A Place in the Sun
Title: A Place in the Sun
Character(s): Prussia, Germany
Rating: PG
Warnings: Even more plodding and introspective than usual, if possible. I don't know what happened.
Summary: The German Empire takes a decided turn in favor of the "German" part. Prussia says "crap".
It would be so much easier to concentrate without the staring, he thinks.
Gilbert sighs and puts down the paper in his hand. "Must you read over my shoulder like that?" he groans, to the wall before him.
Behind him, the air seems to lighten as Ludwig backs away slightly.
"I'm merely anxious to hear what you think," he says, in the carefully controlled tone he uses when suppressing far less elegant sentiments. "You...you've been reading it for a while."
"It's not exactly the sort of thing you skim through, Ludwig."
"You don't like it."
"I didn't say that." Gilbert rubs at his temple with one hand and contemplates the plans lying spread on the table. "But damned if little Freddy didn't jump at the chance to have this drawn up."
"He had to," Ludwig answers, and the clinking of medals on his uniform betrays the shrug. "With England and France getting closer and Russia loosening ties with us..."
"And picking them right back up again with France, naturally," drawls Gilbert, drumming his fingers irritably on the desk.
Ludwig affects to ignore the interruption. "...It's only natural that he'd want to be prepared to deal with a scenario like this. We can't possibly hope to avoid a costly war on two fronts without a clear plan of action."
"Oh, and this Schlieffen fellow's got big ideas, I'll give him that." Gilbert rests his chin in his palm and stares glumly down at the text. He raises an eyebrow. "Thirty-nine days to take down France? Exactly?"
"Forty-two to finalize the surrender," Ludwig corrects, somewhat hastily. "We have to take potential delays and formalities into account."
"Of course we do," murmurs Gilbert. "We always think ahead, don't we."
He doesn't turn when Ludwig pulls out the chair next to him and sits, leaning in closely to look over the papers with him again; nor does he express any discomfort at the sudden invasion of his personal space. Even if he did, he doubts Ludwig would stop to notice it right now.
"You see," Ludwig is saying, pointing at the sheets between them ('elbows off the table,' Gilbert mutters, and he at least still listens to that), "we'll come down on him quickly, efficiently, and encircle all of his forces from both sides, just like--"
"--Just like at Sedan, yes," says Gilbert, who remembers, and not just because it was his name that belonged to the fight back then, because this is much older than that, than either of them. Just like Cannae. Good old Hannibal. And we all watch the ones that went before us, and we learn--
"Right, just like Sedan, but this time we won't stop to try and take Paris, that would take far too long..."
--and learn and study and make little notes to remind ourselves of what went wrong, not me, no, not me, not ever--
"...Because we'll need to redirect that manpower towards Russia once he finally mobilizes," Ludwig is still saying, in the low urgent tones of a conspirator, but it's never been much of a mystery to Gilbert.
He nods vaguely. "Take out France first, exactly. Russia's slow, Russia's always slow, everyone knows that." He almost wonders whether Russia knows that, but banishes the notion from his head as soon as it emerges. Still, something gnaws at the back of his mind, and he taps at one point on the paper in front of him several times. "But about this Belgium thing."
"What of it?" Ludwig draws back, sits up straighter, squares his shoulders. It's an impressive gesture on his frame, and Gilbert wonders just when he got to be so damnably good at it.
"You know what," he says, still tapping. "Belgium's neutral. Has been since last century. That means no invading."
"Belgium is in the way," says Ludwig simply.
"I still don't think we should be so quick to tamper with this," Gilbert stresses, fighting the urge to flick Ludwig's forehead admonishingly.
Ludwig snorts in disbelief. "Why is it suddenly so important to y--?"
"--Because I promised her, alright?"
It's louder than he meant for it to be, and they're both a little taken by surprise. Gilbert crosses his arms over his chest and sinks sullenly back in his chair, widening the space between them again.
"I promised her," he repeats, as though the very word "promise" in conjunction with himself should be exceptional enough (and it should). "A bunch of us did, right after all that revolution crap. Me, England, Russia, Austria--"
Another snort. "Since when do you care what Austria does?"
