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He hates them. Russia, Prussia, Germany Austria… they make his blood boil, more than anything else. Speaking their languages feels like his tongue had been turned to lead and his throat been covered in sandpaper. Being too close to them, talking with them, it turns his hands clammy and the air becomes too hot and too cold at the same time, his hair sticking to his sweaty neck. Walking on their land makes his clothes seem too tight and his skin crawl with a steady wrong wrong wrong danger daNGER DANGER–
And yet.
He still cares, as much as it feels like his heart is being cut into pieces and his brain is used as a ball in a basketball match to admit that.
It's not the same type of care he has for Erzsébet, or for Tolys, or even America. It's… sharper, rougher, with jagged edges that cut into his body every time it rears its head.
He wouldn't be upset if they were to fade, but he would mourn. He would kill them twenty times over but help find a lost, sentimental picture or trinket. He would laugh at their misery with not a trace of pity or remorse but offer scathing words and biting remarks of advice and the barest hint of comfort when they're at their lowest — he would, he had.
He hates them. They make his blood boil, his skin itch, his mind jump between fight or flight fight or flight fight or flight–
Sometimes, the hate is too much to handle and he screams and cries and locks himself in his room to massacre his furniture without anyone seeing him.
But sometimes, sometimes, when he plays piano in tune with Roderich's violin and they gush about how badass and amazing Erzsébet is, when he speaks cars with Ludwig over a pint of beer, when he trades meaningless insults with Gilbert as they remember the feel of swords in calloused palms, when he dances with Ivan after draining a bottle or two of vodka each…
Sometimes, they don't seem so bad, and the burning hate simmers down to icy needles digging underneath his skin.
He will mourn them without crying when they fade — because they will disappear before him, he's sure, he's already shown how hard it is to get rid of him — but for now, he will hate them with a passion, and he will appreciate them at the same time — not love, never love, not anymore (toddlers running from their caretakers, giggling as they exchange food taken from tables that bend under the weight of a wedding feast; two swords clanging against each other, golden and silver hair flying in the air and laughter ringing out in the courtyard; feathers whistling in the wind as armies clash, green and violet eyes meeting in agreement) but. Care, in his own, strange way he has and that they return with equal stiffness, awkwardness, and familiarity (scribbled sheet music offered alongside a new instrument; a hand rubbing his back and soft prayers murmured as he cries for his people; a polished and renewed blade he lost centuries ago left on his doorstep; an embroidered shawl folded on the bed in the hotel room in Moscow, the floral patterns more similar to the ones back home than he'd like to admit).
He hates them (the hatred grows and mellows at the same time, all the time).