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Chapter Text

November 15, 2023

Brussels, Belgium

With the meeting’s closing remarks, Ludwig Belschmidt exhales, leaning back in his stiff conference chair with exhaustion. He drops his head back, releasing his tension as he closes his eyes, listening as pleasant chatter fills the large, vibrant conference room. The professional atmosphere thaws ever so slightly, the rambunctious personifications rising to their feet, some voices louder than others. 

A good number of EU representatives also climb to their feet while others remain seated, shuffling notes around with focus. Ludwig opens his eyes, staring absently at the thin white support beams that weave across the brilliantly colored ceiling overhead. He has never really concluded how he feels about the design of the Europa Building. Its bright colors bring an energy to the often solemn meetings, but all the same, it resembles a daycare’s color scheme.

With a final deep breath, he turns his head ever so slightly, staring at his older brother who sits on his right. He scowls, pushing himself up again, hands planted firmly on the arms of the chair. “Would it pain you to pay attention to these things every once in a while?” he mutters in sharp German, keeping his voice low as officials and nations converse around them.

Gilbert Beilschmidt flips his phone on its side, the screen going black. He looks over at his younger brother, his platinum-blond hair shifting over his eyes. “What for?” he scoffs. He smiles indifferently, but the slight glint in his eye and the roughness in his tone catches Ludwig off guard. “I know you got it all down.” He leans forward, planting his feet on the floor as he drags Ludwig’s notes toward himself. He thumbs through pages upon pages of elegantly scribed ideas. “Your notes may even be better than Miss Lührmann’s,” he adds with a chuckle, nodding absently at the woman who sits in the row in front of them. 

Ludwig glances at her, his gaze latching onto the Swedish representative at her side. The woman pushes herself out of her chair speaking in muddled English. She rests a hand on the desk at her side, motioning through her ideas with her free hand. Ludwig can hardly make out what the woman says but finds his representative listening intently, nodding along with the Swede’s points.

Gilbert glances around the bustling room, eyes skipping from nation personification to EU official, the lot blending together fairly well to the untrained eye. Very few of the officials in the room are actually aware of what a good third of their colleagues truly are and what they represent. Instead, most EU officials have no choice but to accept that every nation has a man—or perhaps a woman; or perhaps two men—who shows up, claiming a position that certainly is not theirs, just to disappear until the next meeting. Not only are they mysterious and secretive, they are loud and annoying. How is it, many EU officials wonder, that there can be so many of these loud, obnoxious, insensitive people wandering around with big titles, and no one actually knows a single thing about them?

Gilbert turns back to Ludwig, trying to follow his lost gaze. “What is it?” he asks plainly, glancing back and forth, eyes scanning the colorful room.

“Nothing,” Ludwig whispers, shaking his head, his bright blue eyes coming back into focus. He cringes as the voice of Matthias Køhler erupts at his side. He looks up at the Dane who stands with his back to him, speaking as fast as his mouth can possibly handle. Berwald Oxenstierna stands over him, the Finnish personification at his side. On a good day, Ludwig can discern a decent amount of Scandinavian language, but with the way Matthias wildly throws himself about with what is clearly incoherent thought, Ludwig can only watch with wonder. His eyes slip to the water bottle on the Dane’s desk. He can not help but let his mind wander to question what the bottle really contains. 

“I feel like every time I see him, he’s twice as annoying as the time before,” Gilbert comments with a lick of amusement in his voice.

“I don’t think there’s a professional bone in that man’s body,” Ludwig comments, watching Matthias lead his brother and brother-in-law toward the doors of the conference room, his suit coat flapping around his waist like a cape

“No, probably not,” Gilbert laughs, tucking his phone in his pocket as he props his elbows on the table, folding his hands in front of his face.

“Excuse me, sir,” a rich voice calls from behind in rough English. “You both are with the German government, correct?”

Ludwig slowly looks up, twisting around in the chair that does not turn too easily. He stares at the man with a furrowed brow before pushing himself to his feet, holding his dark red tie against his chest as he does. “Ludwig Beilschmidt,” he introduces himself, extending a broad hand with his greeting. He peers down at the man who takes his hand. “I am from the Federal Foreign Office,” he lies, pushing his chair in with ease. He takes a black raincoat up off the back of the chair, holding it on his arm, hoping the man takes this as a subtle signal that he has no intention to stick around for any longer than he absolutely has to. 

“My name is Rostek Jánošík. I am a guest of the Slovak representatives.”

Ludwig’s cordial smile does not shift, but his eyes do. There wasn’t a formal title in that introduction of yours, he notes to himself. His gaze shifts just for a moment as he tries to spot the Slovak personification across the room, but finds the man’s chair empty. Snatched without a trace, he notes as his gaze settles on the middle-aged man before him.

“I heard something interesting in passing, and I’ve been curious to see what someone who actually knows something about the subject has to offer.” He sets himself up, tucking a hand into his pocket, shifting a step back. 

“Okay,” Ludwig smiles, leaning back against his chair, folding his hands beneath his coat. 

“Can I ask how much you anticipate current German public opinion influencing the nation’s handling of conflict in the Middle East?”

Both German men tense up, hardly daring to glance at each other.

“Oh, kurat,” a man appears over Gilbert’s desk, chuckling in soft Estonian. He widens his stance, crossing his arms, watching the conversation head-on. He briefly locks eyes with Gilbert. He had wandered over for more professional conversations, but at this point, he is sufficiently side-tracked and far more intrigued by the Slovak’s proddings.

“Sure,” Ludwig responds plainly, his facade hardly slipping.

Eduard von Bock watches the two with muted amusement.

“I believe you are specifically referring to the Israel-Palestine conflict,” he clarifies.

“Yes.”

“And by German public opinion, you are specifically referring to German citizens calling out Israel’s actions in the conflict,” Eduard adds, staring at the Slovak with icy eyes, bright with silent laughter.

Gilbert’s brow furrows. “Bock, you don’t have to—”

“Are you trying to imply Germany is forgetting the holocaust?!” The loud sharp voice of the Irishman just a few steps behind Eduard catches the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity.

Ludwig eyes him with narrow eyes of caution. Can everyone simply leave it be? Go away. Please, stop causing a scene.

The Irishman’s bright green eyes sparkling with all the energy Ludwig does not have.

“That’s what the papers have been pointing at,” the Slovak offers as his expression distorts.

The Irishman laughs as his dark green tie shifts against his black suit coat, the shining fabric fixed in place by what has to be a two-hundred-year-old tie pin. He tosses his reddish-brown hair back out of his face. “Let’s relieve Mister Beilchmidt of this conversation. Because I think we have identical responses to your question, but let’s be honest. You’ll take my word far faster than you’ll take his, won’t you?”

Ludwig’s gaze settles on the Irishman, his eyes burning with all the emotions he does not dare let cross his face, let alone his tongue. He wrings his hands beneath his coat, continuing to breathe deep.

“I’m afraid we haven’t met.” Rostek shifts a step forward, his dark brown hair shining in the fluorescent lights, traces of it shining silver. He crosses his arms, staring down at the Irishman with a little less excitement than what he engaged Ludwig with.

“Seán O'Callaghan. Irish Department of Foreign Affairs,” he responds, slowly placing one foot in front of the other, his cadence mildly dance-like.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister O'Callaghan. I work closely with Slovak journalists—”

“Er ist ein Journalist,” Gilbert hisses. “Das passt.”

Rostek glances down at the German man with mild unease before letting his gaze return to Seán. “Journalists are reporting that antisemitism in Germany is the highest it’s been since the end of World War II. Do you not believe this dramatic shift can alter the way Germany’s government handles foreign policy with the nations in question?”

Eduard’s glee evaporates. Instead conflicted expressions cross his face as he cannot help but analyze and note the Slovak’s wording.

“Two percent to six,” Gilbert whispers in English, looking up. “You mean to reference the report that saw anti-semitic attitudes amongst Germans increased from two percent to six percent since the outbreak of the conflict you speak of.” He pushes himself up in his chair. “These beliefs are held mostly by young Russian and Turkish Germans.”

“So you do take notes,” Ludwig whispers.

“Of course I do, Westen,” Gilbert spits.

“You aren’t really inquiring with my colleague about policy,” Eduard inserts. “You are trying to map yourself wild conspiracy theories, sticking pins in Germany’s raw wounds and the Middle East’s constantly bleeding ones, stringing together stories to humor yourself and colleagues.” He leans back.

“Let an old man tell you something about memory,” Seán begins, holding a hand against his chest, holding his tie down as he bows for the slightest of moments.

You can’t say shit like that. You look like you’re twenty, Ludwig’s icy stare snaps to the Irishman.

“There are different forms of memory, Mister Jánošík, and everyone carries these memories differently.” Seán’s gaze absently settles on the Estonian. “World War II is often a victim of contemporary interpretation. Not everyone holds it in the same degree of reverence as those who were—and still are—directly impacted by it. At this point, World War II fundamentally lies in public memory. There aren’t all that many people left who’ve experienced it; it is widely remembered through monuments, museums, and—in cases like Germany—shared public shame of what their country did.” He drops his gaze as he tucks his hands into his pockets, slowly stepping forward. “Therefore, there is the separate idea of personal memory. For some, the events of the 1940s are deep wounds on a family name. Family trees got bottlenecked by victimhood, or grandfather’s names have been scratched out of family trees out of shame. They can only wonder what could’ve been.” He shakes his head, blinking thoughtfully as his bright eyes fall out of focus. “For those who are old enough, the drone of planes and the echo of gunfire still ring in the silence of cool, summer nights.”

Gilbert closes his eyes, hardly daring to move. He has no intention of catching Rostek’s attention.

“There are many who are old enough to remember being on the wrong side of it all,” Eduard adds lightly. He can hardly get a read off Ludwig but feels Gilbert’s grief radiate off him.

Rostek glances at Gilbert, before resting his gaze on Ludwig. He smiles indifferently. “But obviously, you kids aren’t anywhere near old enough to fall into that category.”

“Obviously.” Ludwig’s voice breaks.

“See!” Seán shouts. “Freeze! Hold that expression!” He pulls his hands from his pockets, holding up his hands like an imaginary picture frame, squinting as he squares the Slovak’s face in the center. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

The man’s smile quickly melts, his expression rapidly replaced by confusion. “What do you mean?”

“That sort of memory isn’t personal to everyone. Not everyone can be sensitive about it. You can’t even be sensitive about it! You’ve been smiling this entire damn time!”

“Why would I have a relationship with it?”

“That same question is asked by Russian and Turkish Germans whose families and identities are extraordinarily far removed from Germany and his—its identity” He barely catches himself. “They are the Germans you are talking about.”

“Despite that, do you think that German policy can be changed—”

“No,” Ludwig cuts him off, shaking out his coat, pulling it over his broad shoulders, fighting his arms through the sleeves.

“Mister Jánošík,” a soft voice inserts from behind Ludwig. 

The German furrows his brow, glancing over his shoulder at the woman who slows to his side, wrapped up in a purple trench coat. “Miss van Rijn,” he whispers.

“I hate to ruin your fun, but I need to borrow Mister Beilschmidt. We have a pressing follow-up meeting to attend promptly.”

Rostek nods, turning sharply for the Irishman.

“I’m afraid I’m a part of this follow-up meeting.” Seán turns, gathering his things off the desk. This follow-up meeting does not exist.

Eduard waves the Slovak off, wandering around the desk, standing over Gilbert who at this point does nothing to hide his annoyance.

“Are you two okay?” Marije van Rijn whispers, grabbing Ludwig’s arm, her gaze settling on Gilbert. She eyes the Slovak who carries on, wandering across the room.“

“What do I owe to my angel?” Gilbert asks, looking up at the Belgian woman. He exhales, hanging his head. “Did you actually hear all of that?”

“I think everyone heard that. Except for perhaps Feliks and Toris,” she eyes the pair who still sit across the room, voices low, but clearly arguing. The Lithuanian pushes himself up out of Matthias’ empty seat, planting his hands firmly on the Pole’s desk, his face flush with rage as he stares down at the man. Half of his hair remains tied behind his head, his bangs sliding into his periphery, keeping his gaze on the Pole like blinders. She turns back to the German brothers. “I’m so sorry you had to—”

“Don’t be,” Ludwig cuts her off, fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket, using it as an excuse to keep his gaze low. 

Unfortunately for him, the woman is short and catches his eye perfectly well. With a heartbroken smile, she squeezes his arm, shaking her head. Her light brown hair shifts against the neckline of her coat, sparkling earrings lost in the mess.

“Nosey Bastard,” Seán comments. He turns to the Belgian with a narrowed gaze. “Was he on your case about something?” he asks thoughtfully, glancing at the Belgian on Ludwig’s arm.

“Shootings and immigration policy,” she responds dryly. “He caught me before the meeting.” Her eyes narrow as they fall on the back of the Slovak that wanders across the room. She smiles softly as she realizes the man’s path of travel is set for the Italian brothers. “I told him more than I probably should have. I was caught off guard and his words were either very poorly chosen or hand selected to do the most damage possible.”

“He’s a strange man,” Ludwig notes, watching as Lovino Vargas’ beady eyes latch onto the man in question. “But I feel like someone is about to put him in his place.”

Seán runs his hand through his hair, fluffing it up as he also turns around, his eyes lighting up with glee as he too spots Lovino’s burning glare rapidly picking up heat. “Someone’s about to tell Jánošík where to shove it.”

“All he’s looking for is a good conversation,” Marije notes.

“One for him and his journalist friends,” Eduard adds. 

“He asked me if I… or… uh… Belgium was going to fall out of the EU.”

Gilbert’s expression twists with unease. “So he’s not a journalist?”

“No. Journalists generally aren’t allowed in here. When they are, they are—under no circumstances—allowed to speak to meeting members. But to be clear… even I am not sure what he is.” She stares off, gaze settled on Lovino Vargas. Her eyes light up as—by some miracle of God—she catches Lovino’s eye. She releases Ludwig’s arm, jumping up and down, flailing her arms about. After a few moments of this, she secures the Italian’s attention. 

“What is it?” Gilbert asks, glancing between the bouncing Belgian and the Italian on the far side of the room.

Marije points aggressively at the Slovak before dragging her pointer finger across her neck, motioning a slit throat. “Mátalo,” she hisses in demonic Spanish, praying the Italian can read her lips.

Lovino raises an eyebrow, an evil smile forming on his lips. Before he can redirect his attention to the man he has been instructed to kill, he freezes almost as if he has been shot.

“Uh-oh,” Gilbert whispers, watching as both Italians’ gazes lock onto the Slovak man who has done nothing but start talking.

“Can you guess what he’s saying?” Eduard asks softly.

“Italy has a laundry list of problems. It’d be like playing darts blindfolded to guess.” Ludwig watches as the expression on Feliciano Vargas’ face melts with Rostek’s every line. Toris’ conversation held just down the desk from the Italian brothers draws Ludwig’s attention for the briefest moment. The Lithuanian keeps growing louder as he leans just a little further on the desk.

“Westen,” Gilbert cautions, his eyes not breaking off either Vargas.

The German’s attention snaps back toward the Italian brothers. His eyes widen in horror as he spots Feliciano on his feet, possessions in his arms, hurrying for the door. Rostek watches him indifferently as Lovino’s expression is at the very least tired. “Shit,” Ludwig hisses.

Chapter Text

Rostek carries on past Lovino, finding that half of his conversation has disappeared. Lovino’s gaze snaps to Ludwig, his eyes widening with alarm. He nods backward toward the door Feliciano has successfully fled from, as if to silently demand, “Go fix that.”

Ludwig steps forward, weaving his way through the small crowd of nations around him, trying to get across the room as fast as possible without causing any concern. He slows just above Lovino’s desk resting his fingertips on the oak surface. “What did he say?” he asks in sharp Italian. He knows better than to expect Lovino to let the German language pass his lips.

Lovino hesitates, opening his mouth to critique the man on his language skills before deciding it is not the best time. “He came up and called us out on every single policy Italy is behind on. He had less than kind words to offer the Prime Minister—but then so do I—but he started driving this point home about how not only are we the weak underbelly of Europe, we are heavy. We weigh not only the EU but the whole continent down.”

Ludwig curses, his voice tight.

“Someone needs to come get this fucker in check,” Lovino’s gaze settles on the man who is now in a heated debate with two real EU representatives. “Actually…” He plants his hands on his desk, glancing around the room. “If anyone is going to come and get this bastard, it should be the nation from which he hails. Where the fuck is Željko?” 

“He disappeared the moment the meeting was over.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lovino hisses. “We have to sit here and chat up all these fuckers but the moment the meeting ends, Mister and Missus Czechoslovakia get to disappear and do God-knows-what?”

“If I had to guess, she didn’t give him a choice,” Ludwig comments dryly, stepping past the desk, heading for the door.

“Someone needs to remind them it’s not the 1920s anymore,” Lovino hisses. 

Ludwig huffs in mild amusement, glancing backward as the bickering between Toris and Feliks seems to be following him out the door. He steps to the side, watching with wide eyes as the Pole storms past him, throwing open the door. “Spierdaliaj, Litwa,” he calls in sharp Polish, unbuttoning his suit coat. He glares over his shoulder with harsh eyes, causing even Ludwig to shrink in on himself.

“Mój Boże!” Toris jogs after him, his hair swinging forward over his broad shoulders. “Przynajmniej mów do mnie po imieniu!”

Ludwig catches the door after Toris, glancing down the hall as they round the bend, only their voices echoing down the hall.

The last meeting wasn’t this chaotic, he notes to himself as he heads straight down the hall. Granted, the last meeting did not host Mister Jánošík, nor did the last meeting cover the topics that this meeting picked apart. He glances back over his shoulder as the voice of Feliks Łukasiewicz grows distant. The past day has been a callout session for both Poland and Hungary. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his slacks as he glances around the hall. Poland isn’t necessarily new to mild political corruption, but obviously, it’s become enough of a problem that it wound up a talking point on the agenda. It looks like Toris is on Felik’s case about it more than anyone else. Or at least I presume that’s what their bickering is about. Otherwise, we have a whole different problem on our hands.

He shifts a step to the left, descending into the narrow corridor that leads off into the men’s bathroom. He pushes the door open, immediately spotting Feliciano’s bag and coat set on the counter straight across from the door. He sighs heavily, slowly stepping toward the row of stall doors, hearing faint gasps and sniffles from the first one. Goddamnit. He hangs his head, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. He pulls his credit card out, fitting the corner in the lock of the door. He unlocks the stall with ease, pushing open the door with the back of his hand. 

He stares down at the Italian man who sits on the floor, knees pulled to chest, head folded over. “Feli,” he whispers, pushing the door open all the way. 

Feliciano Vargas jumps, sitting up straight, planting his hands flat on the bathroom floor. He stares up at the man with wide, baffled eyes. He forces a smile after a moment, closing his eyes to hide his tears. “Hey.” His voice cracks.

Ludwig does not break his gaze off the man, even as he tucks his card away, returning his wallet to his pocket. “Talk to me,” he prompts in soft Italian, stepping forward into the stall. His diction and articulation change dramatically depending on whether he is speaking to Lovino or Feliciano.

