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A wail rips through Prussia’s sleep.
He bolts upright, spine stiff, heart hammering - he’s not sure where he is, trapped between the fire of artillery and men screaming in pain or a comfortable, soft bed, padded with sheets of the finest material in a room that used to belong to French kings.
But it’s not a battlefield he wakes up to. There’s no musket by his side or the scent of smoke permeating each breath he took.
Instead, though, there is the cry of a furious baby from the adjacent room.
Prussia lets out a long, heavy breath as his wings fold back against his spine. He rubs his eyes, feeling them burn. How much rest had he gotten in the past week, always broken by the tiny tyrant?
Distantly, another yell from the German Empire rings out from the wall.
If there was anything to say about his son was that the boy had been blessed with wonderful lungs, he was sure any of the German states remaining in Versailles or any of the palace staff could attest to that.
Prussia’s tempted to lean back, let sleep reclaim him and allow the wet nurse try her best to soothe the infant, but another sob echoes to his left. No doubt that he was already being attended to, and if the Empire wasn’t wailing for hunger or discomfort, he was crying for one thing.
Which, unfortunately for Prussia, was his father.
The man reaches to the nightstand, grabbing his eye patch in a few clumsy swipes of his hand. Slotting it lazily over his right, he flings his sheets off his body and immediately shivers from the cold swarming to take the place they once lay. Even though almost all the windows were closed to ward off the last vestiges of winter, it evidently still had a grudge to settle.
Tucking his wings over himself like a blanket, Prussia opens the door on the left wall of his temporary sleeping chambers.
Inside, the connecting room is several degrees warmer and lit only by a single candle, set aside on a dresser by the wet nurse currently rocking the screaming baby in her arms. Upon hearing the sound of the sliding door, she whirls around, instinctive terror flashing in her eyes at the sight of the silhouette in the doorway.
“I’m - I’m sorry, my lord,” the woman stammers out, cradling the German Empire gently as she bounced him on her hip to no avail. “I didn’t mean to let him wake you, he wouldn't-“
“It’s fine.” Prussia interrupts, rubbing his eyes. He raises his voice over the sound of wailing and holds out his hands. “Give him to me.”
For a moment it almost looks like she’s about to protest, but common sense wins over and she obeys the order, handing the crying infant to him as if he were a bundle of hot coals. Prussia puts him by his shoulder, rubbing the German Empire’s back soothingly.
Almost instantaneously, the child calms, wails ceasing to little more than a gentle coo.
The wet nurse looks away, embarrassment about her features. “I’m sorry-”
Prussia frowns, gently adjusting the white cotton gown so that it drapes more comfortably over Germany’s shoulders. “It’s fine,” he repeats. What an anxious lady. “Go back to your quarters.”
The wet nurse hesitates for a second longer, but she makes a swift exit at the raise of his brows.
When the door squeaks shut, Prussia sighs into the silence. The German Empire babbles, waving his hands to try to reach down to Prussia’s wings. Prussia shifts him onto his chest, settling down on the sofa after some adjustment to fit his wings and propping Germany up on his knee.
He leans back against the soft plush to blink at his son. Two wide-eyed red pupils stare directly back at him. It’s uncanny, seeing the direct copy of one of his eyes reflected on such a tiny face, but Prussia can only thank God that Germany had inherited the right color.
Don’t think that, comes the next thought, sounding suspiciously like Brandenburg. You would’ve loved him either way.
Prussia swallows and shifts one of his hands to cup the infant’s cheek, flattening the baby fat there so that Germany’s eyes close instinctively. …Maybe.
The Empire squints and tilts his head out of Prussia’s hands. Prussia has a near heart-attack as the infant’s head goes unsupported for a few heartbeats, teetering him at the edge of gravity. He sees the wobble of muscles too weak to support the skull and the tininess of a throat he could cup in the center of his palm before he can grasp him again. His wings flare, panic moving muscles out of instinct.
God. God. God.
A slow exhale hisses from his teeth as relief pours through him. Why the Lord had decided to give him his son in the form of an infant, he would never understand.
Germany blinks at him innocently, seemingly unaware of Prussia’s terror.
“Don’t do that again,” he scolds the child, starting to bounce him on his knee. The German Empire’s face stretches into a toothless smile and he babbles at his father, small hands reaching for him. Prussia hesitantly obliges, scooching him closer from his leg to his stomach.
