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This is what they do today: Sit together on the grass in Tiergarten and attempt to enjoy the noonday sun together. They eat sausage with mustard, not speaking.
But try as he might, Germany can't classify the silence as companionable. They ought to be relaxed, happy, like the many families and students picnicking around them. Like their people are right now, at peace and optimistic for the future.

Instead, they are tense. Distracted. They have already quarrelled twice about petty things on their way here.

It was just too goddamn unfair, Germany thinks, that he can never feel at ease around his brother. Other nations manage perfectly well. Veneziano and Romano bicker all the time, but they can eat, sleep and do other silly Italian things together without a second thought.
The North American brothers? Why, they've even invited Germany to some of their movie evenings. If all else fails, they can make peace through their shared love of waffles with syrup.

When it comes to Germany and, what is technically also Germany these days but he'll beat you up if you call him anything except Prussia... Anyway. They, Germany and Prussia, never really figured out how to be family together, especially not without the presence of alcoholic beverages.

So they can go drinking together. That's fun, but it becomes a bit repetitive. Also, Prussia can imbibe enough to make Germany worry about the long-term effects on whatever poor suffering part of East Germany that had the misfortune to be mapped on his liver when they last redrew the borders.
Germany has always been a bit fuzzy on which areas, exactly, their internal body-parts represent. But if he ever visits that particular spot, the poor bastards living there are likely owed a large apology.

They can discuss the other countries of the world, sure. Usually even agree that they're all a bunch of wankers, honestly. They can work together, go to war together. Though it's damned frustrating to try and get anything done, except quickly acquire a hangover and a new set of enemies with Prussia around. Although... that does seem to be a trend in many families, so perhaps this is one area where they are not abnormal?

But, still, that intangible closeness, the slightly unnerving sense of understanding that most siblings share? That, they lack. The ease, the trust and comfort that comes from having known each other for so many years; that too is hardly ever present.

As the years stream by and the world changes with dizzying speed, Germany has come to miss it more and more. Increasingly, he finds that he tries to shift the blame onto someone else. Wishes for that unknown person to explain what happened and where it all went wrong, when before it hardly bothered him.

Usually, Germany knows, younger brothers don't dissolve their older sibling's countries-cum-provinces. Make themselves independent, start a war or thirteen, grow up and swallow their brother-father's province into a new country, yes... That's common enough. But completely dissolving the country that raised them? No. It is bound to have some detrimental influence on their continued relationship, Germany knows, but god be his witness that he has tried to make things better since then. Tried, and utterly failed most times.

Perhaps, Germany thinks in his darker moments, it's because Prussia never knew how to act with someone he did not plan to, sooner or later, invade. Or is it because Germany can't really remember what it was like to be a real child, like all the other nations he knows?

According to Prussia, it's because he was such a muddle as a kid. And, well, honestly Germany only needs to open a history book to understand exactly what he means. Still, it feels as though someone has taken a great chunk out of his past and try as he might, he can not fill in that hole. And Germany has tried to fill the emptiness inside, for so many years...

Whatever the reason, it's difficult for them to be brothers.

He's tried, Germany has, and he is pretty certain that Prussia has too, from time to time.
For one thing, he didn't kill Germany and pick any of the other young statelings to raise in his stead, even when Germany sided with Austria in a fit of teenage rebellion. Although he sure made the younger nation wish he were dead a couple of times, before he brought him home. Soundly defeated and definitely loyal to the ideal of a German empire, as Prussia had envisioned it.

He even, after that whole dissolution mess, stayed with Germany and helped him with the war against the Allies. Although how much of that was because Prussia saw it as an opportunity to regain his old lands and become a real empire again, Germany hasn't asked. He has no plans to, either. For reasons as obvious as they are numerous, they don't talk much about those decades.

In fact, they don't talk much about serious topics at all these days. The thirties, the forties... no. Before that, hell, who wants to relieve the depression or the first world-war? And that whole iron curtain mess, the damned wall, why would he ever want to bring that up?

It only makes Prussia bitter. He looks deeper into his glass and Germany sits there with his tongue like a floppy dead thing in his mouth, utterly useless. He tries to pretend he does not see the hands that clench so hard that they are trembling or the way that Prussia refuses to meet his eyes for the rest of the evening.

Prussia meanwhile ignores, or hasn't noticed, the tic beneath his eye that always occurs when Germany remembers those paranoid days. Nor does he acknowledge the way he keeps patting his brother's shoulder, as if to make sure he really is there.

They used to have early history as a topic, before. When Prussia boasted about his conquests and Germany listened. First it was with an awed shimmer in his eyes and later a slightly cynical quirk to his mouth, because after a while he had heard the other side of most stories.
Still, they would make plans together. For the future, for the great empires that were to come. Germany knew in his heart that one day they would surpass even the mighty Rome...

They didn't. Although when he can't sleep at night, he sometimes stares at the ceiling and reflects that they have probably managed to end up in at least as many history books as Rome. Just not the same kind of books.

No. Germany doesn't dream of empires any more. If he does, it is only the sweat-soaked kind of dream that you wake up from with a choked scream throbbing in your throat.

Neither does Prussia seem to dream about the return of such grand days. Instead, he is strangely content to merely go on and deal with events as they happen upon him. His latest project is to build up Berlin again, but even that can only hold his interest for so long.

Germany fears for the future, when not even his brother's indomitable spirit will be enough to stop the slow process of unification and assimilation that is happening. Even though he knows he should work harder to even out the differences between Easy and West sometimes, he discovers time and again that he just can't make himself.

Let them remain "Ossies" a little while longer, Germany begs the god who has never looked favourably at him or any of those living in his lands. Let me keep my brother, he asks, at least until I figure out what to do with him!

God, it appears, has not yet had the last laugh at his expense.

For as the years slip away, Germany realises that the brotherly relationship between Prussia and him is more awkward than ever. And then, maybe because he is fighting himself and straining to stay as two when he ought to have longed to become one, whole, his mind has... slipped. Twisted.

For so long, Germany dreamed of nothing more than being noticed and approved by his brother. Then he grew up. Even if the desire left his conscious self, he strove always to go beyond, to become more. Until his brother stood in his shadow, until he towered over Prussia and all the decisions about their future were in his hands.

And then he broke him, broke them, and nothing could ever become like it should be again.

Today...
Prussia's hair is white as snow these days; he claims it is from the stress of dealing with the west. Germany fears it is because so few chains of duty ties him down now, that they can't even fill him with the hue of his native soil.

The blood-coloured eyes add yet another touch of the unnatural to his presence. More than one human has turned away from his grin, chilled despite the mild spring air but unable to articulate what unnerves them so.

Germany's fingers have begun to ache with desire to bury themselves in that hair, though he does not know if it is to stroke it softly or grip it hard, twisting and pulling until Prussia begs for mercy. Foolishness. Prussia doesn't beg for mercy. He spits and claws until he is beaten down into the dirt and then he plots revenge.

Whenever those eyes lock on someone else, he silently despairs. When they land on Austria or Hungary, the skin around them softens into familiar lines of exasperated laughter and he fights down the desire to force them to look only at him.

In his brother's laugh, he can hear the shadow marching of a triumphant infantry that tramples down all resistance. In his brother's hands, every glass of beer becomes the toast of victory - whether the one already won or the one that is only an illusion hovering on the other side of a muddy field matters less.

When Prussia's ire grows, Germany hears the screech of the black eagle in every curse he utters and he knows that those empty fists long to hold a sword again. Sometimes, he almost wants to hand him one. Just to admire the carnage and face the glorious joy afterwards. Perhaps he will be allowed to share it, to turn those bloodstained fingers gently towards himself?

Twisted. Turned in on himself, warped into something disgusting.

What would he hear, Germany thinks when the night is long and sleep is lacking, what would he see if he visited his brother in the dark? What kind of being does Prussia become, naked and unarmed, in the moonlight?

How much would he allow Germany to do and how much would he take for himself?

Utterly twisted, perverted, wrong. But...

"This is dull. Dull, dull, duuuuuull. I think even Roderich knows how to have more fun than this."

"But we are enjoying the sun and the spring," Germany tries.
He also used to think these things were uninteresting, but spending time with good-natured Italy has persuaded him otherwise. He still nourishes a faint hope that he will be able to show Prussia how pleasant peace can be, but so far he hasn't managed very well. "Don't you think it's nice after a long winter?"

"Bo-ri-ng."

A deep sigh. "Alright. If we buy an ice-cream, will you be less bored?"

"Ahn, I guess so. Hey, we could play football afterwards! I bet Sadiq isn't that far away, we could totally kick his ass, eh West?"

"Two against one isn't exactly fair, brother."

"Fair-schmair. But what the hell, bring over that idiot brat who doesn't even know what football is-"

"Do you mean Alfred?"

"-and let's kick both their asses. Come on, man. It'll be a lot less boring than sitting here and 'enjoying the fucking spring' like some pansy-ass Austrians!"

Germany rises with a mock-frown, follows his energetic brother. They try in their own ways, day after day, and it gives him the strength to go on. Even if he is twisted, he has not yet broken.

Prussia turns to him and grabs his arm, yanks it hard though the smile on his face is beaming, as innocent as an old killer can ever be. "Come on, slowpoke, race you to the ice cream!"

Not yet.

-------------------

Throughout the summer, Germany watched his brother with increasingly conflicted feelings. He tried to bring him out to do things, together, so that they could become true brothers. Not like before, no. He wanted them to become more and better. Perhaps that way, all the darkness in him would go away too.

Even if Prussia often acted bemused and complained about all the other much more important things he could be doing, it warmed Germany's heart to see his brother smile so brilliantly at him.

His opinion matters, Germany has come to understand. It flatters Prussia when he turns down a meeting with France and England because they have made plans earlier. He even brags about it to Italy afterwards.

As the days grow warmer and the flowers of spring turn into the lush greenery of summer, something cold and bitter between them finally begins to melt away.

The only trouble lies within Germany, a venomous snake of desire hidden in his heart. As Prussia's laugh flows freer than before, when his internal armaments are lowered one by one, his ungainly beauty only increases in Germany's eyes.

When the nights are hot and humid and they have drunk all the beer in the house, Germany bids his brother good night. Then he waits by the near-closed door, watches Prussia saunter into the bathroom and listens with the beat of his blood pounding away every ounce of sanity. When the bathroom door creaks open, the poison spreads that much faster. His breath comes in short, choked back pants while he gazes from behind the door.

Stares in secret at his brother, sprung from the same earth. The only father-figure has ever known, who harbours no suspicions about Germany's desires. He wants him so painfully when Prussia walks unconcerned through the house with only a small towel around his waist, his scars slight shadows on icy-pale skin in the moonlight.