Feliciano tucks his hair back out of his face, relocating a stray strand. He takes a deep breath, trying to suppress his tears, but fails as he chokes on another sob. He wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his light gray suit coat as he drops his head back against the wall. His light brown hair shifts, falling forward in an absolute mess. He crosses his arms across his thin body as he slouches against the wall, hanging his head once more. “I’m fine. It’s stupid. Don’t worry about it.”

Ludwig slowly crouches down, folding his hands in front of himself as he braces his elbows on his knees. “Meine Liebe, of course it is.” He stares patiently at the Italian man. “It always is. And I’m always right here, ready to hear about it.”

Feliciano stares up at him with narrow, wet eyes. “It’s just…” he trails off, his soft brown eyes muddled with confusion. “I’ve never been… useful to anyone,” he whispers. “It’s like… no matter who I’m with or what I do, I’m always destined to be dead weight.”

“Like what Jánošík said.”

“Did Lovi tell you?” Feliciano stares up at the man emptily. His glossy hair shifts into his face as he tilts his head. 

“I think… You are complicated,” Ludwig whispers. “And obviously your track record is complicated.” He reaches forward, gently nudging Feliciano’s hair out of his face. His finger traces smooth, slightly freckled skin as he does so, his fingertips finding old scars hidden in the Italian’s hairline.

“I don’t understand,” Feliciano chokes.

Ludwig’s heart sinks as his eyes meet the Italian’s. “To Jánošík’s point… you are a little heavy… A bit of work.”

Feliciano hangs his head. 

“But that’s a weight I happily carry.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. I know how your government and people feel—”

“I didn’t say they were all that happy,” Ludwig cuts him off. “All I know is that I will carry you for as long as I have to. As long as I can hold you that’s all I care about.”

Feliciano flushes, wiping his tears.

Ludwig pushes himself to his feet, tucking his hands in his coat pocket. “What’s up with you trying to start complicated conversations at terrible times and in terrible locations?”

Feliciano forces a sad smile, staring up at the man with empty eyes. “Have I always been dead weight? Even back then?”

Ludwig does not blink but his expression loses a faint degree of color. I’m not getting left alone on this one today, am I? He takes a slow, deep breath. “Do you want me to talk you through every helpful deed you accomplished for the Axis?”

Feliciano drops his gaze, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I didn’t contribute anything else to the modern world.”

Ludwig’s stomach twists as his expression finally shifts with unfiltered distraught, realizing the man is right.

“I’m not a mere weight, Ludwig. I’m the reason Europe can’t take a single step forward. Everyone is fixed in place because of me.”

The German takes a deep breath. “I am more than happy to list for you every reason why that isn’t true, but could we please relocate to any venue that isn’t a bathroom stall?” He extends a hand to the man on the floor.

Feliciano takes it, slowly rising to his feet. He lets the German lead him out of the stall but stops beside the counter so he can take up his coat and bag once more. He fights his arms through the beige sleeves of his trench coat, picking up his satchel by the handle, letting the old worn bag swing loosely at his side. He fights the strap over his shoulder, staring up at the man emptily.

“I know. I see you,” Ludwig whispers. “Come on,” he steps toward the door, waving the man along. He holds a hand out for Feliciano who takes it. 

The pair hardly make it a few steps down the narrow corridor that leads back into the larger hall before the voices of EU representatives and other nations ring through the hall. Feliciano, with his breath caught in his throat, pulls his hand from Ludwig’s, letting his arm fall limp at his side.

“Seriously?” the German whispers, his empty hand folding in on itself as he turns ever so slightly toward the man at his side as they reach the intersection of the halls.

“I don’t want to cause more problems for my people right now.”

“What kind of bullshit is that?” The man’s tone is soft and smooth, but there is intent behind every word.

“You should have seen Prime Minster Meloni when she came to realize that I am not the straightest man to walk this earth.” Feliciano tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat, keeping his gaze low. “I don’t want to cause problems for the people who are supposed to be my colleagues.”

“Feli,” Ludwig hisses. “What the hell did the woman say to you?”

“Let’s just say her suggestions would probably fall into the tier of human rights violations—”

“Feliciano. Why didn’t you say—”

“It didn’t matter. That woman doesn’t know anything about me other than the fact that I got Lovino.”

“I can and will put her in line just like I did with Berlusconi.”

The Italian’s gaze narrows before he looks up. “Did you threaten Berlusconi?”

“You didn’t hear?” Ludwig shifts a step back. His brow furrows. “Lovino caught wind of it.”

“Did you threaten the Prime Minister of Italy?”

Ludwig’s cheeks flush.

“What the hell did you say?” Feliciano shifts a step backward, turning to face the man head-on.

“He’s dead now. It doesn’t matter. I dealt with it then, and I can deal with it again. I can put everything right again for you and Lovino both.”

“You got Lovi out of trouble too?”

“Of course I did,” Ludwig whispers.

“What the hell did you say?!” Feliciano presses again, stepping forward, eyes wide.

Ludwig shakes his head, trying to remove himself from the hot water he has put himself in. He steps past the man, heading for the stairs, but is caught by his wrist. It is ironic when Feliciano tries to stop Ludwig by any amount of physical force. Never will there be a day where Feliciano will ever best—let alone match—Ludwig’s physical strength. Despite this, Ludwig stops as if all the forces in the universe commanded him to.

“Beije-o! Beije-o! Beije-o!” A sharp voice catches Ludwig off guard from behind. It is immediately cut off by a sharp slap.

Ludwig whirls around finding João Carriedo Silva in a half bow, a hand to the back of his head, Antonio Fernández Carriedo just a step behind, lowering his hand with a soft shake. “Please ignore him,” Antonio mumbles in a strange form of Italian. His articulation and accent match Lovino’s regional accent, but his tone is far smoother, leaving anyone who hears it in a brief moment of silent confusion.

João wrings his nose, unable to decipher a single word that falls from his brother’s mouth, so instead turns to Ludwig and Feliciano with an empty stare.

Antonio’s bright gaze focuses ever so slightly as he locks eyes with Feliciano and his tear-stained face. “Željko’s guy got to you?” He tucks his hands in the pockets of his black trench coat.

Ludwig nods solemnly. 

“Yeah.” The Italian’s voice breaks as he tucks his hair back out of his face.

“I wouldn’t worry about him.” Antonio rocks back on his heels, a letter bag beating against his hip as he does so. “I don’t think he will be back any time soon. If anything, I don’t think he will be working with the Slovak Ministry for that much longer either.” He shifts his weight to the side, awkwardly turning toward his older brother. “He managed to piss off some real representatives,” he continues, slipping into English for the Portuguese’s sake.

“Oh! The… God… What was his name? The Slovenian guy—”

“Slovak,” Feliciano corrects faintly. “And frankly, it doesn’t matter anymore.” He turns, tucking his hands back into his pockets as he steps down the hall. “He’s already dealt all the damage he possibly can.”

Chapter Text

Antonio’s gaze narrows as he watches Ludwig turn sharply after the Italian man. He takes a deep breath, glancing at his brother. “Are you ready?” he asks in soft Portuguese. 

“Are we just leaving that?” João’s gaze remains fixed on Feliciano’s back as he nods after the pair.

“I’m not responsible for that Vargas,” Antonio mumbles, heading for the corridor lined with elevator doors.

“And you are allowed to just… leave all together?” João trots after him. “Isn’t there a press conference that you have to attend?”

“My representatives get to handle that one,” Antonio sighs. “I—on the contrary—now get to do whatever I damn well please.” He glances back at the Portuguese man as he slows beside an elevator, hitting the call button.

“That’s not fair,” the older man whines. “When my people had the Presidency, I had to attend everything.” He crosses his arms across his chest, a sleek black backpack hanging on his shoulders. Luciano told him backpacks give him “weird dad energy” once. He has worn backpacks ever since. It is evident João redacted the word “weird” in his recollection of the comment.

“I do attend everything,” Antonio returns defensively as the elevator doors slide open. “Just not press meetings. I have no need to go. As far as those journalists care, I don’t have any sort of real credibility. No one knows who I am.” He steps into the glass chamber, hitting the button for the ground floor as his brother follows.

“But you are allowed to just… leave after the hell that broke loose the moment that meeting was over?”

“I am not responsible for all of that,” Antonio mutters. “Hell only broke loose because people decided to show up for some reason.” He watches the colorful walls shoot upward as the glass elevator sinks. “When meetings are mostly representatives, they tend to remain tamer. I think the only people who regularly show up are Ludwig, Berwald, Noé, Marije… And I think that’s it. And then me of course.”

“I think this one got the turnout because we are bashing on Feliks and Elizabeta. It’s always fun to watch someone get bullied.”

“Is that why you showed up?” Antonio spits. “Just for entertainment?”

“Well I haven’t had much else of a reason for about… three years.”

“God, João,” Antonio hisses. “All we did was cover some Good of the Order subjects. This isn’t a spectacle of public shaming—”

“Did we sit through the same meeting? Because from my perspective—from that seat of mine next to Feliks—, that was public shaming.”

Antonio clenches his jaw. “Our meetings aren’t public.”

“But this information is out for the entire world to see. We sat them down and pointed out their every flaw.”

“That’s part of being in the EU!” Antonio spits.

“Okay let me adjust my example. What if someone sat… say… Lovino down and harassed him about everything that was wrong with the Italian government?”

“Why would they tell him? He doesn’t have anything to do with the Italian government.”

“I feel like that’s kinda what it’s like to be some of those eastern guys like Hungary and Poland.”

Antonio’s expression falls. “I see what you’re getting at.”

“So yeah, I get a little bit of a kick out of watching people bully each other over things that everyone knows damn well can’t be fixed.” He looks up as the doors slide open, releasing the two to the ground level. “You’d think that for how old we all are, people would’ve sorted out that their identities are allowed to be separated from their governments. But, no. Here we are in the Year of Our Lord 2023, and people are still unbearably stupid.”

“It’s a complicated conversation to have with yourself,” Antonio defends, leading the way through the Europa Building’s lively lobby, eyes kept low to avoid eye contact with any sort of journalist. “And not everyone is brave enough to sit down and confront their own identity.”

“When did you?”

“Oh, I was young. I had to. My people were conquering and committing mass murder in my name and I was still really young.”

João nods. 

“Not everyone is brave enough to discover how much of their identity is dictated by their government.”

“Or perhaps, how little,” João adds. “I mean, you’ve come and gone over the years, but look at Feliks. Does he look like—”

“Don’t even start on looks. Looks can be deceiving,” Antonio cuts him off.

“Not really—”

“Without knowing, would you look Jones up and down and guess his power by his appearance, let alone his demeanor?”

João’s expression twists. “Not… really…” he confesses, following the man out of the building.

Antonio pulls his phone out of his pocket as he slowly wanders down the street, searching for a specific license plate amongst the cars on the side of the road.

João follows him, glancing over his shoulder, eyes locked on Toris Laurinaitis who stands on the curb, hands in his hair, his phone held to his ear.

“Port,” Antonio calls.

The man blinks, whirling around, finding Antonio with the back door of a black Audi Sportback held open. He nods, skipping a few steps before slowly sinking into the car, sliding across the dark brown leather seats. He curses as he hits his head on the ceiling of the small car.

Antonio climbs in after him, pulling the door shut. As he does, the car slowly inches forward, the driver proceeding to the destination he had been called to deliver the men to.

“I don’t know why you would know anything more than I do, but…” His brow furrows. “Do you know what the hell is going on between Toris and Feliks?”

Antonio glances at his brother. “Do you mean their bickering or just their dynamic in general?”

“I never see them. Is their fighting not normal?”

Antonio furrows his brow. “Feliks is usually pretty laid back and Toris is generally a quiet, modest guy.” He blinks a few times. “Although, I do know they have centuries upon centuries of history. Obviously, they were once one country for a little while—”

“Functionally married,” João adds.

“Not necessarily—”

“You are only arguing because under that logic you would’ve been married to Roderich when we went Habsburg.”

“No,” Antonio spits. “Under his rule, sure. Yeah. Okay. We were Habsburg for a while. But married? No.”

“Denial.”

“You were part of my empire at that time!”

“That’s how I know! I was there! I’m not in denial,” his brother prods.

“Anyway,” Antonio turns toward the window, his face reddening. “I know Toris had a thing with Alfred in the 30s, so whatever Feliks and Toris have going on can’t be romantic. It takes a bit more than a few decades to forgive a guy for leaving you for the United States of America.”

“Who the hell told you that?” João drops his harassment.

“What?”

“That Toris and Alfred—”

“Oh. Lovi,” Antonio answers plainly. “Lovino, Seán and Toris lived in New York during the 30s—”

“Nightmare.”

“Oh yeah. I know. During that time Toris and Alfred had some sort of complicated relationship.”

“During the Great Depression?” João whispers. “There’s no way Alfred could’ve been emotionally sound for that. After all the crap he went through? Not a chance.”

“Toris named the codes,” Antonio whispers.

João’s eyes widen. “What?” he hisses. 

There are certain codes that often get called on national personifications when they—like normal humans—go through rough spots in their lives. Many of these occur in the presence of other nations but often need to be referred to and spoken of in code so as to not alarm those who do not understand the nature of the nations’ existence.

Code Stock Market is the milder of two. It received its namesake when it became a regular occurrence for Alfred to lock himself away during not only the era it refers to but also subsequent international meetings and events. He would usually engage in less-than-productive bouts of self-hatred and related behaviors. Toris coined the code, and it is the code sent to a nation’s higher-ups when a personification falls into a troublesome depression; a depression that needs to be watched.

Code 1929—the second code named after Alfred’s self-destructive behavior—had more specifically been invented for when Code Stock Market went unnoticed, or was skipped entirely. Emergency services are generally first on the call list, and political officials come second. Of course, the personifications, being what they are, cannot die. They cannot die permanently anyway. Consequently, the whole affair becomes far more complicated. Toris and many of the other nations hold the codes’ namesakes in painful memory. Therefore, during meetings like these, nations will lend their spare hotel keycards to those they trust, just in case shit hits the fan. For example, Antonio has João and Lovino’s spare cards, and they, in turn, have his. Just because the codes are named after Alfred, does not mean Alfred is the only one who has them called on him.

“Toris did everything he could for Alfred while he lived with him, and Alfred in turn took really good care of Toris,” Antonio reports, watching the road ahead of them. 

João nods, absently reaching back for his seatbelt despite being midway through their route.

Antonio glances at him with slight mockery in his eyes as if to silently imply, “Nothing that happens to this car could possibly kill us.”

“Speaking of Romano…” the Portuguese man segues less than gracefully as his seatbelt clicks. He tilts his head eyeing his younger brother with bright, sparkling eyes.

The Spaniard takes a slow, deep breath, bracing himself for any kind of question that could potentially leave the man’s mouth.

“I noticed that the moment the meeting ended, your eyes went for him. You both got stuck talking to other people and he ended up leaving a minute or two before you managed to get out of our conversation with two-thirds of Benelux—”

“Why the hell were you paying attention to all of that?” Antonio mumbles.

“What’s going on between the two of you nowadays?” João dodges the question.

Antonio does not respond but instead sighs heavily, keeping his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Hell if I know. His gaze narrows. I do know that I would like Lovi to be here right now just to kick Port in the shin and tell him where to shove it. The strange duo—Antonio and Lovino—definitely have traits the other lacks. Lovino possesses the spine that Antonio lost over the years while Antonio maintains the fundamental grasp of decency that Lovino was probably never so much as graced with.

“Silence isn’t an answer,” his brother prods.

“You act like our kind has clearly defined words for the wild relationships we end up in over the years. I mean, Lovino and I alone have had countless different dynamics over the centuries.”

“Sure you’ve been through a lot, but your stages still have names!” João argues. “You had the phase where you raised him like an older brother, and then you had the phase where he pined after you like a pathetic teenage girl, and then there was the phase where you were both too edgy to properly communicate with each other, and then you did long distance.” His gaze narrows.

And then I lost him to World War II for a good few years. Antonio watches his brother silently dodge this detail.

“But as far as the past fifty years goes, we all know you are vaguely together, but it’s not really clear how.” He leans back. “I mean, I remember you proposed to him the moment you legally could, but—”

“It’s not legal for him, yet,” Antonio whispers.

“Right. But when was the last time you’ve snogged in a closet?” João refuses to allow his brother to descend into self-pity over the state of Italian policy.

“When was the last time you’ve been snogged in a closet!” Antonio quickly combats.

João opens his mouth, but no words escape.

“That’s what I thought. That’s probably because you don’t have friends, let alone is there anyone under the sun who is willing to do anything with you in a closet or otherwise.”

João narrows his gaze. Is he really going to confess to all he had been up to after the last UN session? With Arthur Kirkland at that? “I beg to differ.” Yup. 

Antonio’s gaze snaps up to him. “João?”

The Portuguese man turns toward the window. “I just don’t understand how you’ve managed to win the affection of Europe’s grumpiest nation,” he deflects. “There is no reason for that man to put up with you the way he does. That math is terrible. Therefore, there must be something the rest of us aren’t seeing.”

Antonio smiles, watching his brother with curiosity for a moment more. He turns around once more, locking eyes with their driver in the rearview mirror. Oh shit. Their entire conversation comes back to him at once. I am so sorry, sir. We are normal people. Don’t worry about us. Completely normal people. He smiles sheepishly before lowering his gaze. “He tends to regularly remind me of this fact.” He looks up again as the car slows to a stop. He nods politely to the poor driver before pushing open the door, picking his bag up by the handle as he slides out of the back seat. He climbs to his feet, scanning the new street, holding the door as his brother climbs out. “You were right with the way you defined the stages of our relationship, though. He really was a responsibility I had when I was too young to have any, so we ended up growing up together.”

João squints as he glances up at the hotel that towers over them. His gaze settles on the warm facade of the restaurant built into the ground level. “You weren’t that young.” He pushes the car door shut. “You were considerably older than he was anyway.” He glances at his brother with a cocky grin. “You were old enough to marry Roderich.” He grunts as the Spaniard’s bag is swung straight into his chest. He laughs, shoving the man to the side. 

“I really wasn’t old enough. You know that.”

“For the first bit, yeah. But then you grew into it.”

Antonio lowers his gaze as he readjusts his bag’s strap on his shoulder. He climbs the steep steps to the glass door of the restaurant, pulling it open. “I can’t see how you remember all of that. I only remember Lovi being young and constantly trying not to lose him to our power-hungry neighbors.”

“It kind of comes with trauma and depression.” João steps into the warm establishment after his brother.

Antonio glances over his shoulder with foggy eyes before returning his gaze to the large restaurant, spotting the various representatives, nations, and other guests that roam around the space. It is almost assumed that after meetings the personifications crowd the nearest alcohol-providing establishment to drink away their worries and pains. He smiles softly as he spots Lovino across the room. “But to answer your question,” he begins, thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Our relationship always has been—and probably always will be—rather hazy.” His shoulders fall as he releases some of his tension. “I know he has my back, and he knows that I have his, and when you live like our kind does…” He turns to his brother. “Can you really ask for much more?”