"I don't. Fuck Austria. That's not the point." Ludwig scowls at that, and for a moment Gilbert recalls a time when he was the taller of the two. "The point," he continues, "is all these stupid agreements keep getting a lot more complicated, and Belgium and Holland and Luxembourg aren't the only ones who're gonna be pissed if we tear this one up." He frowns himself, now. "You're in on that agreement too, by the way, remember? Have been since you made your shiny little debut a while back." Since I let you out, he wants to say but doesn't. "If we ever did this, they'd turn against you in a heartbeat."
"Then let them." And when Ludwig stands he does not spring to his feet, does not raise his voice, does not send the chair flying back across the room (in fact, he pushes it carefully back in once he's left it), but it is still an explosion. The slow kind, Gilbert realizes, the kind that ripples out over miles and years and more lives than raw change has eyes to see, and he wonders if he's proud or concerned or both or if it really even matters now that it's already started. "This isn't about any of them."
"And what is it about?" says Gilbert, because to say the rest would be pointless. He swivels in his chair to face Ludwig, who has already started pacing.
"It's about us, Gilbert, about our potential, our right to build and grow and be everything we know we can be."
"I can be a lot of things," says Gilbert, who is counting imaginary smoke clouds and trying to see ahead to where they settle.
"And England loves to say that we're going too far, getting too strong for our own good, but it's a front, you know it is,"--as Ludwig speaks, his words and gestures grow bolder, more intent, gaining speed and momentum--"he's just worried that he won't be able to keep a hold on his empire forever with us succeeding like we are..."
"Mm-hm."
"...But he's had his turn, and just because he won't let go that's no reason for us to...Gilbert? Gilbert, are you listening?"
"Hm? What? Of course I'm listening."
"Then why aren't you paying attention to me?"
He opens his eyes, surprised to find that he had closed them in the first place, and sees Ludwig staring back at him, perturbed. The expression doesn't quite fit with the uniform, and if he looks hard enough he can see the hints of ungainliness in Ludwig's posture, the roughness still clinging around the edges even as he redefines them. Amazing, what can change in just a few decades.
"I was thinking about Bismarck," Gilbert says, still seated. (God, when did he get so tall?)
Ludwig blinks. "Bismarck?"
"Mm. Something he said after he left, you remember? About Jena."
"Right, right," says Ludwig, disinterested. "You got beaten at Jena twenty years after Friedrich--after Friedrich," he amends upon seeing the warning look in Gilbert's eye, "and twenty years after Otto we're supposed to have this crash he kept going on about." He drops the dutiful reciting tone and shrugs dismissively. "It's preposterous, though. I won't stop moving forward out of fear for a future that might happen." Ludwig smiles grimly. "We haven't crashed yet," he says.
"It hasn't been twenty years yet," replies Gilbert. And he almost says more; feels the words, half-formed, floating just at the back of his mind--too sure, too fast, too much--but they taste foreign on the tip of his tongue and now something else is drowning them out, something far older and shrewder and so fundamentally him that he cannot (will not) dismiss it. His hands feel useless, idle here at his desk, and he burns with the desire to occupy them with something. With anything.
And really, 'reckless' and Gilbert get along so much better than he and 'passive' ever have.
"But I think we've both moved beyond silly things like superstition at this point," he finishes, with the beginnings of a smirk.
Ludwig nods, encouraged. "And it's not definite," he says, as though in concession. "We may never have to even implement this plan."
Gilbert shrugs noncommittally. "Maybe, maybe not. Who knows? Do what you need to do. But England's going to have a fit."
"I don't give a damn what England thinks."
"You really don't, do you?" says Gilbert, this time with a definite grin. He props his chin on his hand and regards his once-protégé appraisingly. "But you know what, it doesn't matter. Because at the very least, wherever all this goes, whatever you make of yourself"--
(whatever you make of me)
--"I have a feeling it's definitely not going to be boring."
Ludwig nods again, solemn, both understanding and not. "And should it ever come to war, Austria and Hungary have pledged their continued support. Just as I have for them."
"I'm sure they'll honor it. They like you a lot, don't they?"
"We're going to change the world, Gilbert. Both of us."
Another shrug. "Of course we are. It's what the king wants, isn't it? And I've got to answer to the king."
"Right. And I answer to the emperor."
Gilbert almost answers that it's the same person, the same thing...but it isn't, really, not anymore; and it doesn't even matter now because Ludwig has already turned and left, leaving him alone in the office with the desk and Schlieffen's grand plans and thoughts enough to fill more years than he cares to count.
---
Oof, I will post notes later if anyone actually wants them. It's hard enough trying to remember some kind of order to when all this stuff got written.