It grows worse. There is the world tournament in football, but Germany can barely bear the sight of a Prussia, flush with eagerness and excitement, as he cheers for their team. The games become a torment. It is a relief when their team is finally forced out, though he easily feigns disappointment and is happy to drown his sorrows in torrents of beer. Drunk and numb, he can forget the poison inside.

He must leave the room when Prussia yells through the phone. Ludicrous, overdone insults he spends day coming up all for Austria and Austria alone. Jealousy of their long-time friendship mingles with desire to turn those yells hoarser, more desperate. Because of him.

Now, in a last bitter twist of the knife, Prussia is the one who suggests that they go out together. With increasing frequency, Germany finds himself offering weak excuses.

No, they can not visit Veneziano and look at his new museum together, Germany has work to do. Never mind that he has already promised the Italian to come visit. Forget that he will have to do so at a later date, when he is even less likely to have time. Only Prussia doesn't forget. He notes every instance, with a sneer that masks something Germany knows is part surprise and fears is part hurt.

He lies. The fast-paced action movies that Prussia adores and he too enjoys - this is war as it should be, loud and intense but without any of the painful aftermath - have lost their appeal. Germany claims that he would rather see something sombre, a bit more intellectual. Prussia looks disappointed, then shrugs and goes to the cinema with Spain.

All the little things that they had begun to build fall apart again. Soon, Prussia does not ask if Germany wants to take a stroll down the Elbe and see how the cities have grown and check if the harvest is good this year.
He walks the land alone. Stops by the Dane afterwards and Germany only finds out that he went at all, when Denmark calls to tell him that he intends to collect that promised beer soon.

When December approaches, Germany and Prussia rarely speak to each other about anything but the daily necessities - good morning, we're out of milk, look at what your damn dog did - and surely, Germany thinks and despairs, they will soon lose that too.

If only his perverted thoughts could go away with their sense of family, but no; every time he glimpses a piece of the brash, lively man that is his brother's true self a spike of desire shoots through him.

Hungary comes to pick her friend up for a visit to the Weihnachtsmarkt. She has forgotten her gloves. Prussia puts his spare pair on her much smaller hands so softly, then turns red to the tips of his ears when she thanks him with a giggle and a kiss.

Germany, who has work today - I'm so sorry, Hungary, you know what it's like - bites his tongue to keep silent. Once they have left, he must lock the dogs away and take out the faded greatcoat Prussia thought he lost after the Great War, hold it close and breathe in the memory of gunpowder and blood.

He does not touch himself. No. He is Germany and he inherited all the self-discipline that his brother never possessed.

January in Berlin is a miserable month, even more so this year. Because an offended Prussian who feels ignored. is just about the worst company a man can have.
He does not clean, he does not do even the little work he is still responsible for and they can barely spare a civil word for each other. Their combined snarls manage to scare poor, lovable Italy away when he comes over with a still-steaming batch of lasagne.

As the cold, muddy months gradually lighten up, one could hope that their household would follow suit. Unfortunately, Germany's head is swimming from the poison pumping out of his sick heart and his desire rages in him like a storm. He is tense, short of temper and grows even more irate every time Prussia lounges around the house in his underwear and scatters dirty dishes around.

He snaps at the humans he works with, finds Italy's whiny, wheedly voice so much more annoying than usual and at the world meeting he must excuse himself before he punches the smarmy grin off that idiot America's face.

In the night he lies clutching that soiled coat while jerking off with harsh motions, as if he's trying to punish himself even in pleasure. Twisted. Disgusting.

But then, what else is new?

They bicker often, but have not yet truly argued. Not in the way that nations argue, where every angry word means another platoon and each curse is a bomb falling on the innocents caught up in their strife. Where the patina of civility cracks and the sharp tools of old come out... no, they don't want that, either of them. Germany bites down on his frustration until he can taste blood and Prussia holds on to his temper tooth and nail.

Then one day, Prussia loudly announces that he is going to spend Easter with Russia and his sisters. Only now does Germany realise that he must do something, anything, or they will break each other for real without ever coming to blows.

"You don't seem to be home very much," Germany says, fighting to control his voice. Russia? Why the hell is he going to visit Russia?

"Gee, I wonder why," Prussia sneers. "Must be something in the air!"

"If you don't like it, why don't you try cleaning up a bit after yourself," Germany snaps back, "I'm getting tired of doing everything around here!"

Prussia mutters something under his breath and so, quite unwilling, Germany finds himself striding up to him. He can not believe - no, surely it is impossible, what is happening? - when he grabs Prussia's face in his hands and twists his brother towards him.

"What did you say?"

"Get you paws off me, West!" Prussia slaps his hand away and takes one step, two, backwards. "What the hell is the matter with you lately?"

"What did you say?" he only repeats, louder.

"Fuck you!" Prussia looks close to exploding, but he strains to contain himself.

It is both thrilling and terrifying for Germany to realise that he almost wants to see his brother lose himself in rage. Rather that, than that they continue to dance around each other, too tense and choking on their own anger. At least, in that way Germany will see his brother's passion and it will belong all to him...

"I said," Prussia snaps, "that since you seem so damn happy to decide everything ELSE here, I might as well leave it all to you!"

"If you took some responsibility for once-"

"Screw your damned responsibility!"

"Oh, that is a very mature argument. Then tell me, brother, if I don't do the work, when will you get around to doing it? The next new millennium, or when?"

Prussia bares his teeth at him. Germany can feel a similar frozen grin on his face. This is, this is so dangerous, he knows. Balancing on the edge of a knife, only the knife is being thrown through the air and what it will pin down is either his brother or his own broken mind.

"If you ever grew the balls to deal with whatever's eating you," Prussia says and pulls on his sweater with short, jerky motions, "maybe I would actually be motivated to help out a bit..."

If it were any other day, perhaps Germany would pick up on the unspoken question in Prussia's voice. Maybe he would even interpret it so favourably, as to imagine it a hint of brotherly concern.

Right now, however, his mind is filled with red.

There's some unidentified stain on Prussia's trousers. Bothersome. Germany thinks that he shouldn't show himself in front of Russia like that.

No, he really shouldn't. What if Russia tells him about the stain and offers to lend some clothes, what if the reason his brother is going there is because all his damn Ostalgie is really about something more than the fond memory of a simpler (if poorer, weaker, redder) time? What if his brother... that intense spirit, that strong body... held in even stronger hands...

"At least don't go there looking like some hoodlum," Germany mutters, "here, let me."

He's undressed his brother before. He has been undressed too, though most of the events are from when they were far younger and spent a lot more time on the battlefield. There is something decidedly unromantic about field medicine in the age before painkillers.
Germany remembers that perfectly well, yet his dreams as of late have been filled with fevered images built around those moments.

This time, though, Prussia turns away from him and ignores the outstretched hand. "As if Russia would care about how my trousers look like," he says. "No, I just need to get out of here. Now."

"Why are you going there?" Germany's hand is still held out. "You don't even like him!"

"Honestly?" He shrugs. "He asked. And you're, I dunno, all fucked up lately." Prussia scratches a bit at the stain, contemplates the flakes indifferently before flicking them off. "With Russia, there's at least always vodka. And yelling."

"But... What will you do tog-"

"The fuck do I know? Eat eggs, or cabbage or whatever the hell people do for Easter over there..." Now, Prussia comes closer again, there is a touch of concern in his voice. "West. Seriously, man, what the hell is up with you?"

The fingers on his shoulder are enough to light a fire in Germany and he stands helpless as it roars through the last remains of his sanity and will.

"West?"

His throat is too dry, his lips are numb. "Why go to Russia of all people?"

"Never bloody mind Russia. What's gotten in-"

"Why!" Germany screams and his arms are somehow holding Prussia's in a punishing grip, "Why are you going back to him, why now?"

"I'm not going 'back' to anyone, you idiot! I'm getting a goddamn free meal from Ukraine and a shitload of vodka from Russia and that's fucking it!"

At that, Germany draws a deep breath and slowly, every finger protesting, ever desire of his soul turned towards his brother, releases Prussia.

For a few moments they only stand there, then Prussia shakes his head, as if he is throwing off everything that just happened as easily as one brushes away a spider's web.

"God, West, you act like you think we're literally fucking each other or something," he mutters.

Germany's breath freezes inside him but his mind is suddenly hyper-aware. A crooked smile appears on Prussia's face and he shakes his head. "Haven't done that for ages, really," he chuckles.

Germany breaks.

Prussia knows that his baby brother, stuck-up wuss that he usually is, can become quite impressive when riled. He's fought beside him, after all, and behind him - even against him. And, quite honestly, how could anyone who has received their training from the magnificent Prussia not turn out at least a little remarkable?

But when those icy-blue eyes turn on him, they are void of anything resembling sanity. Before Prussia can utter one surprised word, Germany is on him.

Those hands, that Prussia has refused to acknowledge as stronger for how many years, now? Suddenly, they are tearing at his clothes, trying to force him down. The mouth, which usually only grumbles about his sad lack of moral fibre, is pressed fever-hot against Prussia's own and greedily swallows the half-formed protest.

They crash to the floor hard enough to rattle Prussia's teeth, but there is no stopping Germany at this point. He crawls all over Prussia, who can feel a hardness grind against his own groin, while his brother growls and kisses and takes.

In his passion, he also seems to have forgotten that this opponent is a cunning old warrior who has been fighting since before Germany was the shadow of an idea.

And yet... to fight back means to acknowledge this between them, that there is something here that is being taken from him. The weak, useless core in Prussia that he can't trample despite years of trying quakes at the very thought, even as the loathsome hands roam all over him and his lips are pried open by an aggressive tongue.

West? His little Germany... This precious child he stole from the reaper to make his own, to treasure and guard like he had never guarded anything beyond his own selfish borders?

Prussia lies still as death, shock and confusion immobilizing him more effectively than Germany's hands, strong as they might be, ever could.

And then those lips leave his and the empty, empty eyes look down and the traitorous mouth moves. Speaks.

Prussia realizes that what he thought was oblivion is something else entirely.

How dare he ever forget that they are all of the same blood? Sometimes, when he lies awake in the night and listens to the voices cursing his name throughout history, he wonders if they were poisoned from the very beginning. Born tainted with Germania's longing and hate, always doomed to reach for the stars only to crush them over and over again.

The old familiar look is back; realization rises inside of him like a burning venom. He hates what he sees in West's eyes, more than ever.

Damn this pollution in his brother, damn that hated fever of blind ambition. And thrice-damned be Prussia, for raising the child so and infecting him with his own insatiable lust for conquest. Damned be they all, broken children of the first empire-slayer...

The more his brother is given, the more he demands, after all. Prussia should never have allowed himself to forget that fact, not even when all West appeared to ask for was his brother's closeness and easy friendship.

