Spain doesn't hang around HQ lately. It's a lot of work being a soverign nation still there's a place he likes to go to remind him that it's all worth while. It's a room he found quite a while back in the middle of a hallway. Inside it's ordinary looking, like a common sitting room. There's a rug and a coffee table with a number of nice looking
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"...make it stop..." He curls forward, eyes widened, though his pupils have narrowed to barely more than pinpricks. It's far too much, two hundred centuries of things he knows nothing about, beating on his mind like that. Especially feeling the undercurrent for a noticeable portion of it of, if not outright hatred, a cultural urge to just lump him in with everything else shameful and undesirable about the past, which hurts on a very visceral level. "...make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop." Though the volume steadily increases, his tone never quite leaves the odd mélange of wounded, scared child and utterly flat it has taken on.
It's the genocide, really, that draws his attention; never mind war or poverty or subjugation. He's familiar enough with those over the centuries. Perhaps not being the subjugated, but it's nothing new under the moon to him. No, that entire decade there; it horrifies him like little else can. (Though, he can't say he's so fond of being dissolved twice. That shit is not fair and when he recovers from this, he will be bitching up a storm.) Especially his own involvement.
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Spain just holds him to keep him from hurting himself. England is right, he IS an idiot. Look at what he's done to Prussia!
"It's alright, it's okay. Everything is going to be fine, amigo."
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He's clutching at Spain's arms, trying to pull him off, shove him away, do something other than just sit here and take what's happening in his head because it's agony and he can't find words other than a repeated babble of the same three words from before. When he does find more words, it will just be a denial, over and over, switching between German and English with neither rhyme nor reason to it.
Really, though, Spain should not blame himself. Prussia would have had that tea no matter what.
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"It's over now. It's all in the past."
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Though even that comes to an end, and for a long moment he's silent.
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"..h-hey Spain..."
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Still, proof positive that he's still out of sorts is how, if Spain hasn't pulled away, he's dropping his head back down and mumbling now. "Sorry for yelling in your ear..." He is; no one should have him yell in their ear except maybe on a battlefield when there is a cavalry charge coming right at them and the other person won't move their arse, but otherwise, no. No one should have him yell so nearby.
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"Sorry for being spineless." He murmurs. Spain should've known better being more well aquainted with the tea's properties.
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It honestly confuses him but then again a lot honestly confuses him.
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Then he snorts. "My knights were the ones who gave me my first name. I don't blame them. At that point in time my name was otherwise bigger than I was. I mean, which is gonna come off your tongue easier: Orden der Brüder vom Deutschen Haus St. Mariens in Jerusalem or Gilbert?"
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"Hmmm, I can see how that can be a problem...the longest title I ever had was La República Española. How far back can you remember?"
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