Character(s): Prussia, Germany
Rating: PG
Warnings: Even more plodding and introspective than usual, if possible. I don't know what happened.
Summary: The German Empire takes a decided turn in favor of the "German" part. Prussia says "crap".
It would be so much easier to concentrate without the staring, he thinks.
Gilbert sighs and puts down the paper in his hand. "Must you read over my shoulder like that?" he groans, to the wall before him.
Behind him, the air seems to lighten as Ludwig backs away slightly.
"I'm merely anxious to hear what you think," he says, in the carefully controlled tone he uses when suppressing far less elegant sentiments. "You...you've been reading it for a while."
"It's not exactly the sort of thing you skim through, Ludwig."
"You don't like it."
"I didn't say that." Gilbert rubs at his temple with one hand and contemplates the plans lying spread on the table. "But damned if little Freddy didn't jump at the chance to have this drawn up."
"He had to," Ludwig answers, and the clinking of medals on his uniform betrays the shrug. "With England and France getting closer and Russia loosening ties with us..."
"And picking them right back up again with France, naturally," drawls Gilbert, drumming his fingers irritably on the desk.
Ludwig affects to ignore the interruption. "...It's only natural that he'd want to be prepared to deal with a scenario like this. We can't possibly hope to avoid a costly war on two fronts without a clear plan of action."
"Oh, and this Schlieffen fellow's got big ideas, I'll give him that." Gilbert rests his chin in his palm and stares glumly down at the text. He raises an eyebrow. "Thirty-nine days to take down France? Exactly?"
"Forty-two to finalize the surrender," Ludwig corrects, somewhat hastily. "We have to take potential delays and formalities into account."
"Of course we do," murmurs Gilbert. "We always think ahead, don't we."
He doesn't turn when Ludwig pulls out the chair next to him and sits, leaning in closely to look over the papers with him again; nor does he express any discomfort at the sudden invasion of his personal space. Even if he did, he doubts Ludwig would stop to notice it right now.
"You see," Ludwig is saying, pointing at the sheets between them ('elbows off the table,' Gilbert mutters, and he at least still listens to that), "we'll come down on him quickly, efficiently, and encircle all of his forces from both sides, just like--"
"--Just like at Sedan, yes," says Gilbert, who remembers, and not just because it was his name that belonged to the fight back then, because this is much older than that, than either of them. Just like Cannae. Good old Hannibal. And we all watch the ones that went before us, and we learn--
"Right, just like Sedan, but this time we won't stop to try and take Paris, that would take far too long..."
--and learn and study and make little notes to remind ourselves of what went wrong, not me, no, not me, not ever--
"...Because we'll need to redirect that manpower towards Russia once he finally mobilizes," Ludwig is still saying, in the low urgent tones of a conspirator, but it's never been much of a mystery to Gilbert.
He nods vaguely. "Take out France first, exactly. Russia's slow, Russia's always slow, everyone knows that." He almost wonders whether Russia knows that, but banishes the notion from his head as soon as it emerges. Still, something gnaws at the back of his mind, and he taps at one point on the paper in front of him several times. "But about this Belgium thing."
"What of it?" Ludwig draws back, sits up straighter, squares his shoulders. It's an impressive gesture on his frame, and Gilbert wonders just when he got to be so damnably good at it.
"You know what," he says, still tapping. "Belgium's neutral. Has been since last century. That means no invading."
"Belgium is in the way," says Ludwig simply.
"I still don't think we should be so quick to tamper with this," Gilbert stresses, fighting the urge to flick Ludwig's forehead admonishingly.
Ludwig snorts in disbelief. "Why is it suddenly so important to y--?"
"--Because I promised her, alright?"
It's louder than he meant for it to be, and they're both a little taken by surprise. Gilbert crosses his arms over his chest and sinks sullenly back in his chair, widening the space between them again.
"I promised her," he repeats, as though the very word "promise" in conjunction with himself should be exceptional enough (and it should). "A bunch of us did, right after all that revolution crap. Me, England, Russia, Austria--"
Another snort. "Since when do you care what Austria does?"
"I don't. Fuck Austria. That's not the point." Ludwig scowls at that, and for a moment Gilbert recalls a time when he was the taller of the two. "The point," he continues, "is all these stupid agreements keep getting a lot more complicated, and Belgium and Holland and Luxembourg aren't the only ones who're gonna be pissed if we tear this one up." He frowns himself, now. "You're in on that agreement too, by the way, remember? Have been since you made your shiny little debut a while back." Since I let you out, he wants to say but doesn't. "If we ever did this, they'd turn against you in a heartbeat."
