A/N: Oh my goodness guys, I'm so sorry! I'm two weeks late with my update. This chapter is the Hungarian Revolution. The "Freedom Fighter" was actually the Time magazine's Man of the Year for '63. Unfortunately, the revolution failed. I'm sorry to all the Russia fans out there, I'm really putting him in a bad light in this story. This chappie gets a little more violent.

Thank you to all the readers who've reviewed and favorited! You guys are the best. 3

"Lizzy?" Gilbert's voice was soft, but still it echoed down the cold hall. His pale hand rested on the cold knob of the large wooden door. It was stubbornly stiff. Elizaveta had locked herself in.

"What is it?" Her voice seemed oddly cheerful. Gilbert rattled the doorknob harder. He needed to talk to her. As he was wandering around earlier, Gilbert had heard shouting coming from a corridor. Usually, those corridors were as silent as tombs. He had located the source, a huge red door he recognized as Russia's office.

Russia had been yelling loudly. On the phone, from the sound of it. With his limited (but awesome) Russian skills, Gilbert only understood a fraction of what was being said.

"No…Hungary…revolution…kill rebel leaders…regain control. Fuck!" Something was wrong in Hungary. He had to save her, Russia was hurting here he was, in front of her room.

"Are you alright? Please open the door!" Gilbert raised his fist to bang on the door, but it flew open and he toppled inside. Elizaveta caught him by the shoulders and beamed up at him. The smile on her face caught him off guard. She hadn't smiled in years.

"The most amazing thing has happened!" She was practically quivering with excitement, and her iron grip was starting to hurt. "My people are free!"

Gilbert knew the ecstasy that came with liberation. Millions of your people, suddenly rejoicing and filled with a love of life, freedom, and new hope, it felt good. Countries were known to run amuck with their population. Crashing parties, going on reunion tours with their friends, and for once, the fact that they were a nation was not a secret. After Fritz had freed him from Austria, Gilbert distinctly remembered running through the streets of his capital, hugging people and exclaiming, "I am an AWESOME nation!" He got some strange looks, but they mostly smiled and agreed with him.

Elizaveta let go of his shoulders only to wrap her arms around his torso and tuck her head under his chin.

"Congratulations." Gilbert said, slightly shell-shocked from the contact. No one had touched him in a long, long time, especially not Elizaveta. She wriggled like an excited puppy, and he awkwardly put his arms around her. Her joy was contagious. He felt a light blush spread across his cheeks, and he buried his face in her hair to hide it. It's been much too long, he thought, and held her tighter, quietly rejoicing with her.

The door opened with a bang. Now Gilbert had seen Russia angry. His smile was sickening, his entire being oozing a strange cocktail of sweet fury. He would dole out his punishments calmly, all with the same fake grin plastered on his face. Maybe it was genuine, maybe he took pleasure in watching others suffer, Gilbert wasn't sure.

All he knew now was that Russia was practically vibrating with hatred. His larger-than-life frame quivered. The temperature dropped in the room as Elizaveta looked over Gilbert's shoulder, still as a corpse in his arms. Russia's purple aura reflected in her eyes, wide as saucers in her moon-white face. His mouth was a hard line, and he looked every bit the feared Soviet Russia. Prussia had never seen him like this.

"Hungary. Come." When she didn't move, Russia lunged for her and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her face to his. Gilbert was shoved out of the way. He tripped over his own feet and landed with a thud on the floor. Russia held Elizaveta in a death grip, one hand tangled in her long hair and the other around her throat. One thumb pressed tightly against her windpipe, cutting off her air.

She turned her head away as much as she could, and shut her eyes. Russia pushed closer, his large, sharp nose pressed against her white cheek.

"No," Elizaveta managed to choke out. Her eyes found Gilbert on the floor, and he could see the fight in them, even as they started to lose focus from lack of oxygen. "I'm not afraid of you." The words, the last of her breath, were scarcely out of her mouth when the wrinkle of defiance between her brows relaxed and she lost consciousness.

