Chapter Text
The rare instances in which Prussia would look at him from his window -- Germany, sword in his hands, trying to manage his too-long limbs in a back and forth of defense and attack -- were his most treasured moments.
He would only catch a glimpse of stardust hair and porcelain skin, and if he made the mistake of turning his face up, Prussia would quickly step out of sight. But Germany learnt fast. He learnt, gradually, that Prussia’s interest was piqued whenever he heard a scream that was not Germany’s; he would stay longer at the window if Germany’s technique was cleaner; he would linger, sometimes, after Germany had finished, though he couldn’t figure out what steps would lead to that.
It was the only time Germany saw him in person now, not on the regal paintings in the halls; he had seen him decades prior, some of his earliest memories. Vienna with its big halls and months of diplomatic talks, and Germany had been a sickly boy barely held together by whatever merciful force regarded him as worthwhile for now. He had heard the rumours even then. A walking cadaver, they had whispered, as if parading around a dead body, moving its limbs unnaturally.
The attic of the manor was spacious, storing broken clocks, dusty books, furniture, and; Prussia’s old uniforms. Hidden away were decades worth of torn or simply outdated clothes, and Germany wondered if the armour was Prussia’s too. He compared the sizes. The armor could have fit him, and for a moment Germany considered putting it on. But, seeing as he could not think of a way to do that by himself, and he was terrified of breaking it, he let it be.
There was a uniform that he assumed wasn’t older than a few years. He brought it to his room and laid it on the carpet, getting an idea of Prussia’s height. It was like an imprint on a mattress or grass.
He kept it. Locked away in a chest under his bed. This part of Prussia, at least, he could have.
“I need everything to be perfect,” Germany told the maid, looking into the mirror for any flaws, loose buttons or thread in his uniform, a stray hair.
“You are biting your lip bloody,” the woman said gently. “All will be fine. It’s only a celebration.”
“It’s my first.”
“Well, what is the worst that could happen?” The words didn’t inspire confidence, she realised as Germany’s face grew paler and more concerned, thinking about all the ways it could go wrong. “Alright-- forget I said that. You are a very charming young man, and everyone will think you are orderly.”
Germany put a hand to his face, letting it move down. He remembered how, thirty years ago, it would feel as if the skin would slide off like a loose mask. “I only need to impress one person in that hall, Miss, and I have never before seen that person long enough to talk.”
The maid sighed happily and said something about bachelors and their nervous quirks, the silly worries of youth. Germany frowned and did not mention that he had been alive before her time. He moved away from the mirror and headed to the hall, past the stare of painted kings, queens, children, and him . His face could be singular in portraits that appeared newer, and one of many, almost hidden away, in paintings of families and people of importance. Sometimes, there was blood on his sleeves. It was the only thing Germany knew that Prussia liked.
He had seen the hall before, though only empty. Now, it was filled with an ornate tree and guests of various status. Warriors and nobles, and the men and women who Germany felt a power radiate off. He knew that they were staring at him with the same realisation; he wasn’t a secret, least of all now.
Out of the dozens of states in the hall, Germany only could focus on one.
How cruel it was, for the one person he needed to talk with to be busy in a small crowd. And how fitting, that he drew the attention of humans and immortals alike. Germany tried to push past the guests until finally, he had broken through the inner circle and damn near fell to the ground in front of him.
“Germany.” He had heard his voice before, in Vienna, cutting through air. Now, it was different. Germany didn’t know if he could call it relaxed. Pensive maybe. He stared up at Prussia with wide eyes, startling when he spoke again, “did you lose your tongue?” How odd of him to have that idea. Germany opened his mouth to prove him wrong, his jaw feeling shaky, afraid to speak. When Prussia looked gleeful, and the circle around them began to whisper, giggling, Germany knew that he had misunderstood. He wanted the ground to open beneath him and swallow him at once.
His eyes were so red. Germany had assumed the paintings had exaggerated, a trick of light; but they had downplayed it. And those glowing eyes fixed him in place now expectantly. Germany did not speak, simply staring, and the smile faded in disinterest, Prussia turned to Saxony, to Baden, to city-states. His voice no longer was directed at him. It had been torn out of Germany’s body, painfully.
He stood frozen in place until Prussia had disappeared again, stolen away by Sayn or Westphalia or Cologne.
It made him wonder; why were those still apart and alive, when they had long become part of the Western part of Prussia?
The unrest in March was a welcome blessing. Germany, taking the leap, talked to his king in a firm, confident voice; “The fractured state of the nation will not secure stability. That much is evident.”
The king looked at him suspiciously, “were you part of them? Those revolutionaries?”
“Of course not. But doesn’t my existence prove what your people want? I feel stronger by the day. Of course, if you insist on refusing change I could join the liberals--”
“No.” He stiffened. “... What do you suggest.”
Germany gave a pause. “Unity. Starting with the territory in the West. I refuse to become like my predecessor, and there is no reason why those city-states still walk the streets, is there? It has been 33 years. Do you not think it is about time?”