"Then let them." And when Ludwig stands he does not spring to his feet, does not raise his voice, does not send the chair flying back across the room (in fact, he pushes it carefully back in once he's left it), but it is still an explosion. The slow kind, Gilbert realizes, the kind that ripples out over miles and years and more lives than raw change has eyes to see, and he wonders if he's proud or concerned or both or if it really even matters now that it's already started. "This isn't about any of them."
"And what is it about?" says Gilbert, because to say the rest would be pointless. He swivels in his chair to face Ludwig, who has already started pacing.
"It's about us, Gilbert, about our potential, our right to build and grow and be everything we know we can be."
"I can be a lot of things," says Gilbert, who is counting imaginary smoke clouds and trying to see ahead to where they settle.
"And England loves to say that we're going too far, getting too strong for our own good, but it's a front, you know it is,"--as Ludwig speaks, his words and gestures grow bolder, more intent, gaining speed and momentum--"he's just worried that he won't be able to keep a hold on his empire forever with us succeeding like we are..."
"Mm-hm."
"...But he's had his turn, and just because he won't let go that's no reason for us to...Gilbert? Gilbert, are you listening?"
"Hm? What? Of course I'm listening."
"Then why aren't you paying attention to me?"
He opens his eyes, surprised to find that he had closed them in the first place, and sees Ludwig staring back at him, perturbed. The expression doesn't quite fit with the uniform, and if he looks hard enough he can see the hints of ungainliness in Ludwig's posture, the roughness still clinging around the edges even as he redefines them. Amazing, what can change in just a few decades.
"I was thinking about Bismarck," Gilbert says, still seated. (God, when did he get so tall?)
Ludwig blinks. "Bismarck?"
"Mm. Something he said after he left, you remember? About Jena."
"Right, right," says Ludwig, disinterested. "You got beaten at Jena twenty years after Friedrich--after Friedrich," he amends upon seeing the warning look in Gilbert's eye, "and twenty years after Otto we're supposed to have this crash he kept going on about." He drops the dutiful reciting tone and shrugs dismissively. "It's preposterous, though. I won't stop moving forward out of fear for a future that might happen." Ludwig smiles grimly. "We haven't crashed yet," he says.
"It hasn't been twenty years yet," replies Gilbert. And he almost says more; feels the words, half-formed, floating just at the back of his mind--too sure, too fast, too much--but they taste foreign on the tip of his tongue and now something else is drowning them out, something far older and shrewder and so fundamentally him that he cannot (will not) dismiss it. His hands feel useless, idle here at his desk, and he burns with the desire to occupy them with something. With anything.
And really, 'reckless' and Gilbert get along so much better than he and 'passive' ever have.
"But I think we've both moved beyond silly things like superstition at this point," he finishes, with the beginnings of a smirk.
Ludwig nods, encouraged. "And it's not definite," he says, as though in concession. "We may never have to even implement this plan."
Gilbert shrugs noncommittally. "Maybe, maybe not. Who knows? Do what you need to do. But England's going to have a fit."
"I don't give a damn what England thinks."
"You really don't, do you?" says Gilbert, this time with a definite grin. He props his chin on his hand and regards his once-protégé appraisingly. "But you know what, it doesn't matter. Because at the very least, wherever all this goes, whatever you make of yourself"--
(whatever you make of me)
--"I have a feeling it's definitely not going to be boring."
Ludwig nods again, solemn, both understanding and not. "And should it ever come to war, Austria and Hungary have pledged their continued support. Just as I have for them."
"I'm sure they'll honor it. They like you a lot, don't they?"
"We're going to change the world, Gilbert. Both of us."
Another shrug. "Of course we are. It's what the king wants, isn't it? And I've got to answer to the king."
"Right. And I answer to the emperor."
Gilbert almost answers that it's the same person, the same thing...but it isn't, really, not anymore; and it doesn't even matter now because Ludwig has already turned and left, leaving him alone in the office with the desk and Schlieffen's grand plans and thoughts enough to fill more years than he cares to count.
---
Oof, I will post notes later if anyone actually wants them. It's hard enough trying to remember some kind of order to when all this stuff got written.