Chapter Text

Antonio remains at his brother’s side, watching Lovino wander to the bar. The Italian pulls out his wallet, slapping a small handful of Euros down on the counter. “A bottle of Barbera d’Asti,” he demands in sloppy French. He does not particularly fancy the language, but if it gets him alcohol, so be it.

The bartender glances at the small pile of currency before glancing at the wall behind him. He turns for it, grabbing the wine Lovino requests off a cluttered rack, bringing it to the counter. “It’s only seventy-five Euros.”

Lovino slowly takes up the extra notes, returning them to his wallet before tucking it away once more. He takes the bottle from the man, nodding politely.

“Have a good night, sir.” The bartender nods with a sly smile, realizing the Italian is attempting to make his escape.

“Thank you,” Lovino waves him off as he turns for the doorway that connects the brasserie to the hotel. He clenches his jaw as the Greek and Cypriot nations lock eyes with him on his way out. Don’t you fucking dare, he silently cautions with burning, hazel eyes.

Heracles Karpusi drops his gaze, his hair swinging into his periphery as Lovino successfully makes it out the doorway of the bar unconfronted. Usually, it’s a pain in the ass to escape any of these things unconfronted. Usually, someone wants to catch me and Feli in the conference room and harass us on the state of the nation. He glances around the brilliantly colored lobby as he slows beside shining elevator doors, hitting the call button with his free hand. He glances around as stray politicians and nations wander. I was honestly expecting that dipshit Slovak to do the trick, but once Feli left, he got bored of me. These fuckers don’t even know that there is any sort of status difference between me and Feliciano and they still find him more interesting out of the pair of us. He looks up as the doors slide open.

He hits the button for the topmost floor before slipping his free hand into his pocket. He grips the neck of the bottle with his other. People disappeared from the meeting in tears. Not many, but a good few. And those who were not in tears were yelling or getting yelled at. He narrows his gaze, beady eyes fixed on the floor. Miss Hungary, the poor woman, was accused of every sin that wasn’t hers to bear the personal blame for. He looks up, watching the floors count upward. She has had a particularly rough time in recent decades. It doesn’t help that her boss is turning to Russia of all nations. He holds the bottle up, silently analyzing the label. But then, she isn’t the only one with people groveling at Russia’s feet. He lowers his gaze as memories far too recent for his liking resurface. The elevator chimes, drawing his attention as the doors slide open.

He steps forward, blinking as he emerges into an empty seating area, surprised to find the whole space dim and unmanned. He steps through the dark room, holding the bottle of wine close to his body, carefully stepping through the room, trying his best not to run into anything. He manages to find the door for the balcony, twisting the handle. His expression draws up blank with pleasant surprise as it swings inward. You’re unlocked? he asks silently, pitching no arguments, stepping out onto the balcony.

He steps into the cool Belgian evening, the autumn breeze blowing his dark chestnut hair back out of his face. I should probably make an effort to make sure Miss Hungary is alright before we leave tomorrow. He slowly steps across the elegantly furnished rooftop. I know what it’s like to be ignored in these functions. He pauses, his eyes latching onto the skyline. The sky burns with brilliant oranges and purples as the sun drifts over the western horizon. 

He sets the bottle of wine down on a table for the briefest of moments as he scans the empty balcony. His gaze settles on the bar set against the back wall. He grabs the neck of the bottle once more, gliding to the counter. He rests a hand on the gray countertops, slipping behind the short wall into the dim space. He spots a corkscrew on a lower shelf, immediately diving for it. As he swipes it off the shelf, the balcony door swings open. I swear to God, he curses, head kept low. He slowly pushes himself upright, squinting into the evening, eyes narrowing as he vaguely recognizes the man who steps into the dwindling daylight.

Lovino braces his weight on the counter, eyeing the man up and down before letting his gaze latch onto the young boy who follows the newcomer by just a few paces. The child clutches his thin arms, glancing around the balcony with wide, dark eyes. The Italian’s expression twists as he struggles to recognize the man. Shit, who are you? His gaze darts from the man to the child. Who the fuck has a kid? He blinks a few times, trying to place the man’s face, finding it eerily familiar but not quite placable. Oh! Shit! Cyprus. His expression lights up, as his gaze settles on the boy at his side. And the… other… the other one.

Alekos Vasileios slowly unbuttons his dark gray suit coat, sliding it back off his arms, before dropping it on the boy just behind him.

I have no fucking clue who you are. Lovino gives up on trying to identify the child.

The boy pulls the coat off his head, his dark brown hair sticking up in every which way as he finds the top of the article, draping it over his shoulders, fighting his arms through the large sleeves.

The Cypriot slows in front of the counter, resting an arm on the gray surface, glancing down at the bottle in Lovino’s hands. “Do you think you can spare a glass?” he asks in soft English, his voice low and smooth.

“I paid for the whole bottle…”

Without batting an eye Alekos reaches into his back pocket, retrieving his wallet.

“No… Wait…” Lovino braces his weight on the counter, closing his eyes. “It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t drink the whole thing anyway.” He steps back, slowly scanning the shelving below the counters, spotting a stash of wine glasses. “We will call that your payment to me,” he sighs, grabbing two of them, setting them on the counter. He takes up the corkscrew, turning it around in his hand.

Alekos watches with bright, intense eyes as Lovino holds the bottle on his arm, methodically cutting away the foil. He pulls it off the top of the bottle, tossing it into the rubbish bin tucked below the counter before turning the corkscrew over once more. He drives the screw into the cork of the bottle. 

“You do that so well,” the Cypriot absently remarks. “Heracles and Sadık are less elegant about it.” He glances back over his shoulder at the young boy who wanders up to the edge of the balcony, kneeling on the ground, pressing his hands to the glass wall, his dark eyes scanning the lively city. 

“Patéras,” the boy remarks. 

“I know,” Alekos responds in soft English as if to silently plead with the child to speak in a language the Italian can understand.

“Tha moiázei poté i póli mou étsi?”

Alekos shakes his head, turning back toward Lovino. “With Heracles and especially Sadık, the best way to open a bottle is the fastest way.”

The Italian smiles ever so slightly. “I’ve been watching Antonio get into bottles of shit as long as I can remember,” he mumbles, bringing the arm of the corkscrew down, pulling the cork from the bore of the bottle.

“He taught you?”

“Goodness, no. He usually doesn’t like seeing me wasted,” he whispers. “I just watched enough to figure it out.” He sets the corkscrew on the counter, pouring the bottle over the first glass set out. “And it’s a cornerstone of our culture. There is no way I was going to live in Italy and not know how to get into fine wines in a respectable manner.” His gaze slips upward, resting on the young boy with mild anxiety as the child leans against the glass, staring down at the streetside below. He tips the bottle back, pushing the glass across the counter.

“Thank you,” the Cypriot whispers, picking up the crystalline glass. He turns, weaving around tables, approaching the guardrail his son sits before. He braces his arms against the metal frame, pressing his knee against the glass wall, gazing over the skyline as the sun disappears behind rooftops.

Lovino tops off the second glass, setting the bottle on the counter before slowly taking up the glass. He steps around the counter, staring after the boy who sits on the floor beside Alekos. Do you have a name? I know you are Cyprus’ kid, but did he name you something? He stops at the railing just a few feet away from Alekos, letting his dark, tired eyes settle on the burning horizon. He takes a slow sip of wine, silently judging its flavor, pausing as a soft tug on his jacket pulls his attention. His expression barely shifts as his eyes settle on the face of the young boy who now stands at his side.

“Are you Mister Italy?” the child asks with a soft, mildly raspy voice. He definitely takes after Cyprus in demeanor.

The Italian braces his arms on the railing, gripping his wine glass with both hands, eyes remaining warm and patient. “Might I ask who you are?” He dodges the question. 

“I am the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus.”

Lovino blinks, staring at the boy in silence. The Turkish Republic… of Northern Cyprus… He recites the name back to himself again. “Do you have a shorter name?”

“Ayhan!” the Cypriot child chirps. “You are Mister Italy, right?” the boy prods once more.

“Eínai to mikrótero misó,” Alekos inserts before taking a sip of wine, his gaze still locked on the dimming horizon.

Lovino glances at the man, his gaze narrowing as he fails to catch a single word that leaves the Cypriot’s mouth. Did I know Greek at some point? I feel like I’m old enough that I would’ve learned Greek at some point.

“Échei tósi exousía páno stin kyvérnisí tou ósi échete eseís sti dikí mas.”

The Italian lowers his gaze to the street below, resigning himself to not understanding the conversation. After a moment of silence, he feels the grip on his coat tighten. He glances down at the boy finding wide, earnest eyes staring back up at him.

“He wants you to recognize him as a country,” Alekos explains sternly.

Lovino nods, slowly exhaling. “I can’t do that, kid,” he mumbles. “I’m Italy… but not the bit you want to be talking to. You want Feli and his folks if you want proper recognition.” He looks up. It’s not like I would recognize you even if I did have a say. His gaze narrows as he considers why. “I know it sucks living under the foot of your father… It’s really rough to be second best… to be the lesser half of your own nation.” He takes a slow deep breath. “Trust me. I’m an expert.”

“Really?”

“That’s how I’ve spent every moment of my centuries of existence.”

“That’s why I want to be an independent Turkish state!” The boy plants his hands on his hips. Alekos’ suit sleeves hide his hands, flopping loosely around his thin form. “Father already said that I should be my own country! He said that I am!”

“Sadık,” Lovino connects.

The boy nods.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s any better to be on your own.” He tries to fight back the intense frenzy of thoughts that flood his head. “At some point in your life, you have to sit down and consider what you want out of your life. However long or short it may be.”

Something in the child’s gaze shifts.

Shit. Did I just make this child aware of the fact that he can die? He shakes his head, continuing. “Do you want to be free? Do you want to be a strong, independent nation?” He turns, leaning sideways against the railing, staring down at the boy. “As a consequence, do you want to be alone?” 

Ayhan Vaselios stares emptily up at him, his eyes wide with distress.

“Because unfortunately, independence and loneliness are a package deal.” He crouches down, staring up at the boy. “The only way you ever have people there for you is if you have people taking care of you. You have to be second best to be supported. No one supports the strong.” He drops his gaze to the wine glass he grips tightly in front of him. Ask Alfred about that. He can give you a lecture far longer than I can on the subject. He considers it for a moment more. “Some of the scariest moments in my life were the ones where I felt like I was alone.”

“He’s right,” Alekos inserts softly. “Though, if I recall, Vargas, you were never too far out of Antonio’s line of sight.”

Lovino smiles softly. “No. At least until… Well… It kinda got complicated at some point, but, by and large, you’re right.” He tilts his glass back and forth before returning his gaze to the child. “You won’t have your father looking out for you. You would have to build your name from the ground up. You would have to solve all of your problems by yourself, with no support.”

The boy furrows his brow. “But Father would help me!”

“Sadık?” Lovino laughs. He looks up as Alekos fights a scoff. “Okay. Sure,” he tries to hide the mockery in his tone but fails horrendously.

“You don’t agree.”

“Not many of us have fathers who really looked out for us.”

The child considers this. “Did you not have a father?”

“Vóreios,” Alekos warns.

“No,” Lovino whispers, his gaze narrowing, doing his best to remain patient with the child. “I had a few people I lived with over the years. I only ever felt properly cared for by one—”

“Mister Spain,” the Cypriot boy immediately connects.

“Let me know if he starts to get on your nerves,” Alekos mutters.

“We may be getting there soon,” Lovino returns softly. 

“Why don’t you live with him anymore?” the child queries, not catching the hint.

“Someone decided that Feli and I needed to live together again… so they…” His stomach twists as the memory grips him. “They took me from him… I moved in with Feli and… It’s been that way ever since.”

“Were you sad?” the boy asks dryly.

Lovino opens his mouth, hesitating. “It… I… I knew it was coming.” His voice breaks. “His government had formally relinquished power over my lands and I was really just trying to find excuses to hang around… And then my people came for me, and then I left.” He laughs defeatedly.

“You liked being with Mister Spain?”

Lovino stares emptily at the child before nodding. “He was good to me… and he still is really good to me.”

“You don’t find that easily among our kind,” Alekos inserts reverently. He turns as the balcony door slowly swings open.

Lovino doesn’t hear this, setting his glass on the floor. He reaches forward, straightening the boy’s oversized coat. It covers a white short-sleeved polo that hangs loosely over his black slacks. “Value those who treat you kindly. You really don’t know how bad you could’ve really had it.” He rests his hand on top of his glass once more.

“Did you love him?” the boy asks.

“Of course I did,” Lovino answers plainly. “I still do,” he adds. “That’s the only way I put up with the bastard.” His gaze slips upward as he spots the form of Antonio Fernández Carriedo steps into his field of view. As he does, the string patio lights overhead illuminate. He blinks a few times as his eyes adjust to the light. “I have to convince myself the annoying shit he does is charming and then I get through it.” His hazel eyes settle on the man he has been longing to see all day. “It’s a bit of a chore, really.”

“I wanna know what they did to you to get you to go all touchy-feely,” Antonio remarks, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks.

The child jumps, whirling around, staring up at the man with wide eyes. “Mister Spain,” he gasps. 

“It’s Antonio,” the Spaniard corrects, taking a few steps forward as Lovino rises to his feet, taking his wine glass with him. After a moment, the Spaniard furrows his brow, his bright eyes settling on the child. “And who are you?” he asks cautiously.

“I am the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus,” the boy recites, planting his hands on his hips once more.

Antonio nods with an amused glint in his eyes before he squints ever so slightly. “Do you have a name any shorter than that?”

Lovino sighs as he rises to his feet once more.

“North,” Alekos states.

“I’m not calling the kid North,” Antonio laughs.

Lovino marches through the space, tipping his wine glass back as he heads for the bar.

“How many of those have you had?”

“This is my first,” Lovino sets the empty glass down on the counter, reaching for the corkscrew.

Antonio glances down at Ayhan. “Were you at the meeting today?”

“Yup!”

“Under the desk with my phone,” Alekos adds.

“So that is why I don’t remember seeing you,” Antonio laughs, resting a hand on the boy’s head. He smiles softly, recognizing the wide, inquisitive gaze the child casts upward. He looks up as Lovino wanders back through the space, fitting the cork back into the bottle. “Did you get that for us?” he asks softly.

Lovino nods. “I ended up sharing some with Mister Vasileios. I was afraid that I would have to end up drinking it all without you.”

Antonio’s bright expression evaporates as he slowly drops his arms to his side. 

Lovino’s face distorts with a mockish expression. “Don’t look at me like that,” he scoffs.

Antonio opens his mouth to offer some sort of response as Lovino turns, heading for the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” Ayhan whirls around as Antonio slowly turns to follow.

Lovino freezes, one hand on the handle of the door. “Back inside.” His gaze snaps to Antonio. “I presume?” he whispers.

Antonio nods, his expression still blank.

“But you never answered the question!” the boy calls after him.

“What question?” Lovino’s eyes narrow.

“Were you sad?”

Lovino slowly exhales, dropping his gaze.

“When they made you leave Mister Spain, were you sad?”

“Devastated,” Lovino responds, looking up, tossing his hair back out of his face. “I’ve only started to get over it, but living with Feli has been one shitstorm after another.” His eyes settle on Antonio for a moment, his stomach churning with longingness and grief. Antonio stands right there, just a few feet away, but the distance feels just as great as ever. I’ve been trying for just under 200 years, but I can never quite seem to close that distance. I can never properly… Keep him… or stay with him… or prove to anyone—myself or otherwise—that I belong with him.

Chapter Text

Antonio catches the door after Lovino, following the man with wide eyes. “Lovi, why didn’t you think I’d come find you?” He slips from English into Italian.

Lovino does not respond for a moment as he marches through the dimly lit seating area. “It just so happens that for about a month or so more, you are one of the most important people to show up to Council meetings.” He too slips back into his own tongue. He lowers his gaze, his hair slipping forward into his periphery. “You don’t always have time for something like me.”

“What do you mean by something? Roma, you are not a thing— What is this all of the sudden?”

“The kid just got on my nerves a little bit.” He shakes his head, tossing his hair back again. “Don’t worry about—” He cuts himself off with a sharp curse as he bashes his hip on the back of a chair as he passes it. He strings together another few obscenities as his hand finds his hip. 

Antonio, following too closely, runs directly into him. One of his hands finds Lovino’s waist, the other looping around Lovino’s body as he does everything in his power to not trip over the man in his entirety. He huffs in mild amusement, his arms dropping back to his side as he pushes himself a step back. “You good?” he asks softly.

Lovino doesn’t respond for a moment but whirls around, throwing the bottle of wine against Antonio’s chest. “Here. Carry this.”

Antonio catches it awkwardly, watching the Italian with concern. “Romano,” he calls firmly.

Lovino shoves his hands in his coat pockets, walking off. “Vasileios’ kid was just dredging up memories I haven’t tried to sit down with for quite a while.” He slows beside the elevator, hitting the call button. “And I sure as hell wasn’t gonna lose it on a kid. If you act shitty toward kids, they carry that with them.” The elevator doors immediately slide open.

Antonio follows the man into the elevator, his gaze of worry hardly shifting. “And what thoughts are we avoiding?”

“Oh, you know. Your run-of-the-mill 19th-century trauma.” He hits the button for the ground level.

Antonio leans against the back wall as the door slides shut.

“You are going to have to get me far drunker than this if you want me to spill my fears and insecurities.”

“You act like I don’t know you.” His expression does not shift. “And you seemed more than happy to spill it all to Vasileios’ son.”

Lovino clenches his jaw, leaning against the side wall. He crosses his arms, keeping his gaze low. “It’s because he’s just like me,” he whispers. “He’s fated to always be second best to someone else.”

“Roma,” Antonio whispers, pushing himself upright again. He glances to the side as the elevator door opens as it settles on the ground floor. He hits the button for the doors to close once more. He pulls the man close, resting his cheek against the man’s head. “We shouldn’t need to keep having this conversation.”

Lovino doesn’t respond, flushing ever so slightly. “I don’t mind being second best to you… Maybe it’s because I grew up accustomed to it; maybe it’s because once you stopped trying to act like Roderich you were a pretty good guy… or maybe it’s because I didn’t feel… unwanted?” His voice breaks. “Fuck. Shit. Nope.” His voice becomes muffled as Antonio holds him tighter. 

“Lovi,” Antonio cautions. “We aren’t doing this right now.”

“I know,” he sniffs. “I won’t. I’m not. I’m not having a mental breakdown in a fucking elevator.”

“You actively are and there is no reason for it,” Antonio whispers patiently. 

Lovino stands up straight, staring up at the man with narrow, tired eyes. “I didn’t really mind being second to you, but there isn’t a day that goes by where I can’t stand being second best to Feli.” He stares off emptily, clutching the folds of Antonio’s suit coat. “You took care of me.” He pauses as silence seizes the small chamber. “And Feliciano would never be bothered to do the same. Sometimes I feel like I haven’t changed at all through the years… But then I realize I have and… it wasn’t for the better.” He pushes himself out of Antonio’s arms, hitting the button for the elevator doors to slide open once more. 

