Something bad is in my laundry … Do I just keep it!?

Ah, daily labor. Germany's conflicted with this one! On the one hand, my brother's childhood took place in the middle of a boom. Railways striped the continent, electricity would soon be installed in homes, and Romantics were eager to demonize industry and science — sometimes literally. My youth was spent next to an iron brazier, wearing whatever tunic wasn't blood-stained and huddling up to other men for warmth. Germany saw an age of household radiators, factory-made clothing, and so much modesty he didn't care to hold my hand in public! My blood runs in his veins, and my thoughts in his head. He knows of efficiency, of sweat, of Prussian punctuality — working day in and day out — never being satisfied, and endeavoring to be the best he can be.

At the same time, an efficient man gets things done quickly and has far too much leisure time. Old Man Fritz built himself a whole-ass castle in Potsdam for it, and Germany wasn't dumb to the days when my voice was all hoarse from screaming orders. I don't blame him when he says he envies Italy's sunny cliffs. When it comes to melting under strong sunlight, his best friend is shameless.

The Wars happened. Angsty teenage Germany tried too hard to get recognized. (Honestly, saying you don't need hugs and then feeling deprived of hugs is not my problem!) Tomato boxes were opened. Skeletons pumped out propaganda. Antics were committed in bunkers. A base was built on the moon. Germany got the Allies' boots in his mouth. And finally, despite the durians stinking up our post offices, Deutschland is a peaceful and wholesome place.

My point is, I really didn't want to do chores today.

"I want you to clean the bathrooms and do the hot load of laundry. That includes folding it and putting it away. After my meeting, I'm picking up—"

"A Black Forest cake!" I squeal.

"What are you, a kid? I'm picking up Brötchen and things to make soup. We have a new recipe to try."

I pout my lips. "Brötchen. Brötchen. In Berlin, we called them Schrippen. Where's the Rhineland mushroom troll making you say Brötchen?"

Germany reaches out to wipe some glitter off my shoulder. "Do you need any snacks or personal items?"

"Black Forest cake sounds pretty good."

"I'll get you some cherries and Kirschwasser, and you can bake your own cake. How's that?"

My pout grows even poutier. "It's better when you bake it."

"I'm not baking it. You have enough sugar downstairs."

Satisfied that he's trumped me, Germany sidles out into the garage, and I hear the whirring of the BMW taking him out to his fancy lunch meeting.

I slump on the couch, wanting to put some more heat between my atoms and melt into a pudgy Prussian puddle, but the butter knife threatens to take over my body if I don't get on those bathrooms right away.

"A-zip, a-zop, a-zippa-zoppa-zoop. A-zippa-zoppa-zoopa hairball!" I sing to myself as I go downstairs to clean out my bathroom first. I frown when I reach the empty towel cabinet. A sodden wad of washcloths sags on the floor of the tub. I can't fold them nicely until they've been washed and fluffed. I bend down and scoop them up in my hands, then concentrate some intense thermal energy between my palms, quickly vaporizing the water and whatever else is soaking up the fibers.

I toss them out into the main room of the basement and turn my attention to the toilet. It definitely needs some diligent scrubbing! I'll just get that eco-friendly cleaner Germany bought and the toilet brush… toilet brush…

I can see the dotted line flashing where my toilet brush should be, just under the sink. Did a wormhole schlurp it away during the week? I've had problems with wormholes schlurping things up. Razors, TV remotes, car keys, belts, wallets, gummy bears. Those tricky warps schlurp them all.

Pretty sure it's Italy eating my gummy bears when he comes over.

"The round face club, the round face club. All the best people in the round face club," is my ditty for running back upstairs to check the other bathroom for a toilet brush. Germany likes things done in order! First bathrooms, then laundry! He'll be more pleased if the laundry is still going when he gets home than if I'm still scrubbing the schitter.

I throw myself under the sink to check. Alas! No toilet brush! I'd say the universe is fooling with me, but nowadays, I'm the one fooling with the universe! What could've possibly happened to the toilet brush? To both toilet brushes? Did the dogs do something with them? I rush up to check under Germany's bed, but it seems Aster's content with her chewy bones this time around.

"General Gilbird!" I holler. A flurry of yellow feathers comes zip-zop-zooping up the stairs to perch on my head and give a wingy salute.

"Major T. Brusch has gone AWOL. I demand an immediate search of the perimeter. Question everyone."

My number two, (number one being myself,) nods his beaky head and zooms off to find the dogs' hiding places. Meanwhile, I feel the tingly pressure of my buttery responsibilities heating up again and head back down to my bathroom. If there's no toilet brush, I'll have to compensate. And by compensate, I mean summon someone else's toilet brush and use that one.

Just as I can wormhole myself to Vienna in relatively one piece, I can also wormhole objects to myself. I just have to position the far opening so the object falls into the hole rather than being schlurped in. Otherwise it twists and tangles the space-time too much, and Germany gets pissed that the chocolate tank I exploded gets the street all messy and ends up on the news.

I sit on the toilet, (lid down, you weirdos,) and close my eyes, visualizing the perfect essence of a toilet brush — its ideal counterpart to the actual, residing in Apeiron. I reach my hands out into the darkness, searching for the physical form of this perfect essence. Thought and form come closer and closer together, until they're touching. Gravity leaves my body, and I'm floating in the void, sensation reserved only for toilet brushes. I sense them all around me, hundreds of them, spread all throughout the neighborhood. In my mind's eye, they flicker and flare like glowing torches amidst blank, gray nothingness.