Still, he can't help but be surprised. Worse, it hurts deep inside his selfish heart, which only goes to show that he has softened too much. Trusted too easily. This madness has, after all, driven both of them before.

There is fire in Prussia's blood, has always been since the day he was born, and the whole world knows of it. What only a few realize, though, is that he has tamed it at last. Many masters, kings and warriors of renown, worked with him and helped him control the rage until it could burn colder than ice; there, not in any silly manoeuvres or fancy uniforms, lies his true discipline.

Now he turns it on himself, to burn away any lingering affection he might have felt for this brother-killer, blue-eyed snake, thief and so when he smiles at Germany, it is charming and completely void of any emotion.

"So. You want to own me in all ways?" Prussia whispers.

"I want you," Germany said.

I.

Want.

You.

Each word rung clear like the strike of sword upon sword, as he finally gave voice to the darkest needs of his heart. The bewildered look on his brother's face scares him, but at least it is not outright rejection - yet.

Germany's hands are holding his brother down, their noses are almost touching and his desire is throbbing hot and hard between them.

Prussia has not moved a finger yet and Germany can feel his brother's stale breath on his face. Then for a moment, Prussia's eyes flutter closed and that small movement is enough to press Germany's tenuous control to the very edge. Before he breaks, continues molesting the pale lips until they become swell and flush with blood, Prussia focuses on him again. He pins him fast with the force of that most burning glare. There is a small not-quite smile on his face and the hope is almost enough to burst Germany's heart.

His voice is too soft and Germany, oh, Germany must not miss a word of this. He has cast off all safety lines and is falling free, only that husky voice can bring him safely to ground again. The world around him is made from clouds; inconsequential, cold and uncaring. Only his brother burns so bright beneath him.

"So. You want to own me in all ways?" Prussia whispers.

Is it too much to hope that the smile is teasing and seductive? But it is there, so uncommonly tender, and every suppressed hope in Germany breaks free as he bends to claim that lovely mouth again.
Only this time, he will be so much more gentle, he promises silently. They will share pleasure; now that he can finally give freely of his love they will find each other again. Surely, surely he will reach his brother this time...

"VERRÄTER!" Prussia's bellow of rage catches him by complete surprise, as does the sharp crack of an elbow in his face.

Then he is thrown off, slamming into the table with enough force to drive the breath from him. Germany's hands are achingly empty and so when Prussia comes for him, this beloved phantom that has risen from the grave again and again, they are still open and reaching for him.

"Traitor," Prussia hisses through bared teeth, "traitor!" Then his fists are raining down on Germany, batting away those useless hands and striking true every time. Crack, and his nose gushes blood, but Prussia is still not satisfied, screaming in senseless fury and just hitting, hitting, hitting, more!

When Germany finally tries to defend himself, it is too late and he is half senseless from the beating. Still, Prussia recoils as if he fears Germany's pathetic attempts at self-defence.

Then, overcoming whatever sudden fear that pulled him back, Prussia kicks him viciously in the ribs. With a gasp, Germany folds up and then his arm is painfully twisted, his neck grabbed in a punishing grip. Soon he is half dragged, half forced to crawl after his brother.

They do not have far to go, for what Prussia wants hangs on the wall of the living room; a memento that has been in the house for so long that Germany has all but forgotten about it.

A coldly smiling Prussia drops him on the floor like a sack of potatoes. He removes the dusty trophy with such gentle reverence that Germany would cry if his eyes were not already swelling up in pain. How dared he ever dream that his brother would touch him like that? For all Prussia's faults, he has never been infested with this sickness that rages through Germany now, undiminished even after this attack.

Prussia strides over to him and in his hands the old, lustreless sword becomes an item of death once again.

"Traitor," his brother says, "you goddamn thankless fucking traitor."

It was better, Germany realizes as a belated fear grips him, when Prussia was yelling. Now, he sounds so cold, as he hasn't since the day he informed Germany that they were going to build a wall and that he would not return again.

On that day... Germany saw his brother choose Russia, and his already tottering promises of a new, better world and he was devastated. Alone, as he had not felt since the time he first woke up disoriented and nameless.

The first time, there had been a madly grinning demon to catch him and show him the world. The second, only ruins and the stern faces of his occupiers were there. And, on the other side of a hateful wall of iron, concrete and anger, flags as red as his brother's eyes.

"No," Germany tries, "I don't- you don't understand!" He doesn't understand either, not anything, except that somewhere it has all gone horribly wrong.

Then he can not speak at all any more, for Prussia's bare foot presses against his throat and no words, no pleas, no air can pass.

As Germany gurgles and gasps for breath, Prussia looks down on him with a face like stone.
"I suppose it's only fitting," he says slowly, ignoring the frantic struggle of the nation beneath him, the fingers clawing at his leg. "That we are both to be cursed with the same sins..."

His eyes meet Germany's, but they appear to see through him into a time long gone. "At least I had a reason, I think." He cocks his head and lifts the sword. The tip is almost resting against Germany's forehead now. "The Teutonic Knight - the first one, that is - he wanted to kill me, you know? Almost did."

He didn't, but his breath is running out quickly now and the rush of blood almost swallows Prussia's next words.

"I was only a child, but he wanted from me what they had already taken from my people. Fear, misery, violation... Death."

The pressure eases slightly and Germany greedily gulps air for a moment, then he is silenced again as Prussia bends closer and rests more of his weight on the leg pinning Germany down.

"I waited, you know," he says and that which is one his face now is never a smile, "waited until he was done and sated. Then I tore open his throat with my fucking teeth! And I ate that disgusting cunt's heart and I took his name and I lived! I lived! And I will not let you kill me the same way, you miserable little coward!"

The sword is drawn back. Germany can not even think of moving as the shock of these revelations race through him. So many memories are suddenly cast in a new light, so much anger at the world is traced to its first roots and so much desperately hidden weakness is explained.

But Germany has no time to speak, no chance to convince and heal, because the sword bears down towards him with the stark finality of death.

When Prussia impales We- Germany's hand, there is a moment of stunned shock; he rests on the sword and watches the man beneath him. His brother lies still and staring, not understanding that he is still alive, brain still not caught up with the pain of the body.

It is difficult to say which of them are more surprised; Germany, whose face slackened in readiness for death in that last moment or Prussia, who has long known that love is a weakness and trust only the first tone in the ancient song of betrayal.

Then his brother screams, high and broken.

His right hand twitches around the broad blade, blood seeps into the beautiful old hardwood floor and as the scream carries on and on and fucking on, Prussia knows he has lost this battle.

You can only be betrayed by those you trust.
You can only trust those you know, but you will never know a man enough to trust him.
You can only trust the dead to stay dead.

I can never kill the only brother I have ever loved.

With a sharp jerk that wrings another wheezing scream from Germany, Prussia tears the sword loose. His brother curls in on himself, cradling his bleeding hand. He is shaking all over, but not a sound escapes him now.

He takes hold of Germany's hair; the same blond hair that he used to dry and comb until it was soft and fluffy like a newborn chick. The ice-blue eyes are almost hidden by swollen bruises and Prussia feels a moment of regret that he could not see them one last time. Perhaps it is better to not remember the hate and frustrated hunger for power that surely fill them now.

Instead of speaking just yet, he brings the sword to his mouth and slowly licks the blood staining it, taking this as his last memento of misplaced trust.

The taste, iron and pain, is so familiar. Honest. In the heat of a fight, there can be no betrayals - how can you break the rules, when everything is allowed? If only love were so simple, if only he could make the world drown in crimson again and solve it all that way.

"I'll go," Prussia says. The world is growing unreal and pale before his sight, only his brother's red, red blood retains any colour at all.
"You'll never be troubled by me again. But I will never give you that which is mine!"

Germany's mouth moves silently, but why should he waste time trying to understand the curses of a traitor?

"Don't follow," he warns at last and turns to take down the small portrait of his dear king from the wall. "Never follow. Or you will have to die." And I with you, he does not say.

He is surprised at the soft tug on his trouser-leg and even more so when he realises that Germany used his mangled hand to try and stop his brother. Well, Prussia thinks as old fondness becomes glass-sharp pain, at least the boy inherited his stubbornness.

"D'n't go," Germany manages, "n't..."

If Prussia wanted to, he could just stomp on that hand and that would probably be the end of this pitiful plea. Instead, he swings the sword in a lazy circle. Barely spares a glance for where the flat side impacts with the traitor's head.

Germany makes a soft thump as he collapses in his own blood. He manages not to look back at the sound, though the taste of victory is ash in his mouth.

With the memory of his king in his pocket and his sword on his hip, Prussia leaves the house of Germany. If he carries no money, nor food, if he is wearing no shoes - so what? Long ago, he gave his heart to West and now that he has proven too weak to take it back...

A nation can live forever... as long as he can feel his borders in his flesh, hear the whisper of his people and know that he is the soul of the land itself. To abandon country and citizens, to flee instead of ending this sorry mess once and for all and make a new, stronger Germany?

No, Prussia expects that he will need neither food nor money for much longer. The worst thing is that he can't even bring himself to care.

Politics brought them together and tore them apart again. But there was nothing political about a foolish, ulcer-inducing promise of taking care of each other and he has come through again and again, hasn't he? So, it's only fair that he gets something in return for once.

Germany tells himself that it must be so, because he can think of no one else to call. He can barely think at all, but he needs to fix this. Somehow, God help him, somehow he will fix it.

"Prónto!" The cheerful voice is almost too much and it is suddenly an unbearable struggle to stay on his feet.

"Prónto, chi parla?" Italy asks with some concern when Germany only manages a strangled moan.

He manages to draw a breath. Two. "Italy..."

"Oh! It's Germany! Heyyyy, Romano, Germany is on the phone!" he says and the effortless joy in his voice sends new stabs of pain through the still bleeding nation.

"Romano says hi," Italy lies unabashedly. "Is Germany less mopey now? You should come over to my place and take a vacation. I think it would be good for you!"

"Italy."

What can he say?

My brother almost killed me, but I drove him to it. Everything I believed in has turned upside down and I've lost one of the most important people in my life. I don't know where Prussia is, but I am afraid for him... and for everyone else.

My brother is gone. I loved him, but I think I have hurt him so bad and I still can't stop feeling this, I try and I try and it won't go away!

It's too much. Germany is weary with pain and heartbreak. So instead, he slowly sinks to the floor with the phone in his whole hand and lets Italy's friendly chatter flow by. Dazed blue eyes survey the carnage that was his well-organized living room. Ordered, until Prussia turned it upside down, like so much else in his life.

He remembers the moment when Prussia smiled at him with false desire and he can't stop a sob from escaping.

"Ve, Germany, are you still there?"