Antonio follows him, his gaze fixed on his back. “I don’t think you are all that different,” he calls.

“Shut up. You know I am.”

“I dunno. You are just as blushy as always.”

Lovino glares back at him, fighting the slightest smile that forms on his lips.

“And it’s never been difficult to get you flustered.” He falls into step at the man’s side. He laughs softly as Lovino turns sharply, grabbing hold of his tie and button-up in a tight fist. “And I don’t think you care so much about how well people take care of you,” he continues despite this. “I think it’s more of a metric of how much attention they pay to you.”

The Italian clenches his jaw, keeping his gaze low as his cheeks burn. He releases Antonio’s shirt a bit, letting his hand drop to merely hold onto the fold of his suit coat. 

“I didn’t completely neglect you, but I didn’t give you all I should have either. If anything, we both know that you don’t like being left alone. ” He smiles sadly. “If anything, that was one of the very first things I learned about you.” He bows ever so slightly, kissing Lovino’s brow.

The Italian smiles warmly, keeping his gaze low. “If you are going to kiss me, you might as well do it right.”

Antonio laughs softly, ducking a little lower before pausing as a sharp yell echoes through the hallway. 

“Hey!” it calls.

He locks eyes with Lovino whose gaze manages to embody every single variant of annoyance before he leans forward, his head landing on Antonio’s shoulder.

“Hey!” the voice calls again. “Antonio!” 

Antonio looks up, locking eyes with the source of the voice. “Gilbert,” he greets, plastering on a weak smile.

“Have you seen Ludwig?” the German asks semi-urgently in sloppy English. His bright eyes dart from the Spaniard to the Italian on his shoulder. He slows to a stop, his hand gripping the strap of a letter bag. “He left his stuff in the conference room, and I’ve been trying to hunt him down.”

“That’s right. He left in a hurry to chase down Feliciano,” Lovino recalls, pushing himself upright once more.

“He’s over at the restaurant.” Antonio motions across the lobby to where the hotel opens into the brasserie. His gaze lights up as his attention returns to the Italian. He slips back into the man’s native language. “I forgot to tell you,” he begins with a slight chuckle. “Before I left, Matthias had invited Feli to do some sort of wretched line of shots. I bet that at this point he is, at the very least, tipsy.” 

Lovino smiles. “I didn’t really wanna babysit Feli tonight…”

“I’ll do the babysitting. You can enjoy the show. If things get out of hand, I will deal with it.” 

“Letting him drink either ends in the funniest shit you’ve ever seen or it ends really badly,” Lovino whispers.

Antonio turns back to the German man who had been excluded from the conversation via a language barrier. “We are heading to the restaurant if you’d like to join us. Perhaps we can also sit with Port and watch something pathetic go down between a drunken Feliciano and whoever he comes into contact with.”

Gilbert shifts a step forward. “Is Ludwig with anyone right now?”

“Marije and Andries last I saw,” Antonio reports, gently taking up Lovino’s hand. “Will you be joining us?”

Gilbert stares at the pair for a moment before sighing heavily. “No, I don’t think so.”

Chapter Text

Gilbert watches the pair with dull eyes as they head off toward the lively restaurant before taking a deep breath. He turns around, heading in the direction of the stairway. Maybe it’s not all that important. If he’s too busy having a grand ol’ time with… His thoughts are interrupted as one of the elevators opens its doors, releasing a pair of angry Northeastern Europeans onto the ground level. His brow furrows as the pair hardly stop to take a breath, marching through the lobby. 

Gilbert stops dead in his tracks, fishing his phone out of his pocket as Feliks Łukasiewicz flies past him. “I don’t understand why this is such a big issue to you!”

There is nothing of real import on Gilbert’s phone. Instead, he stands in the middle of the lobby, staring absently at his home screen, listening intently to the relentless bickering between ex-husbands. He doesn’t really remember when he learned how to speak Polish, but it is currently serving its use. He shifts his weight, keeping his gaze low as Toris Laurinaitis flies past him just a moment later.

“I don’t want to see your death brought about because you were being too much of a bitch to pull yourself together!” Toris shouts after the Pole. 

Gilbert jumps, his gaze snapping upward. He stares after the two men in awe. I’ve never heard Toris so mad… And I should know what his anger sounds like. I’ve fought the bastard.

“It’s not like I can be killed!” Feliks combats.

I’ll give him that one.

“Yes, you can!” Toris cries. “It’s nearly happened twice!”

One of those near-deaths may or may not be my fault. Gilbert’s gaze narrows as he shrinks in on himself a bit.

“Oh please!” Feliks spits. “Then that means you nearly did as well! We went through all the same shit!”

“I am not in political shambles like you are!” Toris argues.

“Have you looked at yourself recently?!” Feliks whips around.

Gilbert’s gaze drops back to his phone. This was caused by that goddamn meeting, he realizes, missing a few of the following exchanges as the pair drop their tone to offer each other particularly scathing remarks. I can guarantee you Feliks’ representatives aren’t going through anything like this. Why is it so different for us? Why do we have to carry guilt like this?

“Who the hell do you think you are following me around like this when you are no better than I?” Feliks continues, picking up in volume once more.

“You don’t see my name in the papers! I’m not a talking point on agendas!” Toris is practically screaming at this point.

“It’s not that big of a deal!”

“You are backsliding—”

“Hungary is backsliding! My people are just fine,” Feliks articulates sharply.

“I beg to differ!” Toris keeps his hands low if not slightly behind him. Neither of them raise a hand; neither of them dare lay a finger on the other.

Gilbert cautiously raises his eyes, staring after the two, tapping lightly on his phone’s screen as it begins to dim.

“They are calling you corrupt,” Toris states firmly, regaining a semblance of composure. “Check your reports, Feliks. There are things that people are worried about that aren’t getting fixed.” His shoulders heave with his rage, his bright eyes focused and wild. “I know I’m not all that clean, but guess what, love—”

Love? Gilbert notes.

“—I was Russian territory for a good minute too. I haven’t had time to—”

“Don’t act like I got it any easier!” Feliks leans forward, beating his fist against his chest, taking the volume back to the max. “I was still his goddamn satellite state! We are on the same recovery route!”

“Says the bastard who is trying to run home to him!”

If Feliks was going to hit Toris, he would have done so here. At this moment. Gilbert knows he certainly would have. Instead, the Pole falls silent, staring blankly at the man. He takes a deep breath, resting a hand on Toris’ shoulder as he silently walks past him, offering no further comment beyond the gentle touch before heading off toward the brasserie. 

“Feliks,” Toris calls, turning sharply, staring after the man.

He does not turn around.

The Lithuanian lets a defeated cry of despair, running his hands back through his hair, turning to scan the hall. His gaze settles on Gilbert who can do nothing but stare helplessly back. He shakes his head, lowering his gaze as he tucks his phone back in his pocket. I feel like Europe is so eager to forget about the half of us who lived in hell for most of the 20th century. Sure. Forget about the Soviet-ruined states. Forget about us in the Eastern—lesser—half.

He starts slowly wandering toward the brasserie, glancing around the extravagantly furnished lobby. He gazes upward at the floors with balconies overlooking the lobby. How many people have mentioned Elizabeta today? And how many people actually cared to check in on her? Every point made about her has to go through her like daggers. She’s good at brushing things off and standing strong, but for how long can she do this? For how much longer are people going to keep their heads low and merely jot down their notes? It’s one thing to tell a government to redirect its values, but it’s a completely different thing to tell an individual.

He slowly steps into the brasserie, squinting through the lively space. Does anyone actually know where Elizabeta ended up? He immediately spots Antonio and Lovino at a table on the far side of the room, sitting across from a handful of EU representatives he doesn’t care enough to try to identify. He is certain they are not Council ministers anyway.

He sighs, searching for his brother through the busy scene. There aren’t supposed to be government people here. He shakes his head, realizing he doesn’t care enough to take the issue up with anyone. Joke's on them. They are about to learn about the stupidest state secrets to ever exist. He eyes the bar, spotting Feliciano side-by-side with Matthias Køhler. An empty line of shot glasses sits before the Italian as the Dane tips back his fourth and final glass. And who let Køhler go unsupervised? he wonders, noting the absence of both Berwald and Tino.

His gaze lights up as he spots his brother across the room. He picks up in pace, flying through the space, weaving his way around other guests as he slows to a stop beside Ludwig who sits across a table from Marije and Andries van Rijn. “West,” he greets in soft German, setting the bag down beside the man’s chair.

Ludwig jumps, looking up with bright eyes. “Gilbert,” he greets cheerily, clutching a cloth napkin, wiping his hands.

“You left this in the conference room.”

The younger man glances down at the bag beside the chair, looking up with a prompt nod. “Right. Thank you.”

Gilbert stands up straight again. “Is Feli okay?”

“I… think so…” Ludwig leans back to see around Gilbert. His eyes widen as he spots the man in question. “Shit.” He throws his napkin down as he throws back his chair. “Who the hell left Køhler alone?! He’s getting Feli wasted!”

Gilbert stares after him silently. I guess Tino and Berwald finally have a night away from the kids. They probably aren’t going to spend it babysitting Matthias. After a few moments, he follows his brother’s gaze. “Feliciano is a grown-ass adult. He can do whatever he wants.”

“Vargas is a pain in the ass sober,” Andries van Rijn inserts, swirling a glass of wine. “You think anyone wants to deal with him drunk?” he asks, his voice low as his bright, piercing gaze watches Ludwig march across the room.

Gilbert turns around again, watching his brother for a moment before deciding to follow.

“Feliciano,” Ludwig calls softly.

The Italian man whirls around, eyes bright and wide. “Yeah?” he chimes absently.

“Hej!” Matthias turns as well, his hair falling forward over his forehead. The product put in earlier in the morning is no longer holding all that well.

“Dan,” Ludwig greets cautiously, his gaze narrowing. He returns his attention to the Italian. “What in the world do you think you are doing?” he asks softly, his articulation sharp.

“Uh…” Feliciano glances from Ludwig over to Gilbert, his bright eyes growing foggy as he pushes his hair back over the top of his head. “Having fun,” he reports, dropping his arm back to his side, his hair slowly sliding back to how it once was except for a good number of strands that stick up in bizarre directions.

“And when you are black-out drunk in approximately ten minutes, what happens then?” Ludwig steps forward.

“Don’t worry about it,” Feliciano mutters, rubbing his face with his sleeve. He turns back to Matthias before his wandering eyes drift to the wall of alcohol behind the bar.

Ludwig grabs his shoulder, turning him around again. “No, I’m going to worry,” he states firmly. “You…” He clenches his jaw, glancing up at Matthias before glancing back at Gilbert. He holds his brother’s gaze for a moment before letting his hold slip to Feliciano’s arm. “Prima non eri in un buon posto mentalmente,” he whispers smoothly despite how sharp he tends to deliver Italian.

Gilbert blinks after his brother with annoyance, only catching every fourth word or so, riding on the limited amount of French he knows. Italian was never a language he had any need to learn. After a moment of spite, he realizes there is probably something sensitive wrapped up in his brother’s language of choice.

“Yeah? And?” For some reason, the Italian man slips into English. He grabs Ludwig’s hand, pulling it off his arm.

“Westen,” Gilbert warns, watching Feliciano’s mischievous gaze. I’ve known this bastard far longer than you have, West. I know what his bullshit looks like.

“Ich weiß,” Ludwig grumbles, already scanning the room with a mildly panicky gaze, searching for people to help him out. He locks eyes with Lovino across the room, his expression shifting with a silent plea. His heart sinks as the man turns away. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he grumbles.

Gilbert watches his brother carefully. He’s usually pretty patient with Feliciano. Even when he gets out of hand… But it’s also a rare occasion when Feli acts up in public. Ludwig cares about his image quite a bit, but all the same, he cares about Feli. When the stupid little bastard starts causing problems, pushing West’s comfort zone, he gets caught between crossroads. Gilbert blinks thoughtfully. It’s not every day you get to see West flustered… But when you do, it’s generally Feliciano’s fault.

Ludwig takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Feliciano, let’s go out into the lobby at the very least. We can get you some water and—”

“Oh, I bet you would like to get out of here,” the Italian steps closer, staring up at the man with a sparkling, yet shockingly absent gaze.

Ludwig grabs Feliciano’s hands holding them fastly between the two of them, ignoring Matthias who whirls around with a holler of laughter. Gilbert clenches his jaw, his stomach churning with uneasiness as he is suddenly able to identify various EU representatives and the nations they hail from.

Ludwig retains a remarkable amount of composure. “Yes, Feli. I really would,” he states firmly, flushing ever so slightly. 

“God, you’ve really been put through it today,” a softer voice inserts from Ludwig’s side.

The German pauses, smiling softly as a thin hand rests against his back before sliding to his arm. 

“So our angel returns,” Gilbert mutters.

Marije van Rijn turns ever so slightly as she takes Feliciano’s hands from Ludwig’s. She smiles kindly, tossing silky brown hair back over her shoulders. “Feliciano,” she begins, her voice light and sweet.

Ludwig steps back, tucking his hands in his pockets.

“Why don’t you come out to the lobby with me and Ludwig? We can get you some water before you are too far gone.” 

“Miss van Rijn,” Feliciano’s clouded eyes settle on her as he squares his shoulders, puffing his chest. “I am absolutely flattered, but I think I will stick with the man I already have and him alone.”

The Belgian’s clear, green eyes widen with shock. She drops his hands, folding hers against her stomach. She takes a step back, opening her mouth to chastise the man, but cannot gather enough of a coherent thought to do so.

“I’ve done something like that once and didn’t fancy it—” He is cut off as he is grabbed from behind. He yelps, swinging around absently, finding the arm of the man who clasps a hand over his mouth.

“Feli. Feliciano,” a low, harsh voice growls in his ear. “Feli, would you like to shut the fuck up? I think you should shut the fuck up.” Lovino Vargas grips Feliciano’s arm with his free hand, holding him tightly. “Because if you keep yapping you aren’t gonna have any respect by the end of the night, and unfortunately for us both, the amount of respect people have for me, primarily rests on your shoulders.”

“There is only so much our Belgian angel could have done,” Gilbert sighs.

“Be careful what you say,” Ludwig mutters. “That implies Lovino is our Italian one.”

Marije turns away, her face red. She freezes as she spots her older brother slowing to a stop beside Gilbert. She slowly steps to his side, crossing her arms across her dark blue blouse. “Laat hem met rust,” she whispers, spotting her brother’s burning gaze.

“I don’t think I will,” he responds firmly, stepping past her. He weaves his way around the German brothers, stopping over the Italian ones.

Lovino gazes upward, slowly stepping back as he is dwarfed by the Dutchman. He pushes himself off of Feliciano, slowly stepping back, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. 

Feliciano also looks up, his soft brown eyes latching onto the man. Even drunk he knows better than to harass the Dutchman in any way, shape, or form.

Andries wanders past Feliciano, turning sharply, nudging him forward with a light shove to his shoulder. “Beilschmidt,” he calls as Feliciano stumbles forward a few steps.

Matthias steps out of the way, watching the Italian and Dutchman with unapologetic amusement. “You'd think that for a nation renowned for wine he would be able to hold—”

Lovino cuts him off with a cry of alarm as he dives to the floor, catching the weight of his younger brother who doubles over. The restaurant grows quiet as Lovino settles on his knees, lowering Felician to the floor. “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” he hisses. He looks up as a waiter practically materializes over them. 

“As-tu besoin d'aide?” the man in uniform asks in alarmed French.

“Penso che sto per vomitare,” Feliciano whispers, his voice tight.

Gilbert subconsciously shifts a step back. He doesn’t need to speak a lick of Italian to understand that sentence; that warning.

“No you fucking aren’t!” Lovino hisses.

“Nous avons ceci,” Marije nods at the waiter.

“Es-tu sûr?” the waiter steps forward, staring down at the Italian.

“Oui.”

Matthias pushes himself forward off the counter. “Okay, this may or may not be my fault—”

“It is!” the five sober nations cry at once.

The Dane stoops down, scooping Feliciano off the ground with ease. He stands upright, tossing the rather light man in his arms, carrying him bridal style. He leads the way out of the restaurant, Ludwig at his heels.

“Do you know what room is his?” Matthias asks as they step back into the lobby.

“Yeah.” Ludwig fishes his wallet out of his pocket, taking a keycard out. He reads the number scrawled across the back silently to himself. “Second floor. Room—”

He looks up in horror as the sound of Feliciano’s hurl echoes through the empty hall. Matthias stops dead in his tracks, eyes fixed on the far side of the room. He does not dare look down at the man in his arms, but his booming voice breaks, as he just about screeches. “Er du fucking sjov med mij?!”

Chapter Text

Ludwig jogs a few steps forward, staring down at the Italian in Matthias’ arms with horror. “Eyes up, Dan,” he demands. “We’ll get this cleaned up. The mess is contained to you two so this should be easy.” He turns sharply, heading for the staircase around the corner. His suit coat flaps behind him as he gracefully scales it, two steps at a time. 

“Right. Got it,” the Dane croaks. He stumbles after Ludwig, his hair shifting into his eyes as he breathes out of his mouth, refusing to catch the stench of vomit. Good God, he walks fast, he notes to himself, jogging awkwardly up the stairs, trying his best to jostle the queasy Italian as little as possible. His tie bounces against his chest until it grows heavy with moisture. By the time he reaches the top of the stairs, it is sticking to his dress shirt.

“I think I’ll call this rightful retribution,” Ludwig mumbles, glancing over his shoulder as he leads the way into a long hall of doors.

Matthias’ jaw clenches as warmth seeps into his clothing, moisture running down his chest. He gags.

“If you vomit, I’m not helping you.”

“Yup,” the Dane barely croaks.

Ludwig beelines for a room on the right side of the hall, grabbing the handle of the door. He scans the keycard, throwing the door open the moment it unlocks. Flicking on the lights, he holds the door open for the Dane who carefully steps through the doorway, careful to not bash the drunken Italian’s head on the doorframe.

Ludwig steps forward, pushing open the bathroom door, turning the lights on. “Get him over the toilet in case he has anything left in him,” he instructs, unbuttoning his suit coat.

Matthias does as he says, carefully setting Feliciano down on the bathroom floor. He pushes the toilet lid and seat up, propping the Italian against the bowl, surprised by how limp the vaguely conscious man is. “You doing okay?” Matthias asks, brushing the man’s hair back out of his face.

Feliciano offers a soft moan of what Matthias cannot confidently declare an affirmation nor a negation. Either way, it sure as hell is a sign of life. He unbuttons his suit jacket, his fingers slipping on the buttons. He curses, his expression twisting with disgust. He looks up as Ludwig slowly steps into the bathroom, having shed his coat and tie. 

As Ludwig steps through the bathroom, he rolls up the sleeves of his button-up, scrunching his nose as the foul stench of vomit hits him like a train. He steps forward, tucking Feliciano’s hair back once more. “Wipe your face,” he mumbles.

