-carpet-muffled silence, he raised his eyes to the level of the table and began methodically, carefully packing away his things from top of the pile to bottom. Meeting notes. China's proposal for trade agreements. France's notice about a new blight to certain apple crops. Meeting agenda. Spare ruled paper. Spare graphing paper. Folder with previous notes and fact sheets for reference. A lightly tanned pair of thin, long-fingered hands.
Ludwig paused with his hands still holding the two that had appeared on top of his binder. He blinked. He raised his head. Romano stood before him, leaning over the table, a slight smirk quirking his fire-chapped lips.
'You know, I usually like to throw around a little flattery or two before I move on to the touching. I have a certain reputation to maintain.'
Ludwig dropped the calloused, manicured hands (and didn't that just fit; during the war his intelligence had reported that South Italy had an odd penchant for working in ancient rural farmyards while wearing an angora sweater and tailored trousers) as though they'd shocked him. Romano scoffed.
'What, now I'm not good enough for you? Bastard.'
Ludwig almost cracked a smile.
'Whatever, the cabbage patch freak left these with Spagna a long time ago and forgot because he's an idiot. I'm spring cleaning his house and he's got enough fucking stuff already, he doesn't need your damn clutter as well!' And with that, Romano hauled up a big old shopping bag from the floor, dropped it heavily onto the table, and strode quickly from the room, Spain collecting him halfway through the door with an arm around his shoulders and a heavy-eyed, indecipherable look back at Ludwig before they disappeared down the hall. The doors swung slowly shut.
He reached out for the bag with trembling hands and pulled it closer, not caring that he was rumpling his papers, and stood to peer inside. His throat closed up. On top of the pile was one of Gilbert's oldest blue uniform coats, cleaned and pressed with the red cuffs and lining as bright as ever and the gold buttons polished to a brilliant shine. The corner of a spotless white cravat showed just under the stiff collar, and a note was carefully pinned to one sleeve.
Spagna'd dig out his pirate costume and they'd play dress-up, running round my towns and terrorising my women.
Tucked under the sleeve was a small stack of photos, all showing Prussia and Spain in their 18th-century uniforms- joined in a few photos by Romano in normal clothes- striking poses, leaping off town walls, dancing through fountains, bowing and kissing the hands of delighted elderly women. In every photo they were laughing like children on their happiest summer days, grinning wide enough to overtake their faces and cavorting like the world had never been so bright. Romano, standing between the two with their arms slung over his shoulders in one and frantically trying to push away a puckered-lipped Prussia in another, looked just as happy, though trying to hide his smile.
Ludwig reverently set the jacket and photos aside, and went back to the bag. Next was a beer glass with a mess of illegible etchings, another note taped to it.
He said he was making you a beer glass with a German eagle and some quote from his 'Alte Fritz' for your birthday but he forgot he has no artistic talent, so he and Spagna got drunk with the thing instead and it rolled under a sofa.
Now that he looked closely at it, he could sort of make out the shape of body and wings. Maybe in better light he'd be able to make out which quote Gilbert had intended to give him. The photo tucked inside the glass was of Gilbert and Spain passed out on Spain's sitting room sofa, sprawled over each other with mouths wide open and both inexplicably clutching stuffed toy sheep to their drool-dotted chests.
Further on in the bag was a number of books, a few shirts and hats and gloves, a papier mâché wurst, quill and fountain pens Ludwig actually recognised, a bound booklet of cake recipes, a small Prussian flag that had been scribbled on to give the eagle a moustache and a silly hat while the white background was covered in handwriting he knew to be Gilbert's, Spain's, France's, and occasionally Romano's; in the bottom was an antique beer stein stuffed full of little fabric scraps embroidered with black eagles and yellow chicks and Teutonic crosses and horses and little blond boys which had apparently been left sometime in the 1600s.
Each object had a note delicately attached, giving him an explanation of the item and a Romano-style (rude and sarcastic, subtly gentle and always witty) peek into one side of Gilbert's world he'd never really been a part of. Most had photos. The clothes all carried an image of Gilbert wearing whatever it was, usually in the middle of some comical exploit. The wurst had a photo of Gilbert and Antonio laughing together at a majestic wooden kitchen table, covered in glue and scraps of tissue paper.
Between the pages of the books were pictures of Gilbert in a quieter state, one Ludwig had rarely seen except when they were home alone on early mornings or mellow evenings. Lounging in a bulky library chair with an old book in his lap, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. Standing at a kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up and arms powdered white as he pressed his hands into a deep bowl. Sleeping on the floor before a fireplace under a quilt patterned with the shared German and Prussian eagle, his hair tufted in every direction and a pile of happy dogs draped over his stomach. This last photo was on its own, and, scribbled on the back under the original caption of the date, was a pencilled note reading 'quilt's still here, wouldn't fit in the bag, dogs won't leave it alone and I'm not getting bit by his fanclub for the sake of spring cleaning so you'll have to wrestle it away from them yourself!'
Uncaring that he was in the open conference room of a popular hotel in a foreign city, Ludwig clutched the Prussian uniform coat to his chest, buried his nose in that warm-cold scent of mulling spices, northern forests, leather, and iron that had always lingered around his brother, and cried for the first time since the war ended, a smile unwavering on his lips.