Russia scooped her into his arms as gently as a father.

"See Gilly? This is what happens when you are naughty. Papa does not like misbehaving children." He smiled sweetly, the image of a caring patriarch, but the angry fire lingering in his eyes told a different story. Soviet rule was not up for discussion. If you were a part of his "family" of stolen countries, you were occupied, and you obeyed.

"You fucking commie bastard!" Gilbert roared, lunging at Russia. The soviet nation sidestepped and a boot shoved him back down with ease. Gilbert's thin frame fell suprisingly hard, and he winced in pain. Russia let go of Elizaveta with one arm to take a swig from a canteen at his side. Gilbert paused when Elizaveta shifted dangerously in his arms at the sudden movement. Russia's violet eyes widened. He lowered the bottle and slowly wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Ahh," he half-sang, "what if I-" He let go completely, and Elizaveta fell to the ground, her head cracking against the floor. "-do this?" Gilbert exhaled sharply, pushed himself off the floor to his knees, and started to get up. Russia stopped him with a sharp kick to the ribs. He cried out and curled in on himself, still keeping his eyes on Elizaveta.

"That's adorable, comrade. You care about her!" Russia's smile was like the desert sun, bright and deadly. "I shall tell her when she wakes. It is good to have friends who care about us, da? That is why we have family. You are lucky to be part of such a large one." His expression was thoughtful as he continued to look at Gilbert. "Bad things happen when we do not appreciate the things we have." He turned on his heel and carried Elizaveta out of the room.

Gilbert pushed himself to his knees again, an arm tenderly holding his throbbing ribs. He reached into the corner, under a regulation gray bedstand, and felt around for Ludwig's package. He pulled gently on a string, sliding it out. The solider's knots gave him a bit of trouble, even though he had tied them himself. His fingers were almost frozen, and the pain radiating from his middle kept breaking his concentration.

Finally, the string fell away, and he lifted the lid. The smell of leather brought a smile to his face. It had been a while since he had seen his brother. He hadn't even worn this nice coat he'd bought him. He'd been too afraid Russia would take it away. It seemed like wherever the Soviets went, they took all the good things. The things that meant the world to people. Their food was rationed, and one can hardly celebrate or have a family dinner with canned meat, slimy vegetables and two tablespoons of sugar. Cloth was taxed. All the bright colors that used to hold tradition and meaning faded into rags from overuse. Wherever Russia went, he left behind a backwash of gray despair.

Gilbert felt the brilliant yellow wool, the fabric soft and warm between his chapped fingers. This was home. This was Ludwig. This was the West, a magical place where you could afford leather. The place hopeful young men disappeared too. They risked everything to breach the Wall, to get a better life. Gilbert was left behind with their mothers, sisters, and daughters. After all, he was their guardian. He was east Germany. He had to be there for them.

He slipped the jacket on. It seemed even larger than when he had first tried it on. Gilbert wrapped it around himself, snuggling into it.

If he closed his eyes, he could see the living room of their house. The exposed wooden beams stretching across the ceiling, the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace. Gilbert could see Ludwig making wurst in the kitchen through the open double doors. He paused in his cooking to take a swig of the good German beer on the counter next to him.

Blackie, Aster, and Blitz were curled up on the rug. Aster got lazily to his feet, and wandered over to Gilbert on the couch. He put his head in his master's lap and looked up at him with his big black eyes. Ludwig had a very firm rule about no dogs on the furniture. Gilberts glanced into the kitchen, not bothering to move from his comfortable position. His little brother had disappeared from view. He craned his head to see Ludwig with his head in the icebox, oblivious to everything. Gilbert smiled and patted the space beside him. Aster understood and jumped up. He stretched out, front legs and head resting on Gilbert's lap.

Gilbert smiled at the memory, and shivered as a draft blew through the unheated room. He leaned against the wall, petting an absent dog. His breaths deepened and his head lolled to the side. He was safe in dreamland, completely unaware of the country being forcibly put back under Soviet rule in the next room.