Feliciano looks up at him with eyes void of all semblance of soul. He reaches for the roll of toilet paper fastened to the side of the counter, pulling a good amount free, wiping his face and neck. He drops it in the toilet, staring at it thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m all better now,” he announces with a notable drawl. 

“He probably threw up just about everything I gave him,” Matthias offers, sliding his suit coat back off his arms, dropping it on the floor of the bathtub. He reaches apprehensively for his necktie, grimacing as the heavy fabric slides against his shirt. “Only God knows how much good it will do him at this point, though,” he adds, pulling his tie free. He pauses as the fabric slips free of its knot, slapping his face. He closes his eyes, trying not to think too hard about it before tilting his head with solemn defeat. He pulls his tie off, careful to touch as little of it as possible, tossing it after his jacket. He wipes his face with his sleeve, reaching for the topmost button of his shirt. “Ah, shit. I’m gonna have to bully Berwald into bringing me clean clothes,” he suddenly realizes.

Ludwig glances up at him, watching the man as he sheds his button up, dropping it on the floor of the bathtub. He opens his mouth to say something as Matthias pulls his undershirt off, but quickly realizes he cannot demand the man remain in vomit-soaked clothing. Instead, he turns to Feliciano who slowly leans back against the bathroom wall. “This thing is trash, isn’t it?” he sighs as he crouches down, unbuttoning Feliciano’s suit coat.

“I mean… You might be able to save it, but I think everyone will forever know that it is the vomit suit.”

“You’re probably right,” Ludwig admits, helping the half-conscious man fight the article off.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Feliciano insists as he squirms out of the heavy jacket. He falls back against the wall, unbuttoning his waistcoat, his gaze slipping out of focus.

“Are you alive?” Ludwig waves a hand in front of his face.

“He keeps going sedentary,” Matthias notes.

“I’m just thinking!” Feliciano pushes himself to his feet, stumbling back against the wall as he fights his waistcoat off. He throws it at the pile of clothing in the tub. “I have so many thinks. It’s just…” He blinks slowly, holding his hands up as if he were trying to retrieve something from the abstract. “Cela vous épaterait...”

“He’s French now.” Mathias’ gaze snaps to Ludwig. “Why is he French?”

“In all honesty, I’m baffled by how long he managed to remain in English,” Ludwig picks up the waistcoat that had missed the tub by two feet, dropping it on top of Matthias’ clothes. 

Matthias steps forward a few steps, turning on the bathroom sink, pumping an ungodly amount of soap onto his hands before scrubbing away at his hands and arms. 

“Woah,” Feliciano remarks, staring absently at the half-dressed Dane.

Matthias glances down at him emptily, watching as Ludwig helps him out of his dress shirt. “What are we ‘woah’ing at?” he asks cautiously.

Feliciano does not respond right away. In fact it doesn’t look like he has quite registered anything the Dane said. He instead glances at Ludwig who patiently helps him out of his shirt, tossing it back behind him into the tub, his gaze returning to Matthias. “Does Lukas wanna swap?” Feliciano asks after a moment in muddled English.

“Feli!” Ludwig cries with a mixture of laughter and pure offense.

Feliciano hushes him while holding up a hand. He leans to the side to get a better look at the blushing Dane.

“I think we are actively witnessing what happens when you are left alone with Køhler,” Ludwig laughs, pushing himself to his feet.

“I also feel like Lukas and Ludwig would be a nightmare scenario,” Matthias offers weakly. He glances at Ludwig who takes up the second washcloth off the counter. “You are awfully calm,” he remarks, eyeing the German. He reaches across the counter for a hand towel, trading Ludwig places. 

The German shrugs as he runs the washcloth under the water. “It rarely happens, but if one of us is getting blackout drunk, it’s usually me.”

Matthias glances at the German through his periphery. “You’re kidding,” he whispers.

Ludwig huffs in mild amusement as he glances back at Matthias in a similar fashion. “Oktoberfest?”

Matthias narrows his eyes, thinking about it for a moment before the memory resurfaces. “Ah! That’s right! That is your thing isn’t it?”

Ludwig chuckles as he turns the sink off, wringing out the washcloth. 

Matthias lowers his gaze as he pulls his phone from his pocket, fumbling with it for a brief moment before bringing it to his ear.

“Calling Berwald?” Ludwig queries.

“Attempting to.” He directs his attention to the ringing of his phone.

Ludwig drapes the washcloth over the sink faucet, turning for Feliciano once more, helping the scrawny man out of his undershirt.

“I thought…” Feliciano whispers, planting a hand on the wall to keep himself upright. “I thought you said we weren’t doing anything tonight…”

Matthias cannot help but laugh; he catches Ludwig chuckling as well. Where did he forget that he threw up all over himself? Now he thinks Ludwig’s coming on to him?

“I will never understand how your brain works,” the German remarks. “Sober or not.” He helps Feliciano fight one arm out of a sleeve, grabbing the one braced against the wall. “I need this one too,” he whispers with muted amusement.

“Oh, so now he’s back to you now!” Matthias’ gaze slips from Ludwig to Feliciano. “Feli, I thought you wanted me!” he cries playfully, lowering his phone as he is sent to voicemail.

“After you made it abundantly clear to Miss van Rijn earlier this evening that you were happy with me!” Ludwig adds. “I can’t believe you can change your mind so fast!”

Feliciano stares hazily up at the man before wandering over to the counter, grabbing the washcloth off the faucet. He turns the sink back on, letting the water run over the cloth, watching it unfurl in his hands.

Matthias calls Berwald a second time, watching Ludwig march out of the room. He redirects his attention to Feliciano who silently holds the cloth under the water.

After another few moments, Matthias is sent to voicemail once more. He blinks a few times, lowering his phone. “Feliciano,” he whispers, glancing cautiously at the man. “What are you doing?”

“It needs to be hot.”

He tilts his head. “It just needs to be wet. Just wipe yourself down—”

“But it needs to be hot.”

“Why?” Matthias asks with a whisper.

“For the soup.”

Matthias squints at him, staring long and hard, hardly daring to take his eyes off him as he turns his head toward the door. “Ludwig…” he calls slowly, reaching for the faucet, turning it off.

“What’s wrong?” The man reappears in the doorway, a clean t-shirt in hand.

“Are we sure this is all my doing? He seems absolutely out of it for how little I gave him and how much he threw up.”

“Only God knows what he had before you got to him.”

“Right,” Matthias whispers. “But he is just short of being a vegetable. What are you—”

He is cut off by Feliciano’s defeated wail. Ludwig hardly bats an eye as Matthias practically jumps a foot. Feliciano’s hand meets the mirror as he stares intensely at his own reflection. He takes a deep breath before wailing once more. “No!” he cries, long and loud, his voice shrill and tight.

“What is it?” Ludwig asks calmly.

“I can’t be a vegetable!” Feliciano melts off the counter onto the floor, collapsing with defeated sobs, sopping wet washcloth in hand.

Ludwig stares at him with exhausted amusement before rubbing his face “My God,” he mutters, crouching down, draping the shirt on his knee. He fights the washcloth out of the man’s hand, unraveling it. He wipes down the Italian’s shoulders and chest before tossing it on the counter. He grabs the shirt, pulling it over Felciano’s head, pushing himself up again. He looks up at Matthias. “Is Berwald answering your calls?”

Feliciano awkwardly fights his arms through the sleeves.

“No,” the Dane grumbles. “He’s either asleep, or he’s ignoring me.”

“Or he’s busy.”

“Busy doing what— Oh. Nevermind.”

Ludwig smiles as readjusts his stance, scooping Feliciano off the floor. He struggles for a moment, cursing. “My… God…” He manages to stand upright. “You used to be lighter.”

“It’s because I’m turning into a vegetable!” Feliciano cries.

“Does he just revert into an easily impressionable child when he’s drunk?” Matthias asks softly.

“A big, fat vegetable!” Feliciano continues as Ludwig carries him out of the bathroom. 

“Just about,” the German mumbles.

Matthias shakes his head with quiet laughter, slowly pushing himself off of the counter, wandering into the warmly lit bedroom. He keeps his gaze locked on his phone. If Berwald is going to ignore me, I guess I will have to find a backroad to get him down here. He dials a different number bringing his phone to his ear, his bright eyes lighting up as the man on the other end picks up almost immediately. “Hey, love.” He crosses an arm across his chest as he hangs his head. His hair falls forward into his periphery. At this point he is over it, running his hand through his hair, working the product out of it. Now it settles against his forehead in a fluffy, airy mess. “I need some help,” he continues in soft Danish.

Chapter Text

November 15, 2023

Oslo, Norway

On the other end of the line, Lukas Bondevik braces his weight against the kitchen counter of his small Oslo home. His brow furrows as his eyes settle on the news report on the TV in the next room over. “What’s up?” he asks dryly, putting the man on speaker, setting his phone on the counter.

“I need you to call Berwald for me,” Matthias’ voice echoes through the small kitchen. “He isn’t picking up and I need his help.”

“Is this a life or death sort of situation or did you get yourself into something dumb?” Lukas asks knowingly, turning his back to the phone on the island. He turns the stove off, setting a tea kettle on an old, worn hot pad on the counter beside the hot stove.

“Neither,” Matthias hisses.

Lukas laughs softly as he wanders a few steps toward the living room, watching the weather report. This week’s supposed to be just as bitterly cold as the last… Without the faintest trace of snow, he notes with mild disappointment. “What happened?” he lowers his gaze as he turns back to the warm kitchen. He pulls on the sleeves of his sweater, crossing his arms across his chest, holding the loose fabric against his form. It would be a lie to call the sweater Lukas’. It is really Matthias’, but Lukas would sooner die than admit that half of his closet is full of articles he has slowly stolen from Matthias over the decades. 

“Feliciano threw up on me.”

The Norwegian’s eyes widen as his gaze latches onto his phone. He stares at it in silence for a moment as he utilizes every amount of strength he has to suppress laughter. He takes sharp, silent breaths, his hand clasping over his mouth as he leans against the island, back to the rest of the kitchen.

“I need you to call Berwald and tell him to bring me a clean shirt. He should have an extra keycard to my room; he’s got it for Code Stock Market protocol.”

Lukas clenches his jaw, his eyes glazing over at the mention of the code. He knows the Dane means no harm by pointing it out, but some memories will always be raw no matter how old they grow.

“I’m in Felicianos’ room and it is directly below mine so it should be pretty simple for him to find me.”

“Why didn't you call Tino?” Lukas asks slowly, shifting his attention to the living room as his son sits up on the couch. He smiles warmly as he locks eyes with the boy who stares back with concern.

“Is everything okay?” Emil Steilsson slowly pushes himself to his feet, his awful turtleneck sweater skewed on his shoulders.

He probably only heard the words ‘Stock Market’. Lukas lowers his gaze for a moment before pushing himself off the counter. “Dan? Why didn’t you call Tino?” He steps across the kitchen, opening cupboards.

“I dunno…” the Dane’s voice returns, mildly fuzzy. “Should I have? I don’t think it would’ve made Sve very happy.”

Lukas shrugs, pulling three mugs out, setting them on the counter. “Okay. Do you have a room number?”

“Do you think I was paying attention to room numbers? I was covered in vomit.”

Lukas’ expression shifts. “Fine. I’ll call him. I can’t guarantee he’ll pick up for me though.”

“He should. He doesn’t have a visceral hatred for you.”

“Come on. He doesn’t hate you. It’s a brotherly dynamic.”

“He’ll listen to you better.”

“Ah, yes, he’ll favor me, his ex-husband—”

“Oh, shut up.”

Lukas smiles softly.

“Also, Feli wants to trade places with you; you get Ludwig, and Feli gets me.”

“Did you get him drunk?” Lukas exclaims, somehow losing composure all over again, melting against the counter in despair. 

“That’s why he threw up,” Matthias elaborates apprehensively. 

Lukas locks eyes with his son who has lost a bit of tension after realizing that there is no real emergency. 

“He had that coming,” Emil whispers, his soft purple eyes glistening with relief. 

“It’s not my fault!” Matthias cries, catching his son’s comment.

Lukas narrows his gaze, an odd thought dawning on him. “How much clothing are you wearing?”

“Uh…”

Lukas waits.

“I still have pants.”

“Yeah, that will do it.” He smiles, sensing the Dane’s blush from 700 miles away. “Tell him that I’m flattered that he’d give me to Ludwig, but I can’t possibly burden him with such an unruly man.”

“Just call Berwald.” Matthias’ voice breaks.

“I will.” The Norwegian helplessly grins. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Please take care of yourself.” His grin shifts into a tender smile.

“Only because you asked.”

Lukas watches the call end, slowly shifting his gaze to his son who stands at the edge of the kitchen. “Everything’s okay,” he states firmly.

“I heard Code—”

“He was just telling me who has his spare card. Nothing’s wrong; you heard it for yourself.”

They look up as a new face enters the living room from the dim corridor of the staircase. “The little ones are in bed,” he announces in dry Danish, crossing his arms across a thin t-shirt. Ebbe Bondevik Køhler shifts his weight as he slows to a stop in the kitchen. In comparison to any day in Greenland, Norwegian Novembers are nothing. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Dad just called,” Emil reports. “He got vomited on.”

The Greenlandic boy drops his arms, staring at his father with wide eyes. “By who?” He has nearly an identical face to Emil, and that face is just a strange, slightly more childish rendition of Lukas’. What sets Ebbe apart from his twin, however, is the slightest shade of bright blue that cools his lavender eyes and the general air of mischief that he had inherited from Matthias.

“Feli—” Lukas laughs, hanging his head as he tries to recollect his composure. “Felici—” He cannot complete the thought as he loses himself in terribly suppressed laughter.

Ebbe snorts and Emil huffs in amusement as the thought settles in properly. “And here I was worried that something bad happened,” Ebbe remarks.

Lukas solemnly shakes his head. “At an EU meeting?” he offers weakly, catching his breath.

Both boys blink, offering no verbal argument for a moment. “United Nations, 1945,” Emil mutters under his breath at last.

“Can you imagine any of us would have made good, stable decisions in 1945? You can’t hold us to that for forever.”

“We will worry for forever,” Ebbe states weakly.

Lukas shakes his head, slowly standing upright once more. “Dan got Feliciano drunk.”

“Ah,” Ebbe whispers, happily dropping his point.

“Apparently”—he clears his throat, trying to regain his composure—“Feli wants to trade Ludwig for Matt.”

“I thought we learned long ago that trading husbands around is a bad idea,” Emil states sharply, his platinum blond hair sliding into his face.

“God, Feli must be utterly wasted,” Ebbe chides. 

“If he wants Matt?” Lukas huffs. “Yeah.” He shakes his head as he picks his phone up. “Anyway, I have to call Sve and beg him to bring Matt some clean clothes. He’s ignoring the poor bastard.”

“Don’t you think he deserves to be ignored?” Emil asks dryly. 

“Perhaps, but he’s currently wandering around Feliciano’s room shirtless and if this situation continues for much longer, he’s gonna have to go get clean clothes himself. ”

“And?” Ebbe whispers.

“Dan wandering around the Sofitel shirtless? That’s a sight for me and me alone. I can’t risk anyone realizing that he does have his appeals.”

“Surely you love him for more than his looks.”

“Do I?” Lukas whispers.

Both boys shoot him disapproving glares.

The Norwegian laughs. “I wanna know what happened to the poor kid though,” he mumbles, turning his phone on once more.

“Who? Vargas?” Emil queries.

“Yeah. He’s odd but he’s not stupid. Something happened. Something happened that convinced him that getting drunk was the best way to go about his night.”

Emil’s smile fades as his soft lavender eyes fall misty.

Ebbe pulls out his phone, stepping around the kitchen, hopping up on the counter, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“There’s a lot of political reasons for why I don’t go to these things,” Lukas begins, navigating to Berwald’s contact on his phone.

“Right,” Ebbe chimes absently.

“But there is also something very personal about that decision all the same. It’s why when Matt goes to events and meetings, I beg you to stay.” He looks up at the Greenlandic boy. “You and Sigyn both.” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand how our kind puts up with the emotional bombardment that things like this can be. These events are one of the only times that many of us see family and friends and then they are used to point out where growth and development need to be made. For the people, it’s a really good, powerful, important thing… But for us?” His gaze shifts to Emil. “It’s public humiliation.”

Emil unfolds his arms, wringing his hands as he lowers his gaze. “Does Dad have a hard time?”

“Nah. He’s got thick skin and good people nowadays,” Lukas shakes his head. “But… for those who can’t hold a candle to the likes of Germany, Sweden, America, and whoever else you decide has their crap together, it’s ridicule.”

“People feel like they’re not good enough,” Ebbe turns his phone off, turning ever so slightly, his gaze settling on his older brother for the briefest moment.

“Exactly,” Lukas nods, fumbling with his phone, bringing it to his ear. “To me, it’s not worth it.”

Emil blinks, letting his hands find the pockets of his pajama pants, glancing at his younger brother; the brother who stands to represent only a mere territory. 

Lukas glances between the two. I already worry about the dissonance between you two and the rest of the family as it is. I don’t need the European Union or anything else feeding into that as well. His expression shifts as his call is, surprisingly, immediately answered. “Hey, Berwald,” he states in dry Swedish. “Can you do me a quick favor?”

Chapter Text

November 15, 2023

Brussels, Belgium

Berwald Oxenstierna slowly wanders out of the bathroom of the small hotel room he shares with Tino Väinämöinen. “Does this have to do with Dan?” he asks, bright blue eyes narrowed with annoyance. He crosses an arm over a thin, white t-shirt, slowing to a stop in the center of the hotel room.

“Feliciano threw up on him and now he needs fresh clothes from his room.”

“Tell him to get them himself.” He brushes his hand through his damp hair, pushing it out of his face. “I’m not his bitch.”

“He’s half-dressed and I don’t want him walking around the Sofitel flaunting all of that. That’s all for me and me alone.”

Berwald grunts. “Did he deserve getting vomited on?”

“No,” Lukas lies. Emil and Ebbe’s snickering can be heard in the background of the call, giving away their father’s deceitfulness. 

“Right.”

“And also,” the Norwegian continues with a softer tone, “I know he doesn’t really talk about it, but he gets self-conscious when his old battle scars are put out for the world to see.”

Berwald sighs, hanging his head. That’s right, he recalls with the slightest pang of guilt. “Fine.” His gaze settles on his husband who slowly sheds articles of his suit, gingerly hanging them up in the wardrobe. “Where is he?”

“Vargas’ room. Apparently, it’s right below Dan’s, so if you have Dan’s keycard, you have his room number and can put two and two together.”

“I’m not stupid,” he whispers, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he ties the strings of his pajama pants, wandering further into the room. “Don’t worry about it. I’m on it,” he sighs heavily.

“Thanks, Sve.”

“Mm-hmm.” 

There is a moment of silence.

“Is that all?”

“Yup,” Lukas responds dryly.

Berwald narrows his eyes before dropping his gaze. He’s waiting for me to ask, he realizes. “Are the kids doing okay?” he queries weakly.

