East Germany limped over to the wall. He knew without looking at a watch that he was very late. The sun shone bright and cold, hovering directly overhead.

"Must be around noon, then." He muttered to himself. He had told Ludwig he would meet him before he left for work. How many hours ago would that be? Gilbert didn't bother to count. He just focused on putting one foot in front of the other, his vision still slightly blurry.

He reached the cold cement barrier and collapsed against it. He cleared his throat and was about to call out to Ludwig, hoping against all odds that he was here, when his brother beat him to it.

"Gilbert!" He raised his head wearily to the small crack. An impossibly blue, very worried eye was glaring at him. "Gilbert, I can't see you." Good. He didn't want to be seen.

"Hello to you too." He didn't bother to keep the bite out of his voice. What the hell was he still doing here? He was probably on his way to turning into a Ludwig-sickle and freezing to death. That would be really un-awesome.

"Gilbert, is everything all right?" Ugh. Stupid worrying little brother. For someone who couldn't see that his best (and only) friend was in love with him, he was pretty observant.

"Ja. 'Course it is. Why wouldn't it be?" Maybe he'd get embarrassed and start talking about the weather. Gilbert licked his split lip. Nope. Ludwig could not see him right now.

"I don't know, maybe because you're currently under the control of Russia?" Jesus, where had his sweet little brother picked up that sarcasm?

"He's…he's not as bad as people think he is." Ach, his jaw hurt…

"Okay then. Anything new?" Ludwig obviously didn't believe him, but he wasn't pressing the point. Gilbert blew a sigh of relief, his breath making a little cloud in front of him. Which reminded him…

"Hey Luddy?"

"Hmm?"

"You know how I told you I was fine?" He heard Ludwig shift on the other side of the wall.

"Yeah?" If his brother thought he was going to get a heartfelt confession of the hell his life had become, he was dead wrong.

"Can I have a cigarette?" There was the distinct sound of face connecting with palm.

"I quit." Gilbert pouted. Of course he had. Ludwig was a goody two shoes. Always had been, always would be. Except when he was starting world wars…No. He had promised himself that he wouldn't think about that. That was all Hitler, right? Right. He and his little brother weren't exactly innocent, but they sure as hell hadn't started anything.

Humans were certainly screwed up creatures. Yes, they were his lifeblood. Without his people, he was nothing. But why did they have to be so cruel to each other? And now that more of them were claiming to be "German" or wishing they lived on Ludwig's side of the wall, Gilbert was growing weaker. He was East Germany, and nobody wanted to be East German. He didn't really blame them.

"I suppose I could bring you some." Ludwig said haltingly.

"Really?" Gilbert wasn't sure if his shiver was one of gladness or of cold.

"They are bad for your health, you know."

"Where'd you get that?" So now his brother was a health-nut?

"They make you cough terribly, and there are studies now saying that they can really hurt your lungs. Permanently. They might be connected to cancer."

"That's ridiculous! Bruder, you know I'm still immortal, right? Nothing can hurt this awesomeness." He hoped, anyway. He had hardly been able to drag himself out of bed that morning. In the past, his wounds had healed in a matter of hours. Now, they wouldn't go away. They seemed to be getting worse.

"Gilbert, you sound a little hoarse. Are you getting sick?" Gilbert rolled his eyes. No, I just got dragged down the hall by a collar around my neck, thanks to that psycho-nation's screwed up ideas of "teaching."

His little brother didn't need to know that, no matter how much Gilbert wanted him to. Ludwig was happy thinking that Gilbert was fine, no matter how much he doubted it. His little brother was in the process of convincing himself that all was well, and Gilbert was doing his best to help him. No insane Russians were going to get in the way of Ludwig's happiness. What good would it do? It wasn't like his little brother could come save him.

"I'm fine." He muffled a cough. Gott, this weather was starting to get to him. He could feel the snow seeping through his pants and the rough surface of the wall digging into his sore back. Did any part of him not hurt?

"Don't push yourself, you should probably go back where it's warm." And where would that be, dear brother? In Soviet Russia, heating is for the weak. Gilbert was growing tired of Ludwig's parental worrying. HE was the older brother, dammit!

"Okay. Well, bye." He stood, and grabbed the wall for support. His teeth chattered alarmingly.

"Take care of yourself."

"I will," Gilbert said through clenched teeth. By God, I'll try.

In the old days of empires, rulers listened to their countries. They were high officials, leaders of armies, and always, always their leader's right-hand-man. Heck, even the girl countries were respected, and that was saying a lot. All that had changed.

Leaders regarded their countries with a mixture of wariness and power-

hungry greed. They were just something else to be controlled. Presidential candidates tried to get close to them to get the country on their side. They were no more useful than a weird caricature of the population.

How do the people feel about this?

Can you sense a terrorist?

With the constantly changing leaders, most never took the time to learn exactly what their nation was, and how he (or she) worked. Most, especially America's for some reason, assumed they were super heroes.

Gilbert sorely missed his kings. He watched them grow, from cradle to crown, from crown to tomb. Worst-case scenario, they understood and respected each other. Best case? Old Fritz. He had been his teacher, his partner in crime, and his best friend. Frederick the Great had handed him glory on a bloodstained silver plate engraved with Austria's coat of arms. Nothing compared to him.

He trudged back to Russia's house, hands fisted in his pockets. His coat was thin, and didn't much in the way of blocking wind. A slice of cold air around his left-side ribcage when the wind blew let him know that there was a tear of some sort. All he could think, as his stomach complained, his throat burned, and his head throbbed, was "the higher you climb, the harder you fall." Didn't that fit his life perfectly?