"Italy," he says again, oh, to be brought so low as this, but whom else would ever listen? "I need your help. Please."

That brings the chatter to a halt and it is a more serious, much concerned Italy that asks, "Are you in a bad pinch, Germany?"

"Yes," he answers, yes he is. Perhaps the worst so far. Italy is probably talking again, hopefully saying that he will fulfil that old promise, maybe making up bad excuses. But Germany can't hear him because the phone has fallen and there is blood on it now. It is extraordinarily odd to see blood on his phone. Swords were made to be bloody, not phones, right? There used to be a sword around here, too, and now it has become red again...

His thoughts wander around, meandering and sluggish like the blood from his hand. They return to the same thing, though, circle around the one aspect of reality he can not forget.

Prussia's sword is removed from his wall, again. Prussia's king isn't looking at him with old painted eyes.

For his brother is gone, his brother is gone his brother left him broken and bleeding and now he has gone.

When they reach Germany's house, Italy Romano has mostly given up on arguing with his brother. He still doesn't understand why any of them need to go and help the potato bastard, much less why Romano has to follow!

Italy Veneziano would not give up, however, and a part of Romano is worried that his clumsy brother won't be able to handle whatever it is that has made trouble for Germany. Except perhaps an excess of machismo, but the blond asshole seems to enjoy suffering from that.

In the end he gave in, with much complaining all the while. Put down his foot, though, when Veneziano wanted to go through Switzerland. His Sicilian family has a lot of money in those accounts and he can't risk angering the prickly little nation.

Instead they ended up going through France and wouldn't you guess that a certain blond lecher just happens to be lounging around near the border? So, now they are three fools knocking on Germany's door.

"Ah, my dears, it seems as if our friend isn't here," France says when no one answers Veneziano's increasingly frantic pounding. "Perhaps he meant to meet you elsewhere, oui? A nice restaurant would be appropriate!"

"No," North Italy shakes his head firmly. "Germany is in bad, bad trouble! I have to save him."

It is all Romano can do to not roll his eyes. But his little brother can be so damned stubborn, so they might as well just get this over with.
"Move it, you klutz," he says and takes out a clever little contraption which lets him open the imposing door with little trouble. To think that he would ever break into Germany's house!

"Thank you, big brother!" Veneziano says with a brilliant smile. He steps inside and calls out for his idiot friend. "Helloooo!"

France and Romano follow more silently. The lights are on, but there is a very queer feeling in the air. A turned-over chair lies in the hallway, like a warning sign for all trespassers. In the yard, the dogs are howling, Romano realizes.

"Hey, Germany!" Veneziano calls again and then France claps a hand over his mouth, looking unusually serious for France.

"Shush, my dear," he whispers, "can't you smell it?"

Now that France mentions it, South Italy can immediately recognize the heavy smell in the air; it brings memories of swords and bombs and men with empty smiles above black shirts, that are hiding even emptier hearts.

He exchanges a wide-eyed look with his brother. Germany is apparently in real trouble... but what does he expect them, the weak and useless Italians, to do about it if it's too much for him to handle?

Romano takes a few quick steps, passes his brother, and so he is the first to come upon the scene in the living room. He is no stranger to carnage, but a shocked gasp escapes him even so. He had never imagined to see that strong, brutal nation lying crumpled in a heap in his own home.

Then his brother bursts pasts him with a wail and is cradling Germany, touching him and - oh, it is a secret relief, if only because he knows how the alternative would hurt Veneziano - Germany moans and rolls his head.

For years now, South Italy has always carried a hidden gun. Now he takes it out and removes the safety.

"Who did this?" he asks. "France, have you heard of a terrorist attack anywhere in Germany?"

The man's hand, Romano sees now, is completely mangled and someone has given him a serious beating. What part of his territory is the macho-bastard's hand anyway?
"Or a coup or - shit, do you think it's a political murder somewhere?"

Veneziano has taken off his shirt and is wrapping Germany's hand in it, while crooning softly in Italian.
"Don't worry, Germany, you'll be alright, don't worry..."

Then he hugs the larger nation softly. Romano turns his eyes away when the blonde's good hand comes up and grabs hold of North Italy, when he so obviously seeks comfort in his brother's touch.

"Dammit, France! I asked if you had-"

He falls silent as he sees the wide-eyed stare of the Frenchman and turns slightly to follow it.

A wall. Upon it an ancient shield adorned with the black eagle. Hung crosswise over it is the upper half of a broken halberd. Weak lines in the dust suggest that something more hung there too, until very recently.

A theft? Can this be something so simple as a break-in? No. Romano may hate the potato-muncher, but he acknowledges his strength.

"Where," France asks in a distant voice, "where is Prussia?"

It takes a moment for Romano to register that the muffled cry of pain comes from Germany. It takes another moment to put the pieces together, recall the relevant banners that have flown in so many battles. There have after all been so many wars and flags, throughout the years...

But perhaps none, he thinks when France goes to the phone to call for backup in case the crazy bastard returns, that looked quite that stunning when drenched in blood. Yes. He remembers this eagle now.

South Italy goes to help his brother's friend and for once he brings no harsh words or insults. They could never sting as much as this betrayal between brothers, anyway.

Months have rolled by silently, day following empty day.

Germany's body has healed, the floor has been broken up and replaced, the weapons are gone from the wall. Japan gave him a state of the art alarm system. It lies unopened in the cellar, besides the security cameras he received from England when word got out.

Nobody has seen Prussia since then. An upset America thinks he is hiding with Russia, but the large nation denies it all quite calmly and Germany is inclined to believe him.

They spoke of Russia, after all, just before... He does not believe Prussia wants to see the living reminder every day of his self-chosen exile.

At first when he woke up and could almost think again, he tried to explain that it was all a big misunderstanding. He did his best to make them understand, but after hearing France and the Italy-brother's testimonies, everyone is quite prepared to hang it all on Prussia.

Shame now keeps him from explaining the details of the matter. Germany has a feeling the other nations will not listen very well anyway.

Not even Italy understood when he tried to tell him the truth. In his mind, Germany and desire is forever linked with awkward attempts at wooing with roses and self-help books. If Prussia didn't like that, couldn't he just have said no?

The shame for what he tried to do, the self-hate over how Prussia interpreted his desire silences him. At the bottom of it all is the fear that, perhaps, if his brother had not stopped him so violently... if he had not had the strength to do so...

Germany doesn't know if he could have stopped himself and that scares him. It would scare the others too, if they truly understood, and so he tells himself that it is for the sake of his children he keeps quiet. His people don't need to carry this burden of suspicion too.

Nobody can find Prussia, but he still lives. Every day, Germany looks at his body in the mirror, makes sure that the east is still not with him. He tries to avoid meeting his own eyes, though, and he always holds a hand over the site of his divided heart.

So Germany works, because his duties do not stop. He visits Italy for the comfort it brings; he goes to meetings and doesn't answer the questions that aren't asked. He avoids Austria's searching gaze and has, so far, managed to escape Hungary every time she tries to interrogate him on what really happened.

The phone rings and, always, Germany's heart skips a beat. When he answers, though, it is only an unfamiliar, heavily accented voice that greets him.

"Hola, Alemania." Try as he might, Germany can not place the voice, he only knows that it is neither Spain, nor Portugal. "I'm thinking we need to have a little talk, you and me."

"I'm sorry," he says and wonders if he has forgotten something important concerning the South Americas, "I'm afraid I can't quite place your voice, sir. You are..?"

The person on the other side of the phone is silent for a moment, then says, "Eh, not really important. Think the question is rather, who're you? What kind of country are you, really?"

"Excuse me?"

There's something nagging at the back of Germany's mind when the other nation snorts and mutters something in Spanish.
"Look, everyone's whispering about how your brother went mad and tried to off you... but nobody wants to tell me what your opinion of the whole mess is, so I'm becoming very curious."

"It was my fault," Germany says quickly, his heart speeding up. Does this mean-
"I... Prussia didn't hurt me that bad, it was all a misunderstanding. And anyway, I am to blame for it."

"Misunderstanding, you say?"

"Yes," Germany says and then he winces.

The next question will surely be about the nature of the misunderstanding and how is he supposed to answer then? Months have passed and he still doesn't know how to describe what happened. He wanted, and desired, and Prussia thought... he desired something quite different.

"So, Alemania, you didn't actually try to murder and gobble up your big bro, that what you're saying?"

The realisation almost makes him drop the new phone, but he fumbles to catch it in the last minute. "Where is Prussia! Tell me! What have you done to my brother?!"

All the feelings that he has struggled to repress rage free inside of him, a crazed beast has awoken in Germany's heart. It wants to smash the world apart until Prussia is found and safe, back with him, back where he belongs.

"I'm not the one who drove him half a world away with nothing but the clothes on his back!" the voice snaps and there!

When the unknown speaker becomes angry, a memory is teased awake in Germany. That of a small but forceful nation, who smiles in the sun despite poverty and threats from his grand neighbour...
He is ranting at America, during a meeting of the world's nations. Germany offers an opinion and the other man snaps back a quick insult that makes Italy Romano snigger wildly.

"...Cuba?"

"Ay, you've uncovered me," Cuba answers and doesn't sound particularly concerned. "Now, are you gonna tell me what really happened and why East's barely stayed sober one day since he got here?"

He licks his lips. He will tell and explain and then... Then, if he has to swim across the ocean to do it, Germany will go to that island and find his brother.

It takes quite some time, because while the feelings of that day are burned into his memory for ever, the details are quite vague as if they have all burned up in a storm of emotion.

"But... Cuba?" he asks, when the disaster is finally explained to Cuba's satisfaction. "Why did you. I mean, why did Prussia..."

"Hah! We old commies need to stick together, ya know?" Cuba says and Germany can hear the smile in his voice again. He believes Germany, then. It is almost too much to accept.

"But he costs a fortune in rum, ay, that man can almost drink me dry... So if you'd kindly explain to East that you only wanted to invade his ass in the metaphorical way, that'd be really grand. Besides, you have any idea of what that paranoid gringo would do if he found out we're here together?"

Yes, Germany can quite picture the fallout from such a discovery, but never mind that now. He has already packed his bag while they were speaking. The only thing left to do is make some calls before he leaves and soon, America will have nothing to discover or worry about.

"I'll meet you in Havana, then," Cuba says, "but I warn you; if I think you wanna bring harm to East, I'll whup your ass all the way across the Atlantic. Comprende?"

"Yes," Germany says and he feels strangely warm and grateful to know that his brother has a friend like this. "I'll drown myself before I hurt him again."

The sun is so bright that Germany wonders how Prussia manages one single day without blistering all over. He pulls his jacket over the tank-top despite the heat when he exits the plane. Other than that, he barely notices the tropical smell in the air and breezes past customs without sparing a glance for the confused humans.