“Ebbe just got them all put to bed,” Lukas reports, the smile on his lips audible through the call.

“They didn’t cause you any problems, did they?”

“Of course not.”

How many lies are you going to tell me on one phone call? He smiles softly. “Thank you so much,” he mumbles, looking up, locking eyes with his husband. 

“It’s nothing to me. It gives me an excuse to be there for them and watch them grow up despite the distance—”

“They don’t grow,” Berwald mumbles.

“You know what I mean.”

But I don’t. He furrows his brow.

“Now go save your dumbass brother.” 

Berwald slowly lowers his phone, staring at it with mild amusement as the call ends before looking up again.

“Is everything okay?” the Finn asks softly, stepping toward the center of the room, adjusting the drawstrings of his dark blue pajama pants.

“I have to go run Dan some clean clothes,” he announces in soft Finnish.

“What did he do?” He tosses platinum blond hair out of his face, staring back at his husband with bright eyes. He slides his button-up off his broad, pale arms.

“Got thrown up on by Vargas.”

Tino’s brow furrows as he shakes out the button-up, fitting it on a hanger. “What?”

“I dunno. It’s not really my problem but Lukas is worried about making him wander around shirtless.”

Tino doesn’t bat an eye but smiles sadly, lowering his gaze. “I’d do the same for you,” he offers weakly. “For what I presume are the same reasons.”

“I don’t have the same issues as Matt.” Berwald turns for the door. “And I wouldn’t get thrown up by Vargas.” He thinks about it for a moment more as he wanders down the dim entry corridor. “Or anyone for that matter.”

“Because you didn’t fight the same battles as Matt.” Tino turns around as Berwald disappears from his view.

That’s because, for the longest time, Matthias fought all of our battles… and he was really young when he started. He thinks about it for a moment. I think he started fighting once Emil was brought back to mainland Europe. He picks up his wallet off the console table by the door, stuffing it in his pocket, rubbing his eyes. He was still just a kid and was fighting for his entire family… Maybe he wouldn’t have so many battle scars if he let me do something every once in a while.

He pulls open the door, slowly closing it behind himself as he steps out of the dim room. It doesn’t matter anymore, really, he decides. I know how to leave the past where it belongs. He blinks a few times letting his eyes readjust to the light. He squints as the hall doesn’t focus correctly. Ah. Glasses. Despite this recollection, he doesn’t return to the room. Instead, he sets off down the hall. He pulls his wallet out, retrieving the Dane’s keycard, squinting at it for a moment, bringing it closer to his face to read it properly before correctly identifying the room number.

He tucks the card back into his wallet as he turns into the doorway of the stairwell, throwing the door open. He is immediately met by the unbearable shouting of Feliks Łukasiewicz, his beady eyes lighting up with alarm. He manages to drop his wallet back in his pocket as he runs straight into the Pole.

Feliks’ articulate argument turns into a mindless yelp of shock. He leaps backward, colliding with the Lithuanian who follows just a few steps behind. 

Toris curses, wrapping an arm around Feliks as he stumbles backward off one of the topmost steps.

“No! Shit—” Berwald shouts, grabbing the cuff of the Pole’s jacket. The fabric slips from his fingertips, leaving him helpless as Toris pulls Feliks a step back. Both Eastern Europeans fail to find the stair below, their eyes—identical shades of bright green and equally exhausted—widen in shock as they find gravity getting the best of them.

The Lithuanian shouts as he falls backward, taking Feliks with him, managing to land flat on his back, some part of his body finding every stair on the way down to the midway landing below.

Chapter Text

The Swede stumbles forward down the steps of the warmly lit stairwell. “Łukasiewicz! Laurinaitis! Are you okay?” he asks in firm English, eyes wider than the sky, still completely unable to see a single thing.

Feliks slowly slides onto the floor, a hand still planted on Toris’ chest. “Yup,” he groans, gradually rolling onto his back. His arm swings around, hitting the floor. He squirms ever so slightly, planting his feet flat on the floor. “Dieve,” he hisses in Lithuanian.

Toris blinks absently at the man, recognizing his own tongue, completely caught off guard by it.

“Are you sure?” Berwald asks, squinting down at the man. He pushes his hair back over the top of his head.

Feliks stares hazily up at the blond Germanic man. “Who the hell…” His vision refuses to focus properly. “What… Ludwig?”

Berwald’s expression shifts with extreme offense before turning into extreme worry. “No—” He drops his hands, letting his hair fall forward against his forehead once more. “Are you sure you are okay?”

“Berwald—”

“There you go.” He braces his weight on his knees as he stares down at the Pole.

“Sušiktas šūdas,” Toris spits, barely breathing.

Berwald shifts toward the Lithuanian. “Toris—”

“He’s fine,” Feliks waves the man off. “That fall was my fault. Continue as you were. We’re good.”

“Toris?” Berwald ignores the Pole.

“Listen to him,” Toris whispers.

Berwald slowly nods, standing upright.

“Feliks,” Toris spits in Polish. “What the hell?”

“I can help—” Berwald insists.

“Nope, just give us a second and we will be good as new.” Feliks sits up, crossing his legs. There is still not a whole lot of coherence in his eyes. 

Berwald turns slowly, realizing he is winning none of the blame, descending the stairs before disappearing through the door to the floor below.

Feliks slowly turns to the Lithuanian man. “Are you okay?” he asks in soft Polish.

Toris doesn’t respond right away. “Yeah,” he whispers after a moment. “Just give me…” He tries to move but is immediately met with agony. He writhes and gasps for air, before giving up, giving in to the pain. “Is this what I get for—”

“Do you wanna stop for just a moment?” Feliks asks sharply.

Toris opens his mouth for a second before finally catching his breath. “I’ll be good in a minute.”

“Take your time,” Feliks pleads softly.

“I don’t get a say in the matter.” He tries to lift his arms, cringing as pain shoots through his back. “Goddamnit,” he hisses. “I miss the days when I could take a fall like that and jump right up again.”

“Are you sure you’re gonna be alright?”

“Oh yeah. I just fell down the stairs just for 140 pounds of Pole to land on top of me.”

Feliks scowls, his face flushing ever so slightly.

“It’s kinda poetic, don’t you think?” Toris whispers, refusing to move. “When one of us goes down, the other generally follows.”

Feliks squints. “No?”

Silence seizes the small space.

“Toris? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You said it yourself.” He lifts his arms ever so slightly, glaring at the man with bright, harsh eyes. “We always end up going through the same stuff. We used to be one, and then we were destroyed together… and then we were re-established… and then destroyed again, and then re-established once more. We putter around out east with our messed up governments because no one ever left us alone enough for us to develop properly.” He thinks about it for a moment more. “When shit hits the fan for one of us, the rest of us get smeared.”

Feliks slowly lowers himself back onto his stomach, resting his chin on his arms, staring at the man. “Is this what this is really about, then? You think that I am reflecting poorly on the rest of you?”

Toris holds his glare before exhaling. “I just wish that one of us could break free of this crap.” He pauses for a moment. “I just wish that… I could be proud of someone. Because it’s never gonna be me, and I don’t think it’s gonna be any of our neighbors.” He clenches his jaw as the Pole falls silent. He shifts his weight, attempting to push himself up, letting a sharp cry as pain shoots through his back.

“Hey—” Feliks pushes himself up on one arm, resting a hand on Toris’ chest. “Just relax.”

“I can’t just lie here in the middle of the stairwell,” he gasps weakly.

“Sure you can.”

“This looks unbelievably odd.”

“Then we will look odd together and honestly after how long we’ve spent arguing today, I don’t think anyone’s gonna tell us what to do. I mean… Berwald left us be.”

Toris stares at the man blankly for a moment, his hair pooling behind his head in a disheveled mess, his tie skewed awkwardly across his chest. “How can you stand to put up with the mockery?”

“Because at this point, most of us in the world don’t have any control over the human greed for wealth, renown, and power that festers inside our borders.” He smiles sadly. “And, rather unfortunately, when you live as we do”—he motions weakly at the Lithuanian and then back at himself once more—“you can either get on board with it or ignore it.” He shrugs awkwardly. “I’m not on board with all the stuff going down in my land, so I ignore it.”

Toris gazes back at him with grief.

“Or at least I’ve convinced everyone that I don’t care. Including you, apparently.”

“I don’t always understand why you do the things you do,” Toris whispers, his voice just about shot. “And sometimes you do the things you do because you just generally suck.”

Feliks doesn’t argue this point. “I don’t enjoy watching my people stress over the government… the government that I am supposed to stand as a representation of… I can feel the unrest. I know what the people are saying… and I don’t enjoy the scandal. I don’t enjoy the distrust.”

“So why don’t you tell anyone?”

“Since when do I throw myself pity parties? Are you insane?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t think I have to tell you anything,” he retorts. “You’re not my husband.”

Toris stares blankly at him with wide, watery eyes.

Feliks holds his gaze for only a brief moment before staring off. “Sometimes I feel stronger if I pretend I don’t care. It’s better to look more headstrong; sometimes being a pain in the ass is better than being a weak underbelly. I get abandoned if I look weak.”

“No—”

“1922.”

Toris opens his mouth, hesitating. “I didn’t leave because you got weak—”

“But you realize that I did get weak.”

“I left because I wanted to be stronger.”

“How’d that work out for you?” Feliks asks softly.

“I wouldn’t change a single thing I did.”

“Not a single thing?”

“I would do it all over again given the chance.”

“Including Alfred?” Feliks asks with a soft huff.

“Oh, including Alfred,” Toris echoes without missing a beat. “How it all came crashing down really sucked… but I still wouldn’t really change anything about it. Not for the world. It made me realize what I value most.”

Feliks squints. “And what’s that?”

“The people I share my history with.”

“What? Like me?”

“Yes, dumbass,” Toris chuckles. “Like you.” He swings lightly at the Pole, catching his cheek with the back of his hand.

“I can’t do anything to fix my people,” Feliks whispers, retrieving the initial point.

“I know… Because I can’t do anything to fix mine.” Toris exhales. “I just wish that we could prove ourselves…”

“Those of us from the lesser half of Europe…”

They both freeze as footsteps climb the stairs below them. 

Toris plants his hands on the ground, trying to push himself up, but silently struggles.

Feliks drapes an arm across him. “Just chill out,” he insists.

“Someone’s coming.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Feliks props himself up on his elbows, looking up as Gilbert Beilschmidt appears from around the corner. “It’s Prussia,” he announces softly.

“He’s not Prussia anymore,” Toris whispers, still trying to push himself up.

Feliks sits up properly, pressing a hand against Toris’ chest, keeping him down. “Stop that,” he urges.

Gilbert steps onto the landing, staring down at the two with an empty gaze. He blinks a bit of annoyance into his tired eyes. “Do either of you know where Elizabeta is?” he asks dryly, adjusting the strap of Ludwig’s letter bag on his shoulder.

“She’s not my wife,” Feliks spits. “Ask Roderich.”

“Like hell.”

The Pole holds his gaze for a moment before sighing heavily. “She’s on the third floor at the end of the hall. Right-hand side. Her room is right next to Toris’.”

The Lithuanian in question slowly pushes himself upright, carefully arching his back, stretching his arms out. “There we go,” he whispers. “All better. It just took a second.”

“Thank you,” Gilbert whispers, turning to continue up the stairs. He turns back to the two. “Also…” He motions questioningly at their placement in the middle of the stairwell, sprawled out between floors.

“We fell,” Toris reports. “A few things broke but now I think we are fine.” He shifts onto his knees, immediately crying in agony once more.

Feliks catches the Lithuanian’s weight as he doubles over.

“I’m fine,” Toris insists hoarsely, failing to catch his breath, shifting back onto his bum, slowly resting his legs flat on the ground. “I really took all the damage from that fall.”

“I’m sorry,” Feliks whispers.

Toris laughs, dropping his head back, hair falling out of his awkward ponytail situation. “Those are words I didn’t know you were capable of saying,” he laughs. He takes another deep breath as the door overhead opens. “Hey, Germany,” he calls.

Gilbert steps back, staring downward. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“Do you ever feel like those of us who aren’t picture perfect get brushed off as a nuisance or are regarded as just generally unimportant?”

“No,” Gilbert answers firmly. “Annoying? Yes. But not brushed off. We all work really hard to bring up those who aren’t as strong as others… And as far as picture perfect? Well… There is no one here who represents anything near perfection.”

“Your brother is one of the strong ones among us.”

“Yeah? And?”

“So what category do you fall into?”

Gilbert squints at the man, unable to identify whether or not he intends to be hostile. “I’m not categorizable,” he decides. “I am not a nation. I am neither strong nor am I weak. I don’t represent much more than someone like Lovino, or—”

“No,” Toris cuts him off. “Lovino stands to represent the part of Italy that needs the most help. He’s a pain in the ass and looks kinda lazy on the surface, but he’s a hard worker with quite the heart in him.”

Feliks glances at him. I guess you would know that. Wouldn’t you? You always find the best parts of the worst people.

Gilbert stands a little straighter, staring down at the pair.

That includes me, Feliks finishes the thought.

“Do you categorize yourself with us deadweight Eastern Europeans—”

“You’re not—”

“—or do you classify yourself with the likes of your brother and those in the west?”

Chapter Text

Gilbert sighs heavily. “That’s a good question,” he answers plainly. He turns sharply, marching through the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. He stares off with a grim expression as he fights the deep instinct to pull out his phone. He shakes his head, his hair shifting into his face. Do I really even try to find her at this point? Can’t I just call it a night and go to bed? Can’t I deal with all of this in the morning?

As he slows to the door he recognizes to be his own, his gaze slips down the hall, his eyes settling on the room at the far end. After a few more moments of thought, he shifts a cautious step down the hall. This is the last thing I should be doing right now, he comments to himself, gripping his phone in his pocket, his heart pounding and gut churning. But something tells me I won’t forgive myself if I ignore this.

He keeps his gaze low, his platinum blond hair sweeping into his periphery as he considers the situation a bit more. He looks up ever so slightly as his feet guide him to the end of the hall. He lifts a hand, knocking lightly on the door, closing his eyes.

“Menj el,” a muffled voice calls from within the room.

Gilbert clenches his jaw, leaning against the door. He pulls on the handle, finding it locked. He jiggles it forcefully. 

“Azt mondtam menj el!” the voice of Elizabeta Héderváry calls through the door, her voice breaking.

“Liz,” Gilbert calls. 

There is a moment of silence before the door opens just a crack.

Gilbert stumbles to the side, pushing it open all the way. He stares down at the woman in the entryway; she still wears a complete pantsuit, her makeup nearly perfect, but the streams of tears carved out of her blush and foundation give away her instability. He steps into the dim entry hall and she does nothing to stop him.

“I thought I told you to go away,” she whispers in German as the door swings shut behind him.

“Since when do I listen to anyone but myself?” he offers humorously, his tone solemn. “What’s going on?’ he asks, growing more serious. 

She turns her back to him, slowly wandering back through the dark room. He can hardly make her out against the darkness. “What are you doing here?” she dodges the question, clearing her throat. 

“Why are you still dressed?” He too ignores her question.

She wipes her hands on the dark purple fabric of her pants, lowering her gaze. She slowly lifts a foot off the ground, fighting one of her heels off her foot. “I just haven’t had time,” she states dryly, stumbling awkwardly as she sets her foot back on the floor. She shifts her weight as she fights her other shoe off.

“It’s been hours,” he whispers, letting Ludwig’s bag slide off his shoulder. He sets it against the wall in the entry hall as he steps cautiously through the dim room. It doesn’t take long for his knee to hit the side of the mattress centered on the adjacent wall. Bed, he announces to himself. He gradually feels his way to the nightstand that stands at the bedside, flicking on a lamp. He blinks, his eyes struggling with the sudden glare. He turns around, unbuttoning his suit coat. “Are we doing okay?” he asks softly.

She stares at him blankly before shaking her head ever so slightly.

Gilbert wanders through the room, taking the pair of heels from her hand, setting them on the floor before taking up her empty, clammy hands. “Talk to me.”

She shakes her head, tears slipping from her eyes. She leans forward, pressing her forehead to his collarbone, clinging to his suit coat.

Gilbert runs a hand through her hair, combing out curls with his fingers. “Hey,” he whispers. “How about you at the very least get changed? You will feel better. I promise.”

“I wish my problems could be solved by a simple change of clothes,” she whispers, exhaling as she settles against him.

He grabs her hands again, taking a step back. He kisses them lightly before stepping toward the wardrobe, dragging her along. He pulls open the drawers, rummaging around for a second before he pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, tossing them at the woman. She catches them awkwardly.

“I hope I haven’t made anyone worry,” she whispers, her gaze out of focus.

“I haven’t been talking to many people, but I know I’ve been worrying,” he states plainly. I can’t tell her that I suspect no one so much as noticed her absence. That will wreck her. To tell a hurting person no one noticed their pain? He watches her wander off to the bathroom that sits off the side of the entry hall.

Gilbert waits until the door closes before he sighs heavily, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He fumbles around with the device for a moment before bringing it to his ear. He runs his hand back through his hair as he steps further into the room, leaning against the back wall.

“Hello?” a curious voice rings through the phone.

“Alfred,” Gilbert croaks. 

“Gil?”

“Everything’s an absolute mess.” He barely speaks as he sinks to the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

“Gil? What is happening? What’s happened?” The voice of Alfred Jones picks up in intensity.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m fine. It’s Liz.” His voice trembles. “I think… I think I have to call a code on her, but I’m not sure. She’s being weird and she’s not herself and—”

“Breathe,” the American on the other end of the line urges.

“I…” He hangs his head, propping his legs up. “The meeting today was just bashing her and Feliks… And for the first time in years, I watched her just… shut off.” He takes a deep breath. “And the only way I know how to bring people off of ledges is how I bring you—”

“Do whatever you need to help her,” Alfred states firmly.

“But—”

“Don’t let her do anything stupid. I know how brutal these things can be when you already feel insecure. Help her.”

Gilbert nods, taking a stuttered breath, rubbing his eyes, wiping tears before they get the chance to fall. “She’s been absent this entire evening and no one gives a damn.” He drops his head back against the wall. “No one cares!”

“Help her, Gil. Do whatever you need.”

Gilbert nods, taking slow deep breaths. 

“Where is she right now?”

“Getting changed in the bathroom.”

“Gil?”

It dawns on him nearly immediately. He pushes himself to his feet. 

“Gil, get off your ass right now—”

“I am. I know. I…” His head spins as he dives across the room, skidding into the dim entry hall. What the hell am I doing? I don’t take my eye off Al when he gets like this. Why did I take an eye off Liz? He grips the handle of the bathroom door trying to open it, but finds it locked. “Elizabeta?” he calls, beating on the door, tears welling in his eyes once more. 

“Get in there, Gil,” Alfred urges, ultimately helpless. “I don’t know what’s happening, but if it were me…” He doesn’t finish the thought.

Gilbert’s brow furrows as he finds himself growing increasingly frustrated. “Elizabeta!” he screams, gripping the handle, his knuckles turning white as he fights with the door. It does nothing but rattle defiantly. He jumps as the door unlocks, the sound of the pin slipping echoing through the dim room like a single gunshot.