Slowly, his wings puff down. He watches the infant squirm around, stroking the top of his head with a yawn. The universe seemed to be playing her version of a practical joke. He’d expected a child of at least four years, but instead he’d been met with a little being seemingly determined on self-destruction or at least aging his father fifty years before he even turned one.
“When are you going to sleep, hm?” Prussia mumbles, stopping another yawn. Germany only examines his nursery with bright eyes, uncurling and curling tiny fingers over Prussia’s hand.
He sighs, leaning his head back. It could very well be another few hours. When the Empire woke, he demanded attention for as long as his little eyelids could stay open. At the very least, it’d gotten better with time. In the first few days, the German Empire wouldn’t sleep - couldn’t, not in Versailles, not in a palace nowhere near their homeland, but was too young to travel.
Prussia barely even knows what happened during that time. For all he knows he could’ve signed a declaration legalizing murder and he would’ve been none the wiser. It was a blur of Brandenburg, Germany, and sleep that claimed him every hour where his son wasn’t actively crying.
The Empire turns his head to watch the flame burning in the corner of the room, bringing a chubby fist to his mouth to gnaw on. Thankfully, with each passing day, he grew bigger, and Prussia more eager to return to Berlin.
“We’ll be home soon,” Prussia murmurs, flattening the near-nonexistant wisps of hair growing on his son’s scalp. “Wouldn’t that be nice, Hasi? The other states’ll get to meet their leader properly when we arrive.”
The German Empire blinks, turning his head, and babbles at him. Prussia snorts, billowing a soft breath over growing black curls. “Maybe not all of them. Bavaria’d only fill your head with nonsense.”
He picks up his son and places him on his chest, feeling more secure with him laying just underneath his chin. Travel… France was still riddled with francs-tireurs more than happy to take a stab at an infant in the name of revenge. It would no doubt be a hassle to struggle through muddied roads and slowly make their way from lodge to lodge occupied by his armies.
“If only you were old enough to fly.” Prussia whispers sleepily to Germany, who’s struggling to place a hand on the side of his chin. “We’d be there in hardly a few hours.”
The German Empire coos in response, shuffling with his legs to propel him up further to the point where he’s almost flopping over Prussia’s face, seemingly determined to climb to the top of his father. Prussia chuckles and hovers his hands over the child’s body, ready to catch in case a foot slipped.
As Germany crosses the treacherous gap from his neck to his jaw, Prussia feels his fingers brush against the soft, downy wings emerging from the infant’s scapula. Those, too, had been an object of terror. So tiny, too tiny, he’d worried. Brandenburg could only reassure him that they’d grow with the Empire, although this was practically unprecedented grounds.
The only infant incarnation anyone could seemingly remember with wings had been the Holy Roman Empire, and, unfortunately, anyone who was alive for that was less than willing to cooperate.
The Empire finally reaches the limits - or whatever length he was willing to go, anyway - of his exploration, pausing to reach a curious hand to Prussia’s eyepatch.
“Ah- Hasi, no-” Prussia instinctively twitches his wing to knock the intrusion away before he freezes, realizing what he was about to do. Instead, he slowly raises his hand and gently removes the Empire’s grip from the fabric, letting the tiny hand fall limply against his cheek. The Empire, thankfully, doesn’t seem to care, only staring at Prussia’s other eye in renewed curiosity.
A sigh leaves his lips. Prussia should start counting them; if he had a groschen for each one, he’d be rich by now.
His son giggles in the only way two month old children could; a quiet, airy wheeze. Prussia snorts and watches his breath blow over Germany’s hair again, barely disturbing the strands. However, the Empire shivers in response, and upon touching his skin, Prussia realizes belatedly that even with the warmth of the room and his own body heat, the Empire is getting cold.
He frowns. That won’t do.
The man shifts carefully, picking up the Empire. His wings twitch, steadying himself as he rises from the sofa. The floor creaks under his weight, but Germany doesn’t stir, only kicking a leg gingerly against Prussia’s chest.
Gradually, Prussia approaches the cradle. The candlewick has burnt down steadily by this point and the ornate designs of the wood gleam in the low light, suggesting gold inlaid within the design. Moving the Empire gently, Prussia flips him over and places him on his back onto soft wool, tucking blankets over limbs.
Germany blinks back up at him, a yawn escaping his mouth. Prussia feels a tired smile tug at his face and he offers his hand to the infant, letting his son brush tiny fingers over his palm.
“Isn’t this nicer?” Prussia asks him, his own yawn cutting through his words midway. The Empire coos, grabbing onto Prussia’s index with one hand and sucking on his other. Yet even with his blanket he seems loath to sleep, with the only indication of exhaustion shadowed in the slight droop of his eyes.