Cuba looks a bit upset when Germany enters followed by four shouting men in uniform, but he eases the tension with a few words and soon they are alone.

"Hey, that's very rude behaviour, man!" Cuba says while they walk towards his house.

"I'm sorry, please forgive me, it won't happen again." Germany answers automatically. He does not slow down. When he closes his eyes, he can almost feel Prussia's presence on the island and his entire body shakes with longing.

"Hold up," Cuba says, and somehow the not-quite-hidden presence of a large amount of stern soldiers that just happen to walk behind them penetrates Germany's foggy mind.

"You act a lot less sane than you did on the phone right now," the island nation complains and scratches his head. "What are you planning to do, exactly?"

"I have to meet him," Germany says. "I don't know what will happen, but I have to find him!" He tries to control himself, deep grounding breaths, but Berlin pulses so hard in his chest. How is he supposed to be sane when his brother is right here but he can't see him, can't touch him yet!

Without knowing how, he points a finger, away from the airport and city itself. "That way, isn't he?"

Cuba fidgets a little and then raises his hands to the heavens. "Pfah, europeans! Capitalist swine or imperial bastards, you're all crazy! The whole lotta you!"
He winks, to take the sting from the words. "Just don't try any funny business or I'll make you regret it!"

They leave the airport and the soldiers behind, soon reaching Cuba's home. He points at a small side-building, but when Germany tries to go there, those deeply tanned hands are a surprisingly effective restraint on his arm.

"I'll be close by, Alemania, you hear me now?" Cuba warns him.
"Also... Took me months to get anything sensible outta him at all. Don't expect too much right now."

"I think I know what my brother is like," Germany says.

"Not like this, I don't think you do." The island air grows almost cool around them when he continues to speak.
"I dunno... Sometimes, I think he just came here to die." Brown eyes search for something in Germany's face, but whatever it is, they do not appear to find it.

"Without you, he doesn't seem to want to go on." He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Can't really say I see why... But we've been through enough together, for me do him this little service. It's a shame, though," Cuba says and looks at the small house.
"Life on the red side didn't really fit him. But he tried his best, even though it was so different from what he'd done before. As for me," Cuba's grin is cynical, and Germany remembers that he has managed to keep his mighty neighbours on his toes for so many, many years.
"I was just happy that I finally gotta listen to my own boss, instead of having to bow and scrape before somebody else's, you follow me?"

Cuba's hands are large and calloused in Germany's, but he still clasps them as if they were the most fragile treasure he has ever held, and bends his head before the island nation.
"Thank you. For not letting him slip away."

With that, he releases the now awkward Cuba, drops his bag at the ground and barely registers how both flutter out of his mind.

"Just leave it there," he says absently and walks closer to the house where his brother is. He can't even remember what he packed. Everything he needs is in the building in front of him anyway.

The small house shows its age clearly, worn down by tropical sun and violent storms, but it looks well-made and orderly. When Germany pushes open the screen door, though, he sees that while the house is in good repair on the outside, the latest inhabitant has not taken much care with the interior.

The dimness smells of old liquor and despair. Germany is certain it is only thanks to Cuba's interference that the whole building isn't filled with rotting food and cockroaches. For surely, not even his brother can live solely on rum for months?

"Prussia," he calls silently, trying to be as soft and gentle as he can. To scare away his brother again would be. Unbearable.
"Prussia, are you here? We need to talk."

"Cuba, izzat you?" He stands in the opening to the second room, wearing only a pair of dirty boxers and swaying slightly with a bottle of rum in the hand. "'M still good," Prussia slurs and holds up the bottle, "got 'nother one round 'ere. Schomwhere..."

My brother is supposed to be so much more than this, Germany thinks, and the realization of what he almost lost for good drops on him like a downed Messerschmitt.

Prussia looks to weigh far too little now. He must have lost as much muscle tone as he did during the inter-war years, Germany thinks, and his ribs are clearly visible.
Even if he still does not have a speckle of beard - there is a limit to how much they can change without outside influences, after all - his hair is just a little too long and matted with dirt.

Most of all, the blaze of his soul has dulled to a frightfully weak glow. It is all Germany can do to hope that he will be able to light it again. Not even when they saw each other after the wall was it this bad, because at least then he was burning with his old fighting spirit.
Vital, selfish, only interested in reuniting their houses and the hell with everything else!

Another step. Now Germany thinks he knows the reason why Cuba hasn't forced his brother to sober up or dunked him in the sea yet - the sword is, still, firmly in Prussia's grip.

Surely, Germany prays silently, he can not have changed so much that he is even remotely harmless with a weapon in hand?

"Brother," Germany says and holds out his hands, palm up. He can not find the clever words yet, can only see his brother suffer and want to help him in any way he can.
Perhaps, he thinks and marvels at the revelation, it is only now that he realized how much he is willing to give to keep his brother close.

"Wescht?" The shock seems to awaken the old nation from some of his drunken stupor and the sword comes up in a defensive hold.

"I didn't want to hurt you," Germany says simply, "I'm sorry."

He had practiced so many fine speeches, tried to rehearse his points but now that they stand face to face again, they are all gone. Mostly, he wants Prussia to come to him and just hold him. Rough, but reliable, like he used to be when they were younger and the splintering pain in Germany's head made him shiver, as his parts broke and reformed in a hundred new constellations.

"Brother? I never wanted to hurt you. I, I..."

"Why couldn't ya jush let me die in peasce Greedy lil' baschtard," Prussia says, but the words are lacklustre and empty.
"Been tryin' to die for sschooo long now..." He takes a swig of rum. "But issa lot harder than it sheems, ya know?"

"You mustn't die," Germany says and falls to his knees, because his brother loves the grand gestures and he is fully willing to crawl if it stops this whole madness. "Brother, don't you see I need you!"

He must reach Prussia, hold him and make him understand. If his brother lets that sword drink more of his blood for the attempt, then so be it. On hands and knees among empty bottles and nameless litter, Germany crawls closer and even if Prussia looks at him with mistrust, he has not gone away, nor tried to kill him. Yet.

The sword rests cool on Germany's shoulder now. Prussia's hand is in his hair and he grabs onto the bare legs as if he would be swept away otherwise, ignores the rum that flows out of the dropped bottle next to him and soaks into his trousers.

He's trying to speak and explain rationally, but all that comes out is a jumbled mess. The only thing Germany thinks he can make clear is his desperate need.

"Dun' need me," Prussia says, while his fingers tangle in blond hair. "Nobody needsh me any long'r."

His voice catches and it sounds so damned small, that it makes Germany squirm inside, for this is not the brother he knows, not the one he has spent years trying to surpass. Did he make this happen? Was this what it cost his brother to leave him alone, alive, and to withdraw from their country?
The essence that they share, that which makes them more than themselves and can steal their spirits away... It is frightening to see, what it means to give that connection up, voluntarily. Frightening, but also humbling.

"I," Prussia whispers, "think, 'm a bit tired o' bein' alone. If i'ss you or me, Wescht, I dun wanna... No' again."

"But I never wanted to hurt you," Germany whispers fiercely again his brother's leg.

"Tried ta kill me, didn'cha?" Prussia says with a snort.

"No! I don't want to kill you! Never!"

"Fighting, fucking... Iss all the same among us."

No, he shakes his head, no! Even one as young as Germany is can see that there are nations who manage something more. In this Prussia is, has always been, wrong.

How much horror did he inflict and suffer through because he could not shake off that belief? But even more than worrying about what has been, Germany wants to change that which is to come. Somehow, he wants to find a way to make his brother trust just a little, little bit.

The metal is cold against his bared throat. When Prussia tugs his head backwards, he can feel it scrape against his skin, leaving a few pearls of blood behind.

"It's the same to me, don't'cha see?" the words are still slurred, but very earnest. "Iss wha' I am. Had to bec'me thiss an' I, an' I bloody well likesh it!"

"Maybe it's what you became," Germany says, "but you don't have to remain like that! The world changes and we can too, we're allowed to change with it! Please..."

Change. It is so hard for them, Even with his long, fragmented childhood and the two wars that shook him to his core, Germany remains himself and sometimes, that disgusts him beyond words.

And how much older is not Prussia, how many more times has not his world turned inside out around him? A nation that can not weather the transformations of the world without letting it disturb his own self, is swept away by the tide of history before he has ever grown up.

Prussia's hand strokes his cheek softly. "Huh. 'S strange, Cuba shaid tha' too." Then he slowly but forcefully pushes Germany away and takes a step backward. "Mebbe I dun want to change, ev'r thought 'bout that, Wescht? I like bein' me!"
He lifts the sword and points it straight at Germany. Even though Prussia is swaying, shaking, that gleaming tip stays fixed on one blue eye. "An' I wouldn' be me, if I gave you wha' ya wanned!"

If he had not waited until exploding for over a year, if he has not gone with unfulfilled desire throbbing in his soul since that day, he would never have dared to say this. Only he did wait. And since then, he has already broken once, twice, uncountable times.

Now Germany's mouth is full with the poison of bitter love for his brother and there is no antidote that he can accept. So instead he will drink it down to the very last drop and destroy them both with his desire.

"Then take me, instead." Germany pleads and he can barely believe how easily the words slip from him. "Do anything. Use me, just come home."

A sharp breath. Fear? Or something else, something hungry? Still, whatever lusts Germany's words have woken in him, his brother does not bend.

"'d hurt you," he says at last.

"You hurt me worse by staying away," Germany replies. This is the complete truth, for what else but Prussia's absence could bring him to his knees this easily?

His brother hides beneath his free hand, but even then Germany glimpses enough to realize that Prussia looks so much sadder than he is usually prepared to reveal.

Then he shakes his head again, in an awkward movement which reveals just have much he's had too drink. Even like this, though, when his head lolls lazily as if it is about to fall off, too heavy for that pale neck, there is determination in him. And that, more than anything, fills Germany with hope. As long as his brother is stubborn, he is still alive. Still himself.

"Neveh wash gonna hurt my lil' bruder. Promised." That calloused hand reaches for Germany's hair again, strokes him softly for a few moments. "Schorry 'bout before. Didn' wanna... not shuppos'd to ge'angry. Not at Wescht."

"You can't invade me if I'm asking for it, can you? When you're not there..." he falters. "Have to know you are. Have to sense you, somehow, to be myself."

His brother's face is painted in pain and anger, but Germany still finds it so beautiful. "Without you, I can't." The words catch in his throat, for really, this is it. Just how much does he want Prussia - how bitter a poison is he willing to drink to still his ugly desire?

Slowly, as if the words are dragged out of him against his will, Prussia asks.
"Can' what?"