He throws the door open, finding the Hungarian woman collapsed on the floor. She releases the door handle, clutching herself as she convulses with sobs. “Sajnálom,” she gasps. “Sajnálom—”

“What did you do?” he drops his phone as he drops to the floor, grabbing her hands, finding them clenched against her gut. “Liz? Liz, what did you do?” His broad, trembling hands grip hers, finding a familiar object in her clutch. 

“Elizabeta!” he cries.

She releases it, letting it tumble to the floor. Gilbert swipes it up off the floor, identifying it immediately. He turns a small, centuries-old pocket knife in his hand, clenching his jaw before chucking it across the room, grabbing the Hungarian’s hands. It hits the back wall with a hard knock before tumbling into the bathtub.

“Please tell me you are okay,” he sobs. “Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid. Please tell me—”

She nods vigorously, melting into his arms, still not speaking a single word.

He sighs, wrapping an arm around her, still holding one of her hands fastly in one of his own.

“Sajnálom—”

“No,” he hisses. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, brushing her hair back out of her face. “Look at me.”

In extreme shock she does so, her frightened, empty green eyes meeting his burning purple ones. 

Why the hell does it always have to be me? His lips twist as he fails to choke back tears. He runs a hand back through her hair, embracing her and her warmth. Why does it always have to be me who catches these things? He presses his forehead against hers. “Take deep breaths,” he demands. Out of his periphery, he catches a glimpse of his phone which lies face up on the floor, his call with Alfred still running. Shit. 

His attention is stolen nearly immediately by the soft click of the unlocking door that leads to the hall. It swings open, the light of the hall flooding the dim room. Gilbert freezes, his breath caught in his throat as he identifies the man who appears in the entry hall, bathed in warm light, his disheveled blond hair glowing like some deformed halo. In his hand he grips a keycard—Elizabeta’s spare.

Gilbert blinks a few times, wiping his tears from his eyes. “Feliks?” he whispers. 

The Polish man says nothing as Elizabeta looks up with both embarrassment and relief. He slowly steps into the room, dropping the door on Toris Laurinaitis who stands silently behind him. He weaves his way into the bathroom, crouching down beside the pair on the floor before holding out his hands.

Elizabeta releases Gilbert’s hand, taking one of Feliks’, blinking tears off her eyelashes.

The Pole glances silently at Gilbert who apprehensively takes his other. The two clamber to their feet with the help of the Polish man. Toris lets the door shut behind him as he cautiously steps into the hotel room. He stands in the doorway of the bathroom for a moment, watching the three silently before eyeing Gilbert’s phone. 

“Come here,” Feliks whispers in soft Polish, leading the two out of the bathroom. He turns, releasing their hands, gently nudging them along as Toris steps out of the way.

Gilbert glances at the Hungarian woman. She managed to change into pajama bottoms but she still wears her button-up. He takes her hand, leading her to the bedside, urging her to sit down before sitting down right beside her. She’s basically catatonic, he notes to himself as she flops against him. He looks up at Feliks who stands over the both of them with tired eyes. And he… He finally thought to check in on her. Feliks silently motions at the German man to get up.

Gilbert nods, pushing himself to his feet, lightly squeezing Elizabeta’s shoulder before roaming into the darkness, finding Toris hiding out by the front door. “Why did you two come?” he asks with a faint whisper.

“We heard your yell.”

Gilbert drops his gaze.

The Lithuanian slowly extends his hand, Gilbert’s phone clutched loosely in his hold. “Feliks and I called the stupid code for you. ‘Stock Market’ or whatever it’s still called.”

You should know what it’s called. You named it.

“I figured you didn’t have it in you to do it yourself.”

Gilbert closes his eyes, taking his phone back.

Toris wanders past him, stopping at the end of the short corridor, sliding his shoes off, nudging them to rest against the wall beside Ludwig’s bag. “Feliks and I will stay the night with her,” he states softly. “So if you’d like to leave—”

“Am I allowed to stay?” Gilbert watches him.

“Of course,” Toris responds without turning around.

Gilbert follows him back into the light of the room, finding Feliks has situated himself beside Elizabeta on the large bed. He leans back against the headboard, his coat unbuttoned and tie skewed across his chest. The Hungarian sits at his side, speaking softly, tears running down her cheeks. She looks up as Toris enters her periphery, the man settling down on the bed on the other side of his ex-husband.

She glances around, spotting Gilbert. “How is it that you can stand to look at me?” she squeaks.

Gilbert furrows his brow, slowly approaching the bedside, glancing at Feliks apprehensively. How can you make yourself so comfortable so fast? I know you two are friends but what in the world is this? Are you insane?  

“Everyone should know that you should never be friends with Hungary,” she sobs. “Because she is a liar and a backstabber.”

“No,” both Gilbert and Feliks chime at once.

“Do you see what she is doing to Ukraine?” she continues absently, her bright eyes void of sanity. “She funnels EU funds and does whatever she damn well pleases—”

“Elizabeta,” Toris states softly, kicking Feliks’ shoes under the bed. 

“Hungary will betray you just like she betrayed everyone else!” She trembles with sobs. “Be careful, Italy,” she chokes, glancing from Feliks to Gilbert. “If you continue as you are, you’ll end up just like—” She loses her voice as she speaks her own name.

“We’re not leaving you,” Gilbert whispers. He fights his shoes off, deciding to follow Feliks, slowly sinking onto the bed, lying down beside the woman. “Not tonight.”

She glances from Feliks to Gilbert. “Since when do you two get along?”

Feliks shrugs. “For a few hours, someone is more important than the grudges we’re too petty to forget.”

She glances at the Lithuanian who nods in silent agreement.

Gilbert stares at her, watching her try to come to terms with this. She is actively trying to get us to leave her alone, but all the same, she is currently the clingiest she has ever been in her entire damn life. Everyone is wary of her because her higher-ups are friends with Russia, but that doesn’t justify neglecting her.

“Is it easier to not be a nation?” she asks softly, melting onto the comforter between Feliks and Gilbert. “Is it easier to just be a man?”

Silence seizes the room.

“Is that a question specifically for me?” Gilbert whispers.

“You are the closest thing to being a simple man out of the lot of us,” Toris points out. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been just a man.”

“Is that how you can stand being seen with me?” Elizabeta whispers. “You have no reputation to ruin?”

“I am here with you because I don’t want to see you get hurt.” He looks up as Toris rises to his feet, wandering into the dark once more. 

“The only person deciding that you aren’t good enough for our company is yourself,” Feliks adds. “So, please talk to us.”

“You already heard everything earlier,” she croaks. “You heard all of it.”

“We heard what your government is up to, but a nation is made up of far more than the man on top and his government.”

She shakes her head.

“You can’t be held responsible for what your Prime Minister does.”

“I am Hungary!” she cries defeatedly, sitting straight up. “What the Hungarian government does, I do! If Hungary screws over a friend in order to win the favor of Russia, I’ve screwed over a friend in favor of—”

“Where does your nation end and where do you begin?” Gilbert cuts her off.

Feliks raises an eyebrow as she sobs defeatedly. He looks up as Toris wanders back into the room, Elizabeta’s pocket knife in hand. He hands the weathered object over to the Pole with a glimmer of grief in his haunted eyes.

Feliks turns the knife on its side, reading the name engraved in the handle aloud. “Elizabeta Edel…” His expression distorts with disgust. “Elizabeta Edelstein?” He looks up. “That’s a name.”

“It was a gift from a long time ago.” The Hungarian doesn’t look up. “A long, long time ago.”

“Evidently.” He unfolds it, staring at the rusting blade. “Why the hell do you just have this on you?”

She doesn’t answer.

“I need you to answer me, Elizabeta,” Gilbert pleads. “Where does your nation end and where do you begin?”

“There is no start and end. We are all nothing more than puppets on—”

“Bullshit,” Feliks cuts her off. “Look at Antonio. He’s Spain, but he’s spent so little of his existence actually tuning into Spanish politics.” He shifts. “Look at me. How many damns do you see me give over the stuff they have to say about me?”

The Lithuanian glances cautiously at him.

“We represent what our people and government stand for!” Elizabeta refutes. “When the man in charge declares war, it doesn’t matter how much you loved the person on the other end of that declaration!” she cries indignantly.

“You’re preaching to the choir, my friend,” Feliks sighs, still turning the pocket knife thoughtfully in his hand. 

Elizabeta wipes her tears, glancing at Toris who wrings his hands uneasily. 

Gilbert lowers his gaze. “We represent what our people stand for,” he whispers. “I think.”

Toris settles down on the bed once more, shoving Feliks over. The Pole curses under his breath, wriggling awkwardly against the stiff mattress, giving Toris a bit of room.

“And we do what our governments say,” Gilbert continues, taking a deep breath. “To your point, when a boss declares war, whatever relationship you may have had is now screwed… But we do not represent the values of the top. We represent the values of the whole.”

“Bullshit,” she spits.

“Don’t you dare call it bullshit. That is how we keep going” Toris interjects.

“That’s how I got through World War II,” Gilbert states dryly.

“It’s how I got through the reign of the Soviet Union,” Feliks adds.

“Yup,” Toris agrees. 

“I was not in line with any of the leaders that ruined my people. I was with my people.”

“You are strong, Elizabeta,” Gilbert inserts. “Because your people are strong.”

“You can call me whatever you want,” she whispers, glancing between the three who refuse to leave her side. “It doesn’t mean that I will ever hold a light to the rest of Europe; it doesn’t mean I will ever hold a light to the woman I once was!” she cries, grabbing at the extra fabric of her shirt.

“The woman you once were was a damsel in another man’s arms,” Feliks seethes mockingly. “You think you were at your strongest in the arms of Roderich or Sadık?”

“There was a sliver of time,” Gilbert begins, crossing his arms, “—before Liz got Habsburged—that she was one of the strongest forces in Europe.”

She stares at him emptily. “I was just a kid back then.”

“But good God, were you a strong one,” Gilbert whispers. “Stronger than me anyway.”

She shifts, lowering herself against the cool sheets, her hair tumbling forward over her face.

He stares sadly after before smiling ever so slightly. “You always put me in my place.” He pauses. “I’ll never forgive Austria for taking that from you.”

“That was all so long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I’m not talking about the politics of it. I’m talking about what he did to you. He changed you.”

Feliks’ gaze shifts from the Hungarian to Gilbert before nodding in solemn agreement. He lowers his gaze to the knife in his hands, turning it a few more times before pocketing it. “I’ll be keeping this.”

“Why?” she whispers, her bright green eyes barely visible through the shadow of her hair.

“Because you don’t deserve to carry around that memory; you don’t deserve to carry around an artifact of your undoing.”

“He made me strong,” she hisses. “Alone, I’m just a soft spot in Europe’s back.”

“Do you honestly believe that?” Toris asks softly.

“Forget Europe’s soft underbelly; I have Italy beat.” She ignores him. 

“Do you honestly believe that he was the one that made you strong?” Toris rearticulates the question.

“I fell out of Austria-Hungary as the weaker half! He shed me like I was a cloak of lead!” she wails, clenching her fists, pulling her knees toward her chest. “I make the rest of the Soviet Bloc look stunning! All of you get to shine because you are getting compared to me!”

Toris sighs, shifting his weight, crawling carefully over Feliks, settling down at Elizabeta’s side. He lies flat on his back, pulling her close with ease.

She pauses, confusion gripping her. She does not fight the man but rests awkwardly against him, mildly surprised by how broad he is. She blinks softly, more tears slipping her eyes as she rests against his chest. She would not be surprised if it were Feliks or Gilbert being so forward, but Toris caring so much doesn’t quite track.

“It’s so lonely to be the only one so screwed up,” she squeaks, her voice hollow.

“But you’re not,” Feliks whispers.

“Why do you put up with me?”

“Are you kidding?” Gilbert huffs. “You are the pain in my ass and the rival I’ve had longer than I can properly remember.”

“How can we live without you?” Feliks mumbles.

“You keep me on my toes and remind me of everything I stand to lose,” Gilbert continues. “You’ve been right there—for hundreds upon hundreds of years—watching me lose it all… But good God, I never lost you.”

Feliks rolls onto his side, pressing himself against Toris, closing his eyes as the rest of the energy he has for the day leaves him.

“And even though I’ve been put through it all… you—Elizabeta Héderváry—are still here… just like you always have been… and therefore, not everything is lost.”

Elizabeta blinks thoughtfully, and after a day of frowning, crying, sobbing and screaming, she smiles.

Chapter Text

November 16, 2023

Brussels, Belgium

Antonio settles into the dining room chair beside Lovino, scooting his chair in. He glances over at the Italian who sets a water bottle on the table beside a plate brimming with food, most of it waffle. Lovino’s eyes remain hazy, and everything about his expression hints that he is one mild inconvenience away from snapping. Both men had hardly slept at all the night before. The younger spent it drinking away worries, completely uncooperative, unwilling to go to bed while the elder had no choice but to sit up with him to keep him in line. The two get to see each other far more than they used to, but that does not mean the weeks to months they spend apart ache any less.

Antonio grabs the water bottle set beside Lovino’s breakfast, pausing knowingly as Lovino’s hand latches onto it. The Spaniard raises an eyebrow, his exhausted—yet unusually bright—eyes glimmering with amusement.

Lovino scowls, releasing it, letting Antonio have it.

The Spaniard unscrews the cap, taking a brief sniff of the bottle’s contents before shrinking back in disgust, coughing. “What the hell is this?” he chokes.

Lovino does not answer.

“Roma,” Antonio presses.

The Italian turns to his food, slowly picking up his fork. “Alcohol,” he answers slowly, his tone reminiscent of a toddler caught in a petty act. You can’t get a hangover if you’re still drunk.

“No shit, Lovi, but what is it?” Antonio returns the cap to the bottle, fitting it into his bag before setting the bag on the floor beside his chair.

Lovino opens his mouth to answer but freezes with mild intrigue as a light tug on his left sleeve draws his attention. He turns ever so slightly, finding Alekos’ son standing at his side, staring at him with dark, sparkling eyes. “Can we sit here?” he asks in soft English, his voice a bit hoarse. He had to have woken up just a little over ten minutes ago or so. 

Lovino stares at him absently, swearing he can see constellations in the child’s eyes.

Antonio leans forward, also noting the child’s weary nature, glancing up as Alekos Vaselios slows to the boy’s side. He silently wonders how the man managed to get the child together so fast; years of dealing with Lovino and other youngsters always had him scrambling to make events on time.

Lovino nods silently at the child, his absent eyes returning to his food. He glances at the Spaniard, sensing his bright gaze and general aura of warmth.

“¿Tienes amigos ahora?” Antonio asks cheerily.

The child beams as he sets a plate on the table beside Lovino’s, clambering onto the chair, sitting on his knees to reach the table properly. 

Alekos settles down to the left of the boy, silently taking his place at the table. As he does, however, he takes one look at Lovino, and turns to his son. “Αν τον τσαντίσεις, δεν σε σώζω.”

“Hello,” Antonio greets the child softly, folding his hands in front of his face.

“Hello!” the boy greets brightly, his voice still slightly rough. He ignores his father’s comment entirely and without missing a beat, he turns to Lovino. “Mister Italy, I have a question.” He straightens his shoulders, his gaze dimming. “And it’s about grown-up things.”

“Βόρειος,” Alekos warns.

Antonio takes this as a cue to go do something. Anything. He spins out of his chair, barely caring to push it in before weaving his way around tables, heading for the far side of the room.

Lovino whips around, watching his partner wander off. Don’t you fucking leave me. His hazel eyes burn with alarm. “Spagna!” he hisses, gripping the back of his chair with one hand, the other clenched on the table.

“Ya vuelvo,” the Spaniard calls back, disappearing into the crowd of personifications and other guests.

Lovino turns back to the child, locking eyes with Alekos for the briefest of moments, both of them ready for anything to leave the child’s mouth. Worse yet, Alekos looks more worried than Lovino. “What’s up?” the Italian asks warily.

The Cypriot child clears his throat. “Do you and Mister Spain—” Before he can finish the question, Alekos has a hand over his mouth and has practically pulled him completely out of the chair and into his lap.

“He’ll kill you,” the father spits, his voice low. “And I’ll let him.”

Lovino stares blankly at the boy as he is released and pushed back into his chair. “Kid, I’ve been with Antonio longer than you’ve been alive,” he begins, turning his fork on its side, cutting into a waffle. “Fill in the blanks.” He pulls the soft food apart, taking a bite. He looks up with dread as he senses another presence behind him.

He pauses as he finds the unlikely quartet of Elizabeta, Gilbert, Feliks, and Toris hovering awkwardly around him. He fails to gather enough of a coherent thought to give any of them a particular expression as they settle down in seats around the table. Gilbert takes a seat beside Antonio’s empty chair, glancing over as Elizabeta settles beside him, setting her plate down.

Feliks takes a seat beside Alekos, smiling politely, still completely exhausted. Toris clumsily sets his plate down, dragging the chair out from the table, falling into the padded seat 

Lovino narrows his gaze as it settles on Elizabeta. I didn’t hear exactly what happened last night, but I heard Beilschmidt’s yelling. I think the whole hotel heard Beilschmidt’s yelling. He looks up as Antonio wanders back to the table, two cups of water in hand.

He sets one down on the table next to Lovino. “Try this,” he whispers smoothly. He looks up at the four newcomers, taking silent note of them. Feliks catches his attention with a brief wave, his bright green eyes mildly troubled.

Without batting an eye, Antonio steps around the table, slowing to a stop between Alekos and Feliks’ chairs.

“Hey, did you try the desserts last night?” the Pole asks in over-enthused English, slipping a small object out of his pocket.

Antonio locks eyes with the man, holding a hand under the table. “No. Wine for dinner and wine for dessert. What did you have?” he asks as his fingers fold around the narrow wooden handle of the centuries-old pocket knife that is carefully handed over to him. He doesn’t look up to check, but he is certain Elizabeta pays them no mind. 

“They served this really good… chocolate… thing. I had to get Noé to help me order it because it was weird and French.”

“You showed your face in the restaurant last night?” Antonio slides the small object up his sleeve, gripping it loosely.

“Yeah. I was there briefly. I showed up just before Feliciano threw up.”

Lovino groans, propping his elbows on the table. We are going to be hearing about that for months. Meloni will never let us live that down. He looks up as Antonio wanders back to his side, settling down in his seat. He furrows his brow, eyeing the small object the Spaniard is now in possession of. 

He sighs heavily, glancing up at Feliks before returning his gaze to the knife in Antonio’s hand. I know exactly what that is, he notes sharply to himself. Roderich gave little trinkets like pocket knives and the such to the poor fuckers who he ended up marrying… or… Habsburging. He blinks thoughtfully.

He glances over at the boy at his side, his mind drawing blank before his eyes settle on the Pole across the table. Does this mean Code 1929 was called last night? I remember Alfred pulled so many in 2008 that the code nearly got a new name. When was the last time one has been called though? Surely there has been at least one since ‘08. Suddenly he is struck by the recollection that many have happened since 2008. This recollection is followed by an immense pang of guilt.