I pick the closest one. It's in Frau Froemming's house. I can hardly believe she owns such a bacteria-infested object. She must disinfect it. I'll have to remember to do that when I'm done using it. I am a gentleman, in a spirit-of-chaos kind of way.

My mind's eye circles it, zeroing in on its location. Then, with it pinpointed perfectly, I withdraw and begin pushing and pulling space-time to create my wormhole. The yards crease. The houses squish together. The bathrooms interconnect. I fist my hands, then splay out my fingers, opening and stretching each end of the wormhole to the width of the brush. Small tremors rock the floor beneath my feet. This has to happen fast, or I'll knock out the city power again, or even get my ears transplanted onto my knees. I'm always afraid that will happen.

My mind's eye is being overloaded, but in the vastness of it all, I know the brush is wiggling. Wiggling. Ach, closer now! Not much time left! There! It fell! I heard a swoosh! Yes, yes, something's coming through the wormhole! I can feel it!

Something soft and pink shoots out of the bubbling distortion on the wall. It slaps me in the face and lands on the floor just beneath the toilet. I look down, wrinkling my nose. Is this a toilet brush, or…

No.

Gott, no.

This, this, this does not belong here. I should not be looking at this. This is just, just, ACH! SCHEIẞE! EEEAEAAGHGH!

A high-pitched scream bursts from my throat, and I kick the bra so hard it sails in a perfect arc over into the bathtub. Then I rush out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, and sink into a state of shock over the whole affair. My pale skin goes completely magenta, and my white hair stands on end. I'm so mortified that my mind hardly registers the butter knife seizing control of my body. I've cleaned both bathrooms sans les toilettes and am working on folding those socks when Germany comes in with his Brötchen… Dang it, mushroom trolls! They're called Schrippen!

"How was the meeting?" I ask. My voice is mechanical.

"It was excellent. My boss is pleased with my health form and asked no concerning questions about the state of your health. I also considered your volunteer work last week and put in an order at the bakery for a Black Forest cake. You can use my card and pick it up tomorrow at nine."

This catches my attention, and I jolt. "Wow, thanks! I can taste it already! So creamy and sour-sweet! Nonexistent may be delicious, but there's no beating corporeal!"

"Prussia, what is that you're holding?"

"What? Oh… OH!"

Rising up out of the laundry basket is the bra. My face pinking again, I stuff it under socks and scramble to the counter to get a squirt of hand sanitizer.

"I summoned it on accident! I was trying to find the toilet brush, and I-I couldn't find it, so I tried summoning one from next door, but I can only see the toilet brush, not the stuff around it, so I summoned this instead, and I was so freaked out I washed it with the rest of the stuff!"

My chest is heaving. Germany just looks at me with this humored micro-smile. He must have had a really good meeting.

"Don't tease me!" I plead. "It was an accident! It's Frau Froemming's! Please help. You know I won't look at it! It's sinful to set eyes upon a woman's undergarments! I only washed it because the butter knife made me! Please, Germany! I don't know what to do!"

"It's Frau Froemming's."

I nod, then lean on the counter and bury my face to avoid the inevitable lecture on using my powers for household chores. My cheeks feel all sticky. I might be melting in embarrassment.

But Germany starts to laugh. It's a laugh I love. So deep and resonant, like rain on a timpani. I lift my eyes to see him switching between myself and the laundry basket. His cheeks are as pink as mine!

"You can't give it back to her. You can't even drop it at her doorstep. She'll know it was you who took it," he says.

"I know! And you can't give it back for the same reason! What do we do!?"

"Can't you send it back the way it came?"

"No, no, never. I was a godly man once. I believe in marriage. I won't look at it. Even if I did look at it, I'd probably fuse it with her bathroom wall by mistake. Oh, this is horrible!"

Now the dogs bark at the door, accompanied by General Gilbird. Germany lets them in. Blackie and Berlitz hold a pair of dirty toilet brushes, and Aster has what looks to be one of the dozen John Mayer CDs I put in a place where Germany would find it.

"You big bad doggies buried the toilet brushes? Causing my big brother such pain? Come here. Time to punish you with hugs."

Blackie hates hugs. He starts growling the instant Germany picks him up and sits him on his lap on the couch. But while he's distracted with this, opportunity seizes me. I rush from the counter to the laundry basket, where years of horseback battle allow me to scoop up the bra midflight and ride on past the sliding door. I find the deepest of three holes and stuff it down there, covering it up with dirt and grass. A few tears leak out at such discourteousness to the lady. Maybe I did learn a thing or two from Austria, but I'd rather honor my principles than get myself into a bigger mess with the neighbor.

Maybe I'll splurge and spin the globe a little faster to get that cake.

~N~

As a reminder that Prubo is only a ladykiller in his dreams and ours. (Last time I summoned him, he was like, "Really? You want ANOTHER hug?") Brötchen and Schrippen are just two names for bread rolls, the third corner of the German trinity. Ach-men. The Black Forest cake is rumored to be from Bad Godesberg, near Bonn, not the Black Forest. And yes, last week a Bavarian post office was evacuated because of durians, and an overflowing chocolate tank made a "sweet street" in the town of Werl.

Updated by Syntax-N FanFiction . Net 29 June 2020. Reposters cursed.