"Nothing. Everything. You're my past, brother, but I don't want to be your future on my own... I'd give you everything, if I thought it would bring you back. You burn in me," he confesses. "No, I burn for you, I... I desire you. Before, that's what." Shame almost chokes him, but Prussia's trembling hand and burning eyes give him the strength to continue.

"When I said, I want you? That's what I meant."

He lets his head fall backward even more, loosely rests it against Prussia's hand and bares his throat in blatant submission. All those things he could not express before, every loving word that turned to acid in his mouth. Now. Now, they can finally fall free.

"If I thought you'd come back, I'd offer you the world. But I really only have myself. Brother."

He shivers at the recklessness of what he is about to give up, for Germany does know his brother as few others do.

"'d take all o' it, if you off'red." Prussia whispers, and there is both agony and desire in his voice. "All the world, all of you... 'm not. One to leave thingss unclaimed."

Oh, how well Germany knows that. And still, there is a surge of desire at those words. The depths of his own longing almost scares him. But, oh, how he wants...

Prussia's eternal lust for war, the way he can lose himself in violence and the joy that fills him after battle. He remembers the red thirst in those eyes, when his hand gripped the sword for the first time in too many years. The fury that turned on Germany, impossibly mixed with cruel ecstasy and in this dim little room, he can finally admit that he wanted them both for his own.

"If you do not want to be mine, then, brother, let me be yours." Germany says, spelling it out and begging Prussia to claim him with every particle of his body. Now, he allows himself to fall into the darkness that has claimed him so completely, trust everything to Prussia, as he has but once before.

"Come back... and own me."

They stare at each other in the shadowy room, one brother kneeling before the other for a moment short in time but infinite in weight. Then Prussia nods, once, quickly.

"Go. Go home," he orders, but this time it's not in the meandering tone of the very drunk. He's picking up the pieces of himself now. The tired voice has grown stern again, the commander who expects to be obeyed.

The sword is easily slung over his shoulder, no longer held in ready defence, merely resting. Because Prussia knows that he will take on anyone, the entire fucking world at once if he needs to, without a thought to the consequences afterwards. Germany tries to fights down his smile and fails. This here, this is his brother.

"Home. An' wait fo' me."

Standing up, ready to leave. He knows he has to show how obedient he can be, but first he must ask. "How long will you take?"

A shrug, "Couple 'a days, gotta fix thiss mesch an' say bye." An angry glare. "Now get!"

Germany nods, turns, walks away. When he sees Cuba outside in the blinding sunshine, the other nation looks at him with worry but he can smile reassuringly now. His brother is coming home. Together, they can be...
That is all Germany asks for and if they are to burn for their desire? As long as they do it together, he will gladly set the fire himself.

When Germany finally gets home after a long day at work - who knew his impulsive trip would make the paperwork pile up quite that high? - he isn't bothered because his door is open. He still has trouble remembering to lock it, even though his security advisors are always concerned about it. Was it really that many years ago that no one bothered when they left for the day?

However, the light is on and Germany has become very attentive to turning off all lamps lately. They have decided to save the environment, so of course he must provide a good example.

It soon becomes obvious that the house is not as he left it; the dogs are out in their pen, all lights burn brightly and a new jacket hangs in the hall. He hurries inside, because it has already been five long days waiting for his brother and since when did that become half an eternity?

Prussia waits in the living room. It has been cleared of most furniture, except their great dining table. His hair is carefully combed, clean like fresh snow again and his uniform is immaculate in every way.

Something about that uniform puzzles him, until Germany realizes that it isn't their uniform, whether old or new. No, this is the one Prussia - East Germany - wore when they were apart.

"Welcome home, little brother," Prussia says and invites him inside the room with a sweeping gesture.
"Now then, I have only one question, but it's an important one." He stands to attention. "Do you really want me to stay?"

Prussia isn't looking at Germany when he speaks, instead his eyes are fastened on the table, which has been opened to its full width.

Oh...

There, artistically laid out and lovingly polished, is a terrifying collection of weapons from all times in Prussia's history.

Swords. A lance, several knifes and daggers too. One can almost follow the evolution of guns with a sweep of eyes. Here lies a gleaming chain, there beside it black iron manacles and a carefully coiled whip. Crops of different sizes and styles complete the collection. Next to them, Germany sees a pair of handcuffs, that wouldn't look out of place in the hands of a policeman today, and on the floor he spots an intimidating black bag. Behind it stands a heavy car battery connected to a tangle of lines and these, Germany knows without looking, end in crocodile clamps.

Germany steps closer and he does not know if fear or arousal is what drives him on. Madness, probably.
When his trembling fingers reaches for the nearest gun, Prussia's hand is on him immediately. Only a light touch of gloves against skin, but enough to make him freeze up.

"If you want me to stay, West. You have to know, I may end up using all of these on you, one time or another," he whispers and now he stands so close that Germany can see the play of light in his beautiful mad eyes. "This is what I am, after all..."

"At first, I wanted to own you too." Germany admits. "So maybe..."

"Maybe we're more alike than we thought, hmm?"

His nod is awkward, because he is so tense, there are shards of glass in his neck from holding himself still. What he has longed for, yes, but this is...

"I won't submit to you," Prussia says in a ringing tone, proud and obstinate all the way. "I've never gone down without a fight. Never will."

"I know."

And if they fight? When they are like this, already sharing names and houses and people, then Germany suspects that only one of them will rise to face the accusations of the world.

"Well?"

"This isn't what I wanted at first," he says, stalling for time.
How much of what he thought he was is he willing to give up to feed the snake in his heart? What if he doesn't have to give up anything, because he has already fallen into the abyss of sin?

"Should've tried harder with Veneziano then, instead of fucking things up between us," Prussia sneers. But he hasn't moved away yet and now his finger is making tiny circles on Germany's hand.

"I think..." God help him. "I want you. Any way I can have you." He never had any innocence to speak of, anyway.

"Good boy," Prussia says and now his hands are on Germany's face, grasping tight and damn them both, but Germany is already growing hard. "Do you promise to obey me, then?"

"Yes."

"Do you promise not to complain or tattle of what we do?"

"Yes."

"Do you promise you will always, forever, be mine?"

His breath hitches.

"Yes."

"Do you promise to scream as prettily as you can... little brother?"

Here, he meets the other man's intense look and shakes his head lightly. "That's rather up to you, isn't it?"

Oh, Prussia's laughter makes him go weak to the knees and then he is kissed with violent passion. Finally.

"Where's your necklace?" Prussia asks against his lips while he loosens Germany's tie and fingers the skin beneath the sharply folded collar.

"My room," Germany says.

"Put it on," the order comes immediately, "Keep it on from now. Hmpf, didn't I already tell you that once?"

"I- America didn't want me to, after the war." And somehow, he felt as if that symbol had been stained too much for him to wear it comfortably every day.

"Well, do you see America anywhere here?"

Not anymore, no, so Germany hurries to bring the cross. The original chain broke many years ago and he has been using a simpler one for the interim. Prussia only tut-tuts a little before picking out a black collar from his collection of fearful things. He fastens the cross there and yes, it looks good. It will feel different like that; perhaps he will come to associate it with his brother's country again, instead of those other things.

"Looks even better this way," Prussia says and fastens the leather snugly around Germany's neck. His own cross hangs on his chest proudly; that one, not even Russia could make him remove for long. "Now then, don't move..."

Suddenly there are two slim blades in Prussia's hands, he twirls them round his fingers and devours Germany with his eyes. The knives whirl close; begin to cut away first his suit and tie, then the pants, in sharp, controlled slashes. When it is time for his undershirt, the knives move slower and leave thin red lines behind.

Germany stands still and endures it all, until Prussia begins to shred his underwear. Now, he has to move or say, or something... but that makes his brother stop. Damn.

"Do you have a hard time comprehending my orders," Prussia asks, "or are you wilfully disobeying them?"
The blade is cool against Germany's chin and he speaks as slowly as he can, controlled in all ways except for his racing heart.

"I'm sorry," Germany says, "it's just."
He swallows, feels pearls of sweat form on his upper lip. Prussia's eyes follow the movement of his face so intently, as if the secrets of the world are hidden in a trembling muscle or beneath the always smooth, unshaved skin.

"It's a bit too much. Hard to be disciplined," he tries to bring it over as a joke, but it is the truth. All his dreams and desires have come to fruit and even if he knows he was more inclined to put himself in Prussia's position, the essence is the same. Them. Together.

Sinners.

Prussia plays with his cross a moment, seemingly deep in thought. Then he gives his left nipple a sharp pinch. "Alright, turn around then. Hands on the table, eyes closed."

Germany obeys and tries to sneak a look at Prussia without the other noticing him. The heaviest-looking restraints, essentially a pair of solid metal bars with room for the legs, are chosen. They look positively medieval and, knowing Prussia, they probably are.

"No peeking," Prussia orders with mocking sternness and brings his legs apart. "Hm. Lift, here," he says and cuts off Germany's socks.
Then the metal contraption fastens uncomfortably around his ankles. It's so damned heavy and stiff, how is he going to keep his balance if Prussia wants him to move in this, even a little?

On his wrists are put thick leather cuffs. Soon, leather and steel binds his hands, and Germany almost swoons when he sees the letters and numbers inscribed on them. Nothing but the best STASI issue for him, should he be flattered or afraid?

All the while, Prussia pushes against him with his body here and there and uses his gloved hands to move parts of Germany precisely where he wants them. The angle of the elbows, exactly, there. The head bent forward like that, back straighter, knees relaxed, fine, very fine. Even though every touch appears professional, almost detached, it fills Germany with heat.

This is similar to how he must have arranged the weapons earlier today, every piece lying just so, ready for Prussia's pleasure. There to be enjoyed by his hungry eyes and his only.

Prussia uses the discarded tie to blindfold him and now Germany can't see anything, only feel and trust. It is exhilarating.

"Nothing too tight?" Prussia asks, but before Germany has a chance to answer a piece of tape is stuck over his mouth.
"Never underestimate the many uses of good old duct tape," his brother says lightly and snaps him on the nose, making Germany snort in irritation. The weapons chime in disturbing cheerfulness when Prussia roots through them to find the perfect tool.

The underwear is still on him, but now his brother begins to stroke his sex through the cloth and soon Germany struggles to stay still.

"We'll have to put a hook up, somewhere," Prussia rumbles in his ear, "a good sturdy hook where I can hang you up and watch you squirm." The hand cups his sex, rubbing comfortingly. "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Mmm, dear brother, so will I..."

He plays him until Germany grows almost uncomfortably hard. When his sex is straining against the underwear and is so eager for more of Prussia's hands, then he steps back. Bends Germany further over the table, again taking a moment to fuss with the exact placement of body and limbs.