Prussia hesitates, letting his free hand drift along the edge of the wooden cradle. If he left now, Germany would surely fuss and have another meltdown; however, if he stayed, Prussia is already dreading the eyebag that’ll hang the following day… Not to mention France would be furious if he missed her oh-so-incredibly important morning meetings...
Fingers brush against his skin again and Prussia peeks into the cradle. Germany giggles at the view of his father reappearing, a gummy grin appearing on his face.
Doubt dissolves at the sound. If sleep eluded him for one more night, Prussia would live on whatever crumbs he’d get.
Wings extend out, circling the length of the cradle to cast a black wall of feathers. The Empire barely reacts, used to the sight, and Prussia leans back on the ball of his foot, sighing.
A gentle melody fills the air as he starts to hum a lullaby, first heard from Brandenburg’s attempts to soothe the child. Prussia had memorized it almost subconsciously - if he had to be honest, it probably made him fall asleep more often than it did with the Empire.
Slowly, the sound of Germany’s breathing steadies and deepens. The candle itself dims, as if understanding the need for darkness.
An insistent yawn cuts through the next set of lyrics. Prussia’s singing falters, trailing off into a hoarse mumble. Sagging, he glances to the door to his bedroom, quietly closed; he should probably go to sleep…
Brandenburg knocks gently on the door to Germany’s nursery, frowning. When the nurse-maid had said that Prussia had gone into the Empire’s room and not left, Brandenburg had hardly believed her.
When the sun had started to climb to a worrying peak with still no sign of Prussia, Brandenburg became a bit more concerned.
Nothing but silence answers his knocks. Pressing an ear against the wood, Brandenburg mentally curses the thickness of the palace’s walls. Impossible.
With the softest of squeaks, the door swings open under his hand.
Brandenburg’s breath catches at the adorable sight before him.
Prussia is slumped against Germany’s cradle, wings flopped in a disarray that Brandenburg scarcely saw in his friend. His hair is absolutely wrecked, and, as Brandenburg watches, a snore drifts from him.
In the corner, the candle has melted to nothing but wax dripped all over the dresser, and a fine slant of sunlight beams into the room.
Hardly daring to breathe, Brandenburg steps closer to the cradle. A creak and Brandenburg freezes.
It’s a testament to Prussia’s exhaustion that he doesn’t wake up; rather, he only gives a short huff. Brandenburg relaxes when another snore echoes through the room.
Circling closer, Brandenburg glances inside the cradle. The German Empire’s serene face greets him, so achingly alike to his father’s features. Brandenburg looks between father and son, finding the similarities; their closed fists, slightly parted mouth, furrowed brow, as if dreaming something serious, only that Prussia’s is more heavy. But both have the same curled black hair (or the starting of it, anyway), and, as Brandenburg listens, their breathing is in tandem, quiet snores volleying from both almost simultaneously.
Somehow the thought strikes him as irrefutably amusing. Prussia had griped and worried over the union state for ages, never able to shake off the paranoia of having another German influence on the state-to-be, and to look at them now…
A giggle slips past Brandenburg’s lips. No matter how much Prussia refused to believe him, Brandenburg found him incredibly endearing.
Suddenly, something latches onto his foot.
Brandenburg covers his yelp with his fingers as he jumps backwards, wings flaring in shock. The hand disappears but his heart continues to hammer in his ear. By the cradle, the sleeping form has moved, and Prussia blinks up at Brandenburg sleepily, groggily confused.
“Brandenburg?” Prussia croaks, seemingly surprised to find himself on his knees. “What…?”
“Prussia-!” Brandenburg hisses, rubbing his chest. Dear God. “Ah…”
“What - what are you doing here?” Prussia asks, rubbing his eye, and then blinking with Brandenburg with renewed clarity. He looks around, brows furrowing. “Wait, where…”
Willing his heartbeat returning to a normal pace, Brandenburg steps closer and offers Prussia his hand. “Good grief, Prussia, I thought you were trying to kill me." He hoists Prussia up with an unsteady wobble, a smile flickering across his face at Prussia's disheveled appearance. "I think you might’ve fallen asleep on the job, spatzi.” Brandenburg can’t hide the strain of amusement in his voice and Prussia glares at him, rubbing the crick in his neck.
“How long have I been asleep?”
His smile widens, wrapping Prussia closer with a single flick of his wings over the other’s. “Oh, I’d say it’s midday by now.”
“WhAT-”