Germany hadn’t imagined that the act of taking a nation’s life would be so… human. Mortal. There was no fading away or burst of light. Only an open field in the Ruhr and a pitiful corpse with too-dark blood spilling from its wound.
He felt sick the first time; by the last, months later, he prodded the head with his foot.
Prussia did not talk to him, but if he was in mourning he did not show it. The staff and his teachers, though, began referring to Germany as West. And the king had made a promise to the people, declaring in clothes of black, red and gold that he would give freedom and unity, Prussia leading the way--
It was disheartening to see the promise crumble in only a year, a constitution torn apart, leading to a dead end in Baden.
“You said you would give me an empire,” he accused the king. “You said you would be fine with a conservative solution. And you threw that away too.”
“It’s politics, West.”
“It’s deception of the people--”
“The difference being?”
He was aware that Prussia and Austria-Hungary had almost gone to war over-- not him, really, but the singular responsibility over him, the danger he unwillingly carried. He also was aware that he, from a diplomatic point of view, should now stay half the year with Austria-Hungary.
Of course, the German Confederation did not yet have a say in the matter, having the role of an intangible idea again after the blissful year of almost-freedom.
And of course, no matter how much blood he accidentally spilled during training, no matter how many vicious cries his teachers and co-students gave, Prussia always left the window before he could look up, and Germany’s luggage was packed for the peaceful agreement made between the two nations.
It took all but a month for Austria to change his mind. “It is too late,” he told his unimpressed wife, frustrated and shaking and clutching his cheek, as Germany wiped the bloodied butterknife off on a handkerchief and picked up an apple. He looked at the couple coldly. “It is too late, he has become-- just like him, the beast--”
The smile forming on his face was an unfamiliar feeling and stung in the corners of his lips. He bit into the red fruit.
He saw him. He saw him he saw him he saw him , his proud, arrogant stance, his gait like a general or war hero, his face elegant and, as he saw Germany, softening for a second into amusement before becoming ice cold again and turning away.
But he had seen. And the second of amusement and attention and affection, of approval, was what Germany thrived on.
Germany wished that he would look again, face to face, with resentment or mockery, either would be fine. It felt so strange, the staff calling him Germany again, as if the incidents they would call fratricide had never happened.
He met him coincidentally, the god to his Cain, as Prussia carried belongings to the ever-growing and never-ending attic. His eyes pierced into Germany’s, who was seated on a chair that needed patching. “West.” The voice lacked any emotion, and yet the word made Germany fill with pride and shame.
“I think that title is…”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It fits you just fine. Are we any better than common murderers and soldiers if we don’t take our new title with pride? Don’t tell me you regret it. God if you tell me you would rather they were all alive, West , if you so much as dare questioning their sacrifice I’ll make you wish you --” He paused abruptly when Ludwig’s back met the wall, looking at him with his head tilted to the side. Prussia took a step back, seeming surprised at the outburst, though he didn’t apologise or leave.
It was as good as it would get, Germany figured. “I don’t regret it,” he said quickly. “I’m glad I did it! Because- because it means I’m closer to you. And you are stronger too now.”
“I don’t believe you.” He sighed in frustration when Germany opened his mouth, putting a hand over it. “I believe you are glad. I know what it feels like to steal someone’s blood and name. It’s tradition, I suppose. But what I don’t believe is that you did any of this for anyone but yourself. If you lie about this you are only staining their memories by attempting to make yourself seem good.” Prussia pulled away; Germany gasped as if his soul had almost been pulled out, and without registering, his hand reached out for Prussia. He looked at Germany’s hand around his wrist, his red eyes eerily calm. “None of us can call ourselves anything but beasts. Do yourself a favour and accept it now instead of denying it.”
“I don’t think you are a monster.” But there was a comfort to Prussia comparing the two of them to each other. They had that in common; Germany remembered Austria’s accusation with pride even now.
Prussia shot him a wry smile. “Then you are a fool.”
Germany learnt the monstrosities of war three times; once without Prussia, once under his command, and once by his side.
In Versailles, after the new empire with its new king had been proclaimed and Germany’s body grew heavier with the fresh blood of his people in his veins, they shared a room with two beds. “Do you see now?,” Prussia asked, staring up at the ceiling. Germany had never before seen him this relaxed, one arm hanging off the bed, a knee drawn up. His jacket on the chair and his shirt half undone.
Germany looked away before he could think of inappropriate things. He looked at his own body instead. The wounds on his arms, torso and reached a hand up to his face. He still could hear screams echo. “Yes.”
“Then come over here.”
The weight of his body made a dip in the bed as he sat next to Prussia. Somewhere in the last war, he had grown taller than him; Germany counted himself lucky that he didn’t need to sword fight. He was confident that if that had been the case, he’d ended up with at least two limbs gone missing. Seeing as how awkward it was to maneuver them now he wondered how much of a loss that would’ve been.