From this position, Germany can smell steel and gun oil, along with the faintest whiff of black powder. And because not even two great wars are enough take the association of that smell away from his brother, he can feel himself grow even harder.

Knives. Against his flesh, spinning around his legs in slow, teasing circles that soon begin to burn and sting when Prussia cuts away his boxers, centimetre by centimetre. Upwards, the knives circles, leaving the faintest lines behind.

Every time his hand passes between Germany's legs, the back of it presses against his sex. Prussia makes a pleased sound deep in his chest, while Germany squeezes his eyes shut behind the blindfold and hopes for more, firmer touches only to become frustrated again and again.

He doesn't stop until he is hindered by Germany's balls, when they make it difficult to move his hands between the muscular legs without cutting something too deeply. So Prussia changes direction, always ready to adapt to new terrain. Up, down, up again the knives moves until the underpants hang in threads.

"Guess there's only one place left to uncover now, huh, West?" Prussia breathes and then carefully moves the smallest knife down the middle seam, one of the few parts of the boxers that still remain in, essentially, one piece. Germany hardly dares to breathe as the blade touches upon the head of his penis and presses against his sensitive flesh so lightly. He trembles despite all attempts to stop himself when it works its torturous way down between his legs.

Now Prussia moves around him. Very slowly, he begins to cut from the other direction and of course the sharp tip follows the curve of his ass, dips inside the cheeks slightly and leaves little nicks and scrapes despite their combined attempts to stay steady.

One last stinging touch between his legs, just enough to allow a drop of blood escape from a very sensitive place. The underwear is nothing but a flutter of fabric hanging from the elastic and Prussia cuts them away with an impatient move. His hand rests for a moment on the bared buttocks, the glove cool against Germany's heated skin.

"Stand up straight," Prussia says and Germany hopes it is not only imagination that makes him sound a little breathless.

Prussia strokes his sex and murmurs appreciatively over it. It fits so well in his hands. Germany wishes he could see this, see how his brother reacts to feeling Germany's cock and what his face looks like right now. But his opinions aren't asked for and too soon Prussia bends him further forward again, this time not satisfied until his forehead is resting against the table, between outstretched arms.

A few moments pass, when the only sound is their breathing and Prussia doesn't touch him, doesn't order him - just watches. Breathes. Owns.

"Be grateful I couldn't find the nine-tails," is all the warning Germany receives, before something snaps down on him painfully. He jerks in surprise, but can't move away and the whip smacks down again, marking his back with fire.

Soon, Prussia is lashing him in earnest, completely ignoring the squirming, writhing signs of pain from the body beneath him. He continues without tiring until Germany's back is filled with welts, some of them leaking blood. If he reacts at all to the sounds his brother makes, it is only in that he strikes even firmer every time a sound of pain escapes.

Then, finally, when pulsing red lines fill the once-pale back before him, Prussia slows the pace and strokes the welts with a gloved hand.

"I warned you," he says wryly when he traces the marks he has left on Germany's back. "God, I tried to warn you..."

Suddenly Prussia jerks his head up, tears the tape off and they are kissing, almost chastely at first, a peck of lips against lips. His brother's mouth touches softly upon the stinging area where the tape was and then he claims his lips with renewed force.

Germany's precarious balance holds only with support from Prussia, who is still clutching the whip while he fucks his mouth with his tongue. When he whimpers and presses himself against his brother, Prussia stops long enough to pull off the tie, before continuing.
Now Germany can finally watch the exhilarated grin on his face and see how his own cock leaves a stain of precum on Prussia's uniform trousers.

"Soon," Prussia says, his voice is husky and deep, it makes chills race up Germany's spine to hear him talk like that, "I want to hear you scream."

"Yes, brother," he answers. Then a new kind of heat coils inside of him, because Prussia puts the lash back and takes out a beautiful bejewelled knife instead.

"Stole this off the tsars, I think," he says, a wry grin on his face while he is testing the sharpness against his thumb. The smile grows when it turns out to be razor sharp still. "Or someone else. Whatever."
His eyes burn Germany with their all-consuming desire when he asks, "Do you want to watch or not?"

One moment of hesitation, but that is too much, for Prussia sneers and kicks his legs out from beneath him so Germany tumbles ungraciously to the ground.

He has always been very impatient, Germany recalls. He will just have to learn to decide faster, but it is all so much to take in at once.

"Not letting you look this time, then," Prussia says and pushes the younger nation down until he lies stretched out. "The hell you did with the floor, by the way? Is this plastic or what?"

"Gift from Sweden," Germany mumbles against the laminate, before he manages to unsquash his nose and turn his face to the side.
"Had to replace the floor, after... Think he thought it was good for me to do some physical work."

"Pfah, Sweden," Prussia says from beneath the table, where he is rooting through his bag as far as Germany can see from his, admittedly, not optimal position.
"Nobody calls him an inherently violent butcher nation nowadays, but he used to be a real bastard! Just ask Poland."

Germany doesn't mention that poor Poland has reason to hate just about all his neighbours and none more than Prussia. "It's supposed to be very durable and easy to clean," he offers instead.

"Heh. I guess we'll see about that soon, West." Prussia crouches down to kiss him for a few pleasant moments, before he seats himself at the small of Germany's back. His weight is solid, but not uncomfortable and his legs stick out around Germany, who can't help a small gasp as he notices the shiny boots Prussia is wearing. Those, he thinks, were never communist issued.

"You like them?" Prussia asks and angles his foot teasingly. "Good; you'll get to know each other intimately one of these days." Then he rests something that feels like a plastic stick on Germany's shoulder, while he lovingly strokes his brother's newly-lashed back, enjoying the heat rising from the tender skin. The easy mood slips away again, twisting into something so much more intense.

"I've lost too much recently," Prussia begins softly, and a spot of something cool, moist, makes Germany twitch in surprise. It is only a pen, he realizes as Prussia draws it in a straight, painless line over his back, from shoulder-blade to shoulder-blade. "But now, I have you, little brother..."

"You've always had me," Germany protests, and feels the pen turn downwards in a sharp angle, tickling its way down and inwards, only to take another turn before it touches his spine.

"Not like this, West." And he can't really argue that, now can he?
"You are mine now." Another turn, outwards this time. "I plan to keep you close, this time," he says and scoots backwards, the rough fabric of his trousers making Germany's lashmarks sting even more.

Soon Prussia has finished his drawing. From the feel of it, Germany believes it is the same shape that hangs around his neck now and he tries to envision what he looks like, back marked with the large cross that has cast its shadow over their history for as long as he can remember.

Then, the only warning the strong hand clamped around his neck that forces him to hold still, Prussia's knife bites into his back. As the first blood wells up, he groans from the stinging pain of it. His trapped cock throbs and Germany finds himself clenching his eyes tight to fight a moment of sudden dizziness.

"Shh," Prussia says in an eerily absent tone, "you don't have to scream yet." His erection presses hard against Germany's back when he bends forward to reach the uppermost arm of the cross.

So Germany doesn't, much, but he whimpers and chews his lip as the knife slowly finishes its round. When finished, Prussia wipes some of the blood away with his sleeve and then, oh, no no, he starts again, about a thumbs-width inside the original wound.

"Ah!" Germany cries out as the pain blossoms anew, more intense and somehow much worse because this time he knows how much he will have to endure. "Prussia!"

His brother only hums softly to himself while he cuts into Germany's flesh. When he has finished, when Germany is shaking in harmony with every pulse of pain, he bends and tastes the blood. Almost lies down on the abused back to lap off the red liquid overflowing from the twin incisions, while his hands work between Germany's legs to stroke what he can reach.

His brother is not kissing the damage away, he knows, instead he is rejoicing in it, drinking up Germany's pain along with the blood that he lapping up.

Oh, how Germany shudders when Prussia's tongue pokes into the incision in his flesh. How he moans, helpless and defeated, when his devilish brother caresses his buttocks, squeezes his sex and then laughs in triumphant joy at the reaction these small things still elicit.

"Do you want a little break before I continue?" Prussia asks, still a hint of laughter in his voice. He rolls off Germany and lies down next to him, hands immediately going to tug and play with the collar. Seeing him such Germany realizes that he has never before known what it means to be truly conquered. He is, in fact, only beginning to find out...

Some time ago, Prussia has lost his gloves, but otherwise he is still fully dressed. The uniform, however, is a far cry from the crisp, spotless one that met Germany as he came home and the medals on his chest look like they have been coated with red tar.

Prussia's lips, usually only the lightest pink, are also smeared with blood but even this vivid colour it pales into nothing beside the red gleam of his eyes. A wave of desire rolls over Germany, breaking through the pain and enveloping him with a deep, throbbing need. Red blood in the snow... no wonder Russia wanted him.

"Wh- what kind of break?"

Perhaps, he thinks, he should have asked what Prussia was planning to continue with but... when he sees that the flimsy, but oh so sharp, knife is still in Prussia's hand, he doesn't really want to know.

Prussia licks his lips. "The fun kind." Then he sits up, suddenly energetic, and smacks Germany's ass lightly. "Come on, on your knees."

He needs a bit of help even for that, Germany, because he feels strangely weakened. Only Prussia is real in this moment and his own body is a clumsy, powerless canvas to be moulded in those cruel hands, to melt beneath the demanding eyes.

Because their every hurt is spread over so many people, nations heal much faster than regular humans. But the cuts on his back still burn with every move, they are too deep to merely fade away at once. Germany finds it immensely disturbing how very good it feels when his brother squeezes his sex firmly while leaving a burning trail of kiss-bites along his abused back.

His erection has softened considerably, but when Prussia works it over with skilled hands while nipping at his backside, it returns soon enough. Pain and pleasure mingle stronger and stronger for each kiss, until Germany shudders and moans equally, whether his brother lets sharp nails or blood-slick palms glide over the head of his cock, whether he presses down on the wounds until they give up more of their precious red treasure or if it is his tongue that touches there, offering some slight, teasing balm.

Then Prussia removes his hands long enough to take a small bottle out of his pocket and pour some sticky, shiny goop on two fingers.

Oh. Germany's eyes widen when Prussia puts those fingers between his ass cheeks, when he slowly begins to work them against the hole. Ohhh...

"Not so bad now, huh?" Prussia asks and smiles when Germany shakes his head. No, not so bad at all. "It'll get better," he promises, before he disappears from Germany's line of vision.

When his hands spread Germany open and his mouth dips closer, he can at first not believe what is about to happen. Then, oh glorious moment, Prussia licks at his asshole, sucks him and teases with his tongue. All the while, one of his hands remains busy working over Germany's sex, the uneven rhythm keeping him from coming while the touch itself holds him panting on the edge.

"God, Prussia," He sobs, constricted from moving by the heavy bonds around his ankles, his brother's hand on one hip, desperately needing something more, "Please, ahhn, please!"

In reply, he is bitten sharply on one cheek, but then Prussia bores his tongue deeper than before, making obscenely pleased sounds all the time. Fingers join his tongue again, first one, then several and Germany can feel himself being spread open and made ready. He is trembling, swooning from pleasure and pain and is not much surprised when Prussia asks if he can take something bigger. He's dying to be properly filled and tells his brother as much.

"Good," Prussia says with a laugh and then the bastard just leaves him, stands up and goes to that damned table again, leaving a frustrated Germany to stare at his polished boots.

When Prussia sinks down beside him again, he reaches for Germany's cock at once, but even that doesn't manage to distract him from what his brother is carrying. Slender, gilded and also far too pretty to be something he would usually associate with his brother but... Wide-eyed, Germany looks up at Prussia's eerily smiling face.

"What. What are you going to..."

"Don't worry, West," his brother says and kisses the small gun reverently. Their eyes met for a moment and then Prussia licks at the blood coating his lips, tauntingly, before taking the barrel into his own mouth. Eyes closed, his entire body shivers and the face he makes is too grotesquely beautiful to make sense.

Germany suddenly recalls the way his brother's entire being seemed to light up with battle-lust when that devastating order came; Russia is no longer our ally. Which one of you wishes to lead the eastern front? No one likes playing with fire quite as much as Prussia, after all.

"This little baby hasn't been loaded for years," his brother says and now, when he kisses Germany, his lips taste like steel and blood.

Prussia strokes his head with the muzzle of the gun, moves it carefully down his back and Germany shivers as it dips down to touch ever so lightly on the wound. "You're not wussing out on me now, are you?" he asks when he positions himself behind his brother.

"No," Germany whispers and it is true, he means it with all his heart. Even if it has hurt - still hurts - it also felt so good until now so surely his brother knows what he is doing. He won't really hurt him, right? Right?

Then his flesh is parted by cold metal and hot fingers, as Prussia spreads more slickness inside of him and it doesn't really hurt, no, but it is so odd. Foreign, in a way he can not imagine his brother's flesh ever being. If foreign, it is also exotic, thrilling because of the very risk it symbolizes.

And, god, the memory of where that barrel has just been, of what it looked like when Prussia made love to his own mouth with the gun...
How he let his tongue glide along the metal; the artwork in red and white, pleasure and pain that he became during this secret moment, that image is forever burned into Germany's mind.

"Don't worry, West," Prussia says while he fucks him gently with the antique gun, "just enjoy this. Trust me..." His words and actions make Germany tremble and mewl, the undignified sound escaping him whenever the cool steel strokes that sweet spot inside.

It must have been made for some refined gentleman to play with, that gun, because the engravings on the muzzle are wrought so deep that Germany can feel them rasp against his opening. The entire piece is too slim for the kind of wartime weapon Prussia prefers. Although, from the way he twists it expertly, changing the angle ever so often, he has found another use for this toy gun and it too is deadly and beautiful.

"You'll feel me too," he promises, his voice a dangerous growl. "But first..."

Now he pushes the gun further and further inside, until only the handle sticks out, which he then traps between his own legs. Now, his erection is pressed against the beginning of Germany's back, and his legs are on either side of his brother's thighs. His hands flutter all over his brother for a few moments and some unknown emotion seems to choke Prussia for a moment.

"First, I'm will mark you. Properly."

Then the familiar sound of Prussia's ancient switchblade opening fills Germany's ears and his heart almost stops as realisation blossoms in the pit of his mind. He knows without seeing, he can feel his brother bend forward and he braces himself in desperation, to stay still so help him god, but when the knife finds the prepared strip of his skin and cuts into it, when Prussia rips it off in large, bloody bands he can not stop the roar of pain that breaks free and shakes him to his core.

It hurts, oh fuck how it hurts, too much. It hurts like the trenches did, like the bombings in the night but this time it is not an enemy destroying him but his brother, his only remaining brother whom he promised to give everything to.
Germany is screaming, bucking wildly without thought, but Prussia's legs keep him trapped and he is bound by iron and promises and fuck it hurts, burns, it just fucking hurts so bad!

Prussia works quickly once he has begun, though every second feels like an eternity to Germany who is shaking helplessly beneath his brother while the outline of the Iron Cross is stripped from his back.

"You're too good to me," Prussia croons and his voice has never been this sweet before, "You're so wonderful, so strong, baby brother."

Germany can't answer. He weeps in helpless agony and shocked surprise, while his traitorous sex is heavy and hard and his asshole opens so easily for the gun pressed inside of it, greedy, filthy, his entire sick body only wants more pleasure no matter the cost.

Only it's not a surprise, really. It shouldn't be all that shocking, right? Because he was warned, and he saw it all but he said yes...
His mind is too foggy with hurt and adrenaline, Germany doesn't know anything any longer, except that he craves his brother's touch like never before - even if it brings him pain that threatens to shatter him, it has brought him out of himself into a world where everything he is could drown in pleasure.

"I'll show you," Prussia says, his voice too mild now, as deceptive as the hands that play with Germany's sex again. Now, though, he knows them, knows that the wetness around him is his own, fresh pain. So he who has always been so strong, who fought to be stoic and hard, is unable to hold back his tears when Prussia bends down to taste him again, touches every burning wound and uses his pain.

"Lovely," Prussia breathes against his back, and there is something too obscene in the way his tongue flicks against the too bared, far too naked, cross of flesh... So many things whirl in his mind, so much pain threatens to overwhelm him. Germany can not begin to understand how or why it is wrong, only that he knows it is and that he still needs his brother, to touch him and hurt him and in that, love him and make him whole.

When he sees his brother's smiling face this time, it is completely bathed in blood. A gruesome mask surrounds the luscious lips, stains the cheek and has even touched upon an eyelid. Only a few flecks of white skin are unmarked by their sins. Even some of the wild hair that so recently was pure, untouched, is soiled with darkening red...

And of course eyes, the eyes, oh save them both, for they are burning coals of desire opened so wide that Germany could drown in them. The uniform too, it is practically drenched but now Prussia is grinning so brilliantly and he looks at Germany with utter devotion written in his face.

"Little brother, sweet little brother, I love you so much," he whispers and Germany feels himself give in to the joy of finally hearing those words.

Prussia arranges himself almost at a right angle beneath Germany, where he can take his sex in mouth while still reaching the slender gun with a hand. And he is hard, very hard; Germany sees when he turns his head awkwardly, doing his best to ignore the splitting agony of his back.

That, in the end, is what pushes him beyond endurance. Prussia's mouth sucking and licking his cock, all that softness and hot moisture enveloping him, while the hard gun plays with his hidden pleasure and the smell of blood is all around them - this would be enough to bring him off any day, except now that the blood is his own and Germany can't stop shaking from the agony of it all.

But when Prussia's hand steals down to squeeze the erection so visible through his uniform, when that hand snakes over Germany's side to bring back fresh blood and he knows, god save them both, he can feel the finger work its way inside Prussia's mouth alongside his own cock and knows that his brother is tasting him and loving him...

With a wild cry of shame, Germany finally comes in his brother's mouth.

Afterwards, Prussia is quick to free his legs, though he leaves the handcuffs on. He lies on the floor and pulls Germany onto him, careful of his ruined back, now all soft touches and sweet kisses.

Meanwhile, Germany is just shaking. He can't help it, because even if the wounds are slowly (too slowly) healing, the entire experience is so far removed from anything he knows, that he can't even begin to piece it all together. It is easier to not speak, to let the tears flow now and then when he needs to, and to lie in his brother's strong hands - be held, be owned, just exist.

How long they stay so, Germany could never say afterwards. But when the blood has stopped its sluggish flow down his back, Prussia begins to squirm meaningfully and Germany remembers that he promised to...

"Do you want," he manages to say after a few false starts, "to fuck me, now?"

A rumble that isn't quite a laugh answers him. "Ah, brother, I've wanted that since you threw yourself at my feet in Cuba. But now..." Fingers pass over the open line of his wound and Germany shudders, eyes helplessly fluttering closed in agony that borders on mind-shattering pleasure. "Now I will have you, yes."

He is quickly blindfolded again and stood on his knees. Although standing is really a much too strong word for how he slumps against Prussia, who kneels between his legs and plays encouragingly with his nipples.

Germany is still open and slick; whatever else it may have done, the torrent of pain Prussia's knives caused means that his entire body is flooded with enough endorphins to make him not feel any possible sting from where Prussia's cock enters him.

His brother's groan, though, the way the crimson-stained lips draw back from is teeth when he fights to control himself - that he can feel, all the way into his heart. And then, strong hands cup his ass, support his hip and Prussia hisses at him to move, you fucker, move!
With his arms draped around the other's shoulders, his entire body supported by his brother, Germany is surprised to find that his own tired sex can still try and rise to the occasion.

They kiss, wet, sloppy kisses and Prussia's hands help him move, up and down on his brother's length until they are both groaning and Germany feels how the cock filling him grows firmer, so eager.

This was supposed to be so much, he thinks in a daze, this was the greatest closeness they could ever achieve. But after what they have just done, it feels as not such a big deal after all and so he can almost relax as the movement grows familiar to him. He wonders idly what it will be like when - if - they are ever both naked and fresh.

Even so, the feel of his cock rubbing against Prussia's jacket is pleasurable in its own way and to finally be filled with that firm softness... To know that his brother has chosen him over every reason in the word, ohh, he has no words for that sensation!

It doesn't take long for Prussia to come inside of him and he does it so silently, only biting back a small groan, but his breathing is unsteady and his lips are gentle and Germany feels so, so loved.

They manage; somehow, to get off the floor and stumble into the nearest bedroom. When Germany lies down, Prussia brings a bowl and some towels, to clean him off before he drifts away completely.

"I love you," Prussia says it easily enough now while he strips off the ruined uniform. "I love you, little fool."

"'m no fool," Germany replies. He's so worn out, half drifting on the clouds of sleep already, but he manages to remember the important part. "Love too."

"You shouldn't," Prussia says and puts a finger to his mouth to still the weary protest. "You trust me too much. I don't think I can ever give you the same..."

"Did too," he mumbles. "Came back."

At that, his brother only sighs and shakes his head, but before he can explain the difference, Germany has fallen fast asleep. Even if he sleeps, though, he trusts that Prussia - his brother, his lover, his other half - will be there in the morning.

And Prussia, of course, curls around Germany with an arm protectively over his nether back and the other cradling the blond head close, like he used to do many, many years ago. He holds him, his brother, whom he will never abandon again.

The Iron Crosses around their necks fall together, make a small jangle, and for the time being, the poison fire in them has stilled and been sated. Together, they are at peace.