He turns to Antonio, lowering his gaze. “Didn’t you have one of those?” he asks in soft Spanish.

“I did,” Antonio responds softly as he pockets the knife. “I don’t remember what happened to it, and frankly, I don’t really care.”

Lovino keeps his gaze low. Damn right, you don’t remember where it went. I took it and hid it in the 50s. He thinks about it a moment longer. The 1550s. He elaborates. And then I put it in my house in ‘61—1861—and then my house got obliterated in 1943. He looks up as—as if summoned by irony—Ludwig steps into the room, Feliciano at his heels. And that would be the fault of those two. He squints, unsure who between the two of them looks worse.

Ludwig scans the room, pushing his hair back out of his face. It falls back over the top of his head in a style fairly similar to how Matthias often wears his hair before it falls back into his face again. Despite his less than formal demeanor—donning only a slacks and a mostly buttoned dress shirt—, he still looks pulled together, his bright eyes scanning the room inquisitively.

Feliciano, on the other hand, stumbles along, clinging loosely to Ludwig’s arm. He squints into the loud, boisterous room, his expression screwed up with annoyance.

Lovino leans over, nudging the man at his side. “I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen Feliciano so fucked up.”

Antonio glances at his partner, knowing very well this is a lie, but is intrigued to see what warrants the claim. He laughs as he too spots the younger Italian. “He looks mad.”

“It’s so rare that the poor bastard gets hungover.”

“Is that your brother?” the young boy at Lovino’s side asks inquisitively in clumsy English, his shining eyes latched onto the hungover Italian.

“Yeah,” Lovino breathes. “Fashionably late, per usual.”

“German punctuality meets culturally rooted Italian tardiness,” Antonio chuckles.

“Italian tardiness won,” Feliks inserts.

Lovino’s gaze drifts, watching people come and go from the large conference room that had been turned into a dining room. His attention is caught by the form of the Czech personification who floats into the room; she has more energy than anyone else in the room combined. Where the hell is Željko?

Antonio leans over. “She broke Željko,” he whispers.

“He’s dead,” Gilbert chimes with his usual energy.

The child looks up at Lovino. “What do you mean? Did she do something to Mister Slovakia?”

Feliks snorts, turning to watch the woman. “You know she did.”

“He’ll be fine. This happens every meeting and he always bounces back,” the Lithuanian offers, his eyes glued to his phone as he tends to what are apparently more pressing matters.

Lovino chuckles, watching the Czech. 

“She taught us her ways once,” Elizabeta inserts softly.

“What?” Gilbert laughs, turning to her.

“Sometimes we girls meet up. We once asked her how she manages to absolutely ruin him.”

Antonio loses himself in laughter, leaning back in his chair. “The secrets of breaking a man?” he exclaims a bit too loudly.

Elizabeta raises an eyebrow, laughing softly. She looks up startled, as Gilbert kicks his chair back, rising to his feet, planting his hands on the table. “I am about to kill a man,” he reports sharply.

“Oh?” Alekos chimes, glancing around the room with anxiety.

“Tell Al I love him and…” The German furrows his brow, stepping away from the table. “And ne felejtsd el, hogy én is szeretlek.”

Elizabeta whirls around, spotting the man that Gilbert sighted. “Oh, shit,” she whispers. 

Lovino pushes himself up, diving to Gilbert’s now empty seat, already imagining who the German has spotted. “Miss Héderváry,” he whispers, paying Gilbert no mind.

Antonio glances warily between Lovino and the now fuming German.

“I heard a bit of what happened last night,” Lovino speaks slowly and softly. “Is everything okay?”

She nods ever so slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m okay.”

“All the discussion from yesterday went to your head, didn’t it?”

She smiles sadly.

“I know what it’s like to be in your shoes—”

“Two-inch heels?” she asks softly.

He chuckles, hanging his head for a moment. “Once on a dare.”

She laughs, wiping the tears that well in her eyes. She glances over her shoulder once more, finding Gilbert squirming in the arms of Tino Väinämöinen. “I had that one looking out for me.”

Lovino follows her gaze, laughing softly, watching as the Finnish man wrangles the lanky German without the slightest struggle.

“Look at me, Austria!” Gilbert’s voice tops the volume of the entire room. Backed against the far wall is the bewildered form of Roderich Edelstein. He holds an empty plate against his chest, his dark brown hair falling in no particular direction, some of it sticking straight up as he stares at the German man with a complete lack of words.

“He should be here any moment,” Toris’ soft voice grabs Lovino’s attention.

“Who?” Lovino hisses, glancing over his shoulder as the Lithuanian turns his phone off, setting it on the table.

Lovino whirls around again as gasps echo throughout the room; Tino had swept Gilbert’s feet out from under him and caught his weight shockingly close to the floor. The Finn’s baby blue tie—speckled with sparkling snowflakes—swings beside Gilbert’s face, hardly distracting the man from his rage. “Let me go!” he bellows.

Roderich shakes his head. “I don’t understand. What did I—”

“Darling—” Tino cuts the Austrian off, his expression shifting disapprovingly.

“Don’t you “darling” me!” Gilbert shouts. “Imma bash his face in and frankly there is nothing you can do to stop me!”

Roderich’s eyes widen with unadulterated fear as he finds that he can not back up much more. Instead, he stands paralyzed by shock.

“Perhaps I can,” a smoother, richer voice calls from behind.

Tino jumps, nearly dropping the German man. He struggles for only the briefest moment before quickly regaining composure.

“Gil,” the newcomer mumbles, easily catching the attention of the entire room, shock seizing absolutely everyone.

Gilbert pauses as the voice suddenly registers. He slowly finds his feet, stepping back into the Finn that has him in a death grip. He blinks a few times as turns around, staring down the relatively handsome newcomer. 

Lovino squints at the newcomer before glancing at the Lithuanian who looks rather pleased with himself. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Chapter Text

Alfred Jones stands before the German man in light gray slacks which fit his broad form perfectly. A white button-up remains mostly buttoned; all but the top two buttons are done up. A lavender—borderline baby blue—blazer hanging open on his broad shoulders.

Tino blinks in shock, staring up at the man who can be nothing but the combination of his and Berwald’s best traits. Well. Maybe Alfred lost out on the eyesight, but everything else is pretty spot on. The Finn gauges that it is safe to release the German man, stepping away. “Rakastettu,” he whispers.

“Hei äiti,” Alfred whispers, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

Gilbert widens his stance, glancing around as various personifications push themselves up to make sure they are seeing everything correctly. 

The American takes a step forward, looping an arm around Gilbert’s waist. “Do we have any real business with Edelstein or are we just picking fights?” He manages to maintain his usual energy but his tone is just about unrecognizable to those who do not know him well. I know what happened yesterday. Toris ended your call and then called me later himself.

Gilbert stares up at the man with narrow, beady eyes, but as his gaze meets the American’s, his icy stare immediately melts. “I have pretty solid grounds to beat his ass!” he hisses, turning ever so slightly, glaring back at the Austrian. He clenches his jaw, stepping out of Alfred’s arms. “The coldest shadow you can possibly stand in is the shadow of someone you once loved,” he hisses. 

Alfred steps forward. “I know what this is about, Gil, and this is not the place for it.”

“What on Earth are you even doing here?” Roderich remarks, staring at the American with wide, baffled eyes. 

Alfred steps past Gilbert slowly approaching the Austrian man. “You have to forgive him. He had a long night last night fixing a mess that was born of your lack of social tact.” He drops his gaze, his bright blue eyes misting with distant grief. “And I am the last person to dredge up conflicts from centuries past… But some wounds need more than time to properly heal.”

The Austrian’s dark eyes widen with dread as he figures out what the man is talking about. “I didn’t… I didn’t know she was having a hard time.”

“Bullshit,” a rich voice chuckles from Roderich’s side.

Alfred’s gaze shifts to the Irishman who stands just beyond Roderich. He continues to load his plate, completely unfazed by the conflict going down behind him. “Yeah?” Alfred whispers.

“The whole fucken…” Seán O'Callaghan motions lazily around the room. “Place…” he decides lazily. “The whole place heard Beilschmidt’s yelling.”

Alfred blinks at the Irishman. Someone’s hungover.

Roderich glances at the man with a narrow gaze before turning back to the American. “I didn’t—”

Alfred takes another step forward. “Yes you did,” he mutters.

Roderich flattens himself against the wall despite gradually regaining some composure. 

“Al,” Gilbert warns, reading Roderich’s fear with ease.

Getting threatened by Gilbert is one thing. Alfred’s gaze becomes stone cold. But I’m something else. He furrows his brow, stepping forward so he towers over the scrawny man. “But you decided last night—as you’ve been doing in decades past—that it wasn’t your problem.”

“Oh, shit,” Seán inserts, popping a grape into his mouth, promptly grabbing another off his plate.

Gilbert glances anxiously at the Irishman before glancing over his shoulder at the Finn who straightens his tie, rolling his sleeves up, almost as if he were preparing to pull the American off Roderich.

“Alfred,” Tino pleads softly. “You are scaring the daylights out of him.” If there is anything else Alfred certainly inherited from Berwald, it is his intimidating aura.

“He needs to be scared.”

“Al—”

“What are they gonna do? Kick me out of the EU?” He glances over his shoulder for the briefest moment before returning his gaze to the man he stands over. “And at the end of the day, I’m not really surprised you’d turn a blind eye to her suffering. Not after all the shit you pulled on those you were supposed to protect.”

“Alright, Jones,” a new voice enters the conversation.

Soft chatter gradually fills the room as disinterested individuals return to their earlier discussions. Alfred squints at the man who steps up to Tino’s side, staring at him with an air of confusion. Who the hell… He squints.

“I think you’ve accomplished all you possibly can,” the newcomer continues, tossing airy blond hair out of his face.

Matthias? Alfred blinks, hardly able to recognize the Dane with his hair down. If anything, he looks shockingly like Berwald, but no one dares to say it. The American slowly steps back toward the German, Dane, and Finn. He stops as he returns to Gilbert’s side. “I know what happens to your discarded pieces.” He turns, eyeing Roderich threateningly. “And we are lucky that someone sifted out the fact that something was wrong.”

Roderich slowly lowers his plate, glancing at Seán as he slowly walks away from the table of food, no longer interested in the exchange. His gaze lights up as he spots the thin form of Noé Saint Laurent. He locks eyes with the Luxembourgish man, his dark eyes wide with a silent plea. 

Noé nods with understanding, weaving his way around tables. He is far too overdressed for the simple breakfast. “Mister Jones,” the Luxembourger states softly.

Alfred freezes, caught off guard by the man and his accent. He cannot quite identify it, only recognizing it is vaguely French.

“Please don’t cause more of a scene than you and Mister Beilschmidt already have.”

“I was done with him anyway,” Alfred states dryly, stepping past Gilbert, loosely grabbing the cuff of his shirt, dragging him along.

The German happily turns on his heels, following Alfred out of the room. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks at last.

“Toris called.”

“You came running for Toris?” His head is spinning.

“No, dumbass,” Alfred slows as they step into the hall. He lets Gilbert take a few more steps before leaning against the wall. “He called me because he knew that you needed me.”

Gilbert blinks a few times. “That was last night.”

“It took an hour to book a flight, pack, get there and board, and then it took a little over nine hours to fly here. I land and have two hours to get here for breakfast.”

Gilbert shakes his head, rubbing his face. “My God, you are insane.”

“Are you mad?”

“No,” Gilbert answers sharply. “Just… surprised.”

Alfred steps forward, taking up his hands, pulling Gilbert a step closer. “I’m sorry if I’m freaking you out—”

“You’re not.”

“I just thought that for once I could be there for you.”

There is a brief moment of silence. “After the war,” Gilbert begins shakily, stepping forward, leaning against Alfred’s chest, “half of us drew a short straw… and we fell into the hands of Braginsky.” He takes a deep breath as his eyes glaze over with distant thought. “And even though things are getting better… most of us are still under the feet of everyone who maintained some essence of power through the years.” He thinks about it for a moment more. “Some essence of identity.”

Alfred drops his hands, and instead, wraps his arms around his partner, holding him close.

“How can our friends and loved ones stand to watch us fall and decide we were never of their concern?”

Back then, I did exactly that. I watched you fall and… and decided it was none of my concern. Alfred lowers his gaze as he presses his cheek against the top of Gilbert’s head

“Whose hands will bear our blood when everyone claims that they never touched us; that they had no contribution to our pain?”

“Gil,” Alfred whispers as a whirlwind of thoughts spins through his head.

“I got…” Gilbert catches the sentence that was about to spill over his lips. He tries to reword it in his head but decides there is no use. “I got used to watching you go down,” he confesses.

Alfred tenses up, his bright eyes icing over.

“And I knew what things got to you; I knew why they did.” He shifts a step back, looking up at the man. “And I never wanted to see someone do that to themselves ever again,” he chokes as he rests a hand on Alfred’s cheek. He laughs defeatedly, hoping it hides the tears that slip his eyes. He traces the plastic frame of Alfred’s glasses with his pointer finger before letting his hand drop back to his chest. “So… to watch Liz of all people… To watch her get so close…” He steps back, hanging his head, running his hand back through his hair. 

“Gilbert,” Alfred states calmly, crossing his arms.

“To watch her crumble under the burden that at least a dozen of us collectively carry is so Goddamn sickening!” he cries, clutching himself. “If I didn’t have you and Ludwig I would be just like her! People assume I enjoy every luxury Ludwig does just by the nature that I am German!” He shakes his head, realizing the door to the breakfast hall is still open and not all that far away. “They assume I am just like him when I really am still fundamentally different.” His posture relaxes as he looks up with tired eyes. “Namely, that I can be killed.”

Alfred’s shoulders fall.

“And no one cares.” He shrugs.

Alfred nods, his expression blank. After a moment he takes a deep breath. “I can’t offer you solace,” he whispers. “I was part of the problem.”

Gilbert’s expression twists as he holds a hand out. “I know.”

Alfred silently takes his hand.

“But I can’t hold you to your past any more than you can hold me to mine.” He slowly guides Alfred back toward the dining room. “I appreciate you flying out here. I swear to you I’m fine.”

“You are on the brink of tears.”

Gilbert’s expression twists as his feet carry him through the threshold of the repurposed conference room.

He hadn’t noticed.

“Yesterday was definitely hard,” Gilbert confesses. “To just…. Always feel like the weaker half… By countless definitions…”

Alfred clings to Gilbert’s hand. “I could hear it in your voice when you called… And… And in your tears.” He glances playfully at the man, his eyes still seized by grief. “I have the week off. I planned on coming back to Germany with you if it wasn’t a bother.”

Gilbert’s eyes light up.

Alfred smiles warmly as they step back into the room. The volume of the room has just about returned to normal. He follows Gilbert to the round table that seats Elizabeta, Antonio, and the rest of their strange group. Alfred takes a chair from a nearby table, flipping it around to sit between Gilbert and Antonio. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Lovino asks immediately, leaning forward to see the man properly.

Alfred attempts to resurrect his bubbly personality but only manages to recollect half of it. “It sounded like an eventful meeting. I thought I’d come and see what all the hype was about. It’s not fair that I get to miss out.”

“‘Hype’ is not the word I’d use,” Gilbert mutters.

Lovino holds the man’s gaze for a moment, putting the entire situation together. He glances warily from Gilbert to the vaguely invited American guest. “Welcome to the shitshow,” he mutters, dropping his gaze to the new stack of waffles he had collected in the pair’s absence.

“Um… Uh…” A weak voice picks up over the volume of the entire room. “Excuse me?”

Gilbert and Alfred look up as the entire room—a healthy mix of nations and politicians—rest their eyes on the Luxembourgish man who holds a glass of water over his head, signaling for the attention of the entire room.

“I think… before we leave today, a few words need to be said to best prepare us for work moving forward.”

Alfred’s eye latches onto Ludwig and Feliciano who weave their way through the room. Gilbert too catches them, now realizing the Italian wears pajama pants and one of Ludwig’s shirts; it hangs on his shoulders in a comical manner, obviously far too large for him. He continues to trudge around, his light brown eyes mudded and dazed.

“There have been unsavory sentiments floating around,” Noé continues, bringing his glass to a loose hold in front of his chest. “Absolutely no one missed the persistent arguing between Łukasiewicz and Laurinaitis last night… But we ignored it. Everyone knows how awkward it is for Beilschmidt and Vargas to attend these meetings”—he doesn’t have to clarify that he means the older Beilschmidt and Vargas—“But we ignore it.” He blinks thoughtfully. “We all sat silent as Héderváry and Łukasiewicz took the blame for their nations’ shortcomings and we watched the lights go out in their eyes and we ignored it.”

Noé clears his throat, scanning the room. “The Kirkland brothers struggle to find their footing on their own and we turn our backs to them… Because we only truly pay attention to each other when the blood starts to run.”

Alfred narrows his gaze.

“And I don’t mean the blood of the people of our nations.” Noé shakes his head. “No. We are getting better at stepping in to improve the little things. I’m talking about us.”

I feel bad for any representative or other politician in here who has absolutely no clue what's happening. Alfred huffs in what can barely be called amusement.

The Luxembourger glances at Alfred, still having absolutely no clue why he showed up, but doesn’t lend it much thought. “People have been feeling like shit,” he sighs, scanning the room. “People have been feeling worthless.”

Elizabeta drops her gaze, catching Gilbert’s attention.

“Too many tears were shed last night for the shame that was built by the neglect we cast on each other. Lesser halves feel resentment or reminiscence for what once made them feel whole.” He turns sharply. “We are glorified… those of us who haven’t been shat on quite like the rest.” His eyes settle on his sister and brother who sit side by side across the room. “And we have sat by and watched too many people take themselves down because they didn’t feel that they could compare to everyone else.”

This isn’t an issue confined only to the European Union, Alfred notes to himself, watching Noé with curiosity.

“We are an ugly picture in a gilded frame,” the Luxembourgish man states thoughtfully. “All of us. Through and through. But… We are one. One image. We together are only as beautiful as our ugliest parts.” He glances back at Andries before his eyes scan over the Nordics, followed by the Baltics at a neighboring table. His gaze settles on Ludwig who stands solemnly in the corner. Feliciano leans lazily against him, eyes shut. “We—the twenty”—his gaze settles on Alfred—“eight nations represented here.”

“Tomáš isn’t here,” the Czech woman states softly, almost as if to brag. She doesn’t sit too far from Noé, staring up at him with dark eyes.

“Right!” Noé laughs. “Per usual, Željko is out of commission. There are twenty-seven nations here today.”

Various chuckles fill the silence of the room.

“The twenty-seven nations of the European Union are only as strong as the weakest member. There is no lesser half. At least there shouldn’t be. When we think of ourselves as a group—as the EU—we either accomplish things as a whole, or we don’t accomplish anything at all.” His eyes settle on the table littered with a strange array of Eastern European personifications. “If anything, those of us who let the suffering flounder are the true lesser half.”

Chapter Text

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