But then he felt Prussia tug on his arm, gently, and he appreciated that he still had them. Germany looked at him, puzzled, Prussia gave a long sigh before pulling him down and wrapping his arms around him; the touch pleasantly scorched Germany’s sides and back. He wanted nothing more than to lean into it, rest his head on Prussia’s shoulder and fall asleep, even death sounded fine. But his body remained stiff and unmoving until Prussia moved his arms away; Germany reached out like in the attic years ago. The pitying look in Prussia’s eyes was enough to make him rethink that decision.
He stood up. “Why did you…”
“Because,” Prussia seemed to consider the question. “War.”
Germany laid awake in the bed that wasn’t his, in a body he still wasn’t used to and that soon would grow even more unfamiliar with lives stolen from the states, and watched Prussia sleep. Because war. Go rest now. The gentlest words he had ever said to him and Germany wasn’t sure what they meant, but he knew they had to be meaningful. A bedtime fairytale passed down from heart to heart, woven with soft silks.
(Had Prussia had anyone to say those five words to him, when he had been too young to be hardened to the world’s miseries and too old to be blissfully ignorant to them?)
He began to leave the rifle behind, then the dagger. The emperor would turn his back ( tradition, who are we to question it? ) as Germany clawed out the throat and entrails of the Northern and Southern states. Their hearts tasted like sea salt, like wine fields, and in one instance like welcoming, fresh bread, still pulsing.
The bodies no longer woke fear nor curiosity in him; but one thing that terrified him was the grateful, peaceful expression so many of them had, relieved from a burden he could not yet fathom.
To Prussia, he remained West.
When he trained again with a sword it felt as if he had never held one before. His hands held it almost unsurely, his new strength lifted it with unexpected and unwanted ease. It was so embarrassing that he had dismissed his teacher and tried, with immense difficulty, to relearn the movements. Germany had even moved to a place that Prussia would not see.
He let the hand holding the weapon sink down, frowning. Perhaps he needed a new one, something heavier, he could try to see whether the spare ones would--
Germany jolted when he felt warmth against his back.
“Relax your shoulders,” he recognised Prussia’s voice. They talked now, occasionally, about once a day at dinner. It made the wars worth it and every day Germany would grow increasingly restless towards the evening. Prussia could talk about politics or his own interests, Germany always listened in awe, and the remarks slowly became a constant that no longer made Germany feel like he had been stomped to death by horses.
Except now. Because now, he could feel the contour of Prussia’s frontside and arms pressed against him, his hands on Germany’s wrists, guiding him. He needed far too long to relax. His arm moved the way that Prussia nudged it, his chin on Germany’s shoulder.
It came naturally then. Their bodies, as if melting into each other, and Germany felt his breath against his ear when Prussia commented, though the words didn’t register in his overwhelmed state. The loss was great when Prussia pulled away, stepping aside to watch Germany, gesturing for him to continue; and the weight of his gaze settled on Germany. The realisation that he watched him not from a window, separated by distance and glass, that he wouldn’t leave if Germany looked at him.
Germany repeated the movements they had practiced, feeling the ghost of Prussia’s touch, and when he was done he discarded the sword and faced him. “You will come tomorrow too,” he demanded, feeling immature but not caring about that. He was the empire, with Prussia; did he not have the right to make this demand?
“Your stance,” a kick to Germany’s calf, “is,” a shove at his elbow, “lacking.” Prussia made him drop the sword with ease, pressing him against the wall with one arm and holding the blade close to Germany’s throat. “Are you losing intentionally?”
“N-- no...!”
“Then put more effort into it.”
He removed his arms and stepped back, Germany following behind, as they walked back to the middle of the room. Prussia’s room. It was raining outside and despite Germany’s stammering offers of training in his room or one of the halls, Prussia had insisted that this bedchamber was more adequate. Whatever that meant. Germany was pretty sure that Prussia just wanted a new carpet and thus was trying to get blood on it; he told Prussia so in a grumble, and to his delight he had laughed.
Germany breathed in, readying himself as Prussia counted down from three. He took a fast step forward, pushing the sword to the side he knew Prussia was less familiar with; pretending to be about to swing into one side and then he chose the other; and because Prussia was not above body contact, he hooked his leg around the other’s knee, pulling it back. His forearm stung but he didn’t look yet, instead pinning Prussia’s arms down, knees resting at his sides. Germany held back giddy, boyish laughter, grinning as he leaned down just as Prussia had before -- and then some. “Like this?”
He admired the pink that rushed into Prussia’s pale cheeks, in awe of the sight; he was a knight made of porcelain. They remained silent, only the sound of their breathing, Prussia’s eyes daring him.
Germany didn’t know what the dare was, exactly, but he trusted his instinct, or whatever it was that made him lean down further and shyly, sweetly press his lips to Prussia’s.
The swords fell to the ground, clattering in defeat, as two boys shared a kiss in the East wing.