Poland was looking at the glass, trying to focus his eyes, the clear liquid both tempting and taunting at the same time. Across from him the other nation snorted, causing him to lift an eyebrow.
“It’s not, like, the same, y’know,” he said, holding the glass tightly in his hand, the temptation of another taste just a movement away. “There’s totally a difference between wódka and vodka, y’know?”
“Tastes like the same shit to me,” the other nation replied, taking a swig of it with a grimace, whatever the case, if he drowned enough of it, his senses would drown in time.
“You’re, like, way simplifying it. Tot-totally unfair!” came the response, as Poland in the end decided that the glass was, indeed, for drinking.
If there was something Prussia, no he was East Germany now, could agree with Poland on, it was that. He was tired of Russia’s sudden visits, of Russia’s sudden calls, and for all he knew one might come at any moment. And if that was true, it was just as good as to finish another glass of the disgusting liquid of it before that nation made his presence known again.
“Yeah, sure. whatever you say idiot,” Prussia, replied with a hand wave. All he wanted was to have his mind gone before Russia came knocking at the door and checking up to be sure that really, he wasn’t trying to peek over that wall, was he? As much as he would have preferred some real strong beer, Poland’s wòdka would have to do. And as much as the other nation was none he’d like to associate with, he’d have to admit he was better than Russia. Both caught on the fringe, both completely abandoned by England to search out contact with that America. Old alliances be damned.
“Oi, you don’t exactly have a say in it,” came the grumpy snarl, and Prussia was downing his glass. They both knew what awaited them. In the light of the dimly lit cellar, Poland almost looked pretty. There was something about how he still held his shoulders high and refused to admit Russia’s dominance, no matter how obvious it was. In any other circumstances, Prussia would have called it foolish.
“It’s like… like, the colour red!” Poland rambled on, hand stroking the side of the glass, finally lifting it up and swallowing its contents. That faraway gaze was focused on something that couldn’t possibly be there, something long ago, before concrete apartments replaced widespread rye fields. “You’d just rather become one with that bastard Germany, wouldn’t you?”
At once Prussia was at his throat, lifting the other nation up by his collar, trying to get those eyes to focus on his and not look away like there was something else, something beyond Russia. The whole satellite thing was really a joke, and Prussia doubted it would really have made a difference if Russia had included them in the Union proper or not. And the other Nation’s eyes infuriated him the most, because if nothing else, yes, as much as he hated to admit it, he wanted to see Germany again. “Shut up! You’re just a Slavic little brat; you’re the same as him, aren’t you?”
Instantly he was rewarded with spit in his face, Poland would never stand to be compared to Russia, and in the back of his mind, he should have known it. But they were both here for a reason, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t had his own fair share of glasses, not that he would ever admit to the growing need for that disgusting liquid the rest of his fellow residents seemed so fond of.
Still it was a slight gone too far to ignore, and he was quick to wipe it off with the back of his hand and swing his fist in Poland’s direction. It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before; the blond got on his nerves far more than enough for it to have happened quite a few times in the past, and watching him reel back was as satisfying as ever. He didn’t have a doubt the other nation would bruise, and if the Soviet complained then to hell with him.
At least those were his thoughts until he felt the pull at his collar and, catching the brief look of surprise on Poland’s face, turned around to face their fellow nation. He could almost hear the sound the frying pan would make against his head for catching him like this, hands as if by instinct moving to cover himself from her wrath.
“What do you think you’re doing, Prussia?” she says as she resolutely slips down in between them, clearly not wanting any more fights between them, she knows that would be too dangerous.
Prussia looks her over from the corner of his eye, the way she moves to make sure Poland is alright, how he shakes his head at her, saying Prussia’s even weaker now than when he was a duchy, that this is nothing. And he believes it; Poland can take it, and so much more, and every time he’ll come out of it alive. Himself, Prussia feels he’s living on borrowed time, clinging to Russia like some pathetic loser, clinging to whatever his people will believe in, because if he doesn’t, there might very well be nothing left.
And so he retreats as much as he can without moving from his chair, watching the other two from the corner of his eye, pretending to care only about the contents of his glass and not about how close the two are. Not about how it’s still obvious in the scars Hungary still wears since Russia rolled his tanks over her, not how Poland sat by her side all the time, giving all he could, all he was allowed to give her, while he himself just stayed around the corner. And Prussia will down his glass.
“Really, that’s not nothing” she worries at Poland, “If times weren’t the way they are, I would have given him what he deserves!”
And Prussia finds himself almost wishing she would. All three of them are hungry, beaten and tired, and he finds