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"But is it not true? We could never get along. You know, your brother and I were a bit chaotic. Sometimes we were the worst of enemies and other times we could rule the world together,” Russia says with a smile, and the German before him resists the urge to snarl. “But Ludwig, I do not remember a time when I didn’t hate you.”
And Ludwig realizes that he is too tired to humor the Red Empire for another second, too exhausted to maintain whatever semblance of socialization left inside of him telling him that this contact was an official meeting, not a personal decision. Ludwig is sick from the milk that must have been labeled wrong and the unmoving pool of drunkenness of the post war occupation; he misses his brother and his job and his dogs—
—and Ivan. And whatever they had once had in the snows of the interwar days, momentary though it was and now utterly lost.
“Then I would call your memory less than perfect.” Germany’s gaze is wary, before he slams the door.
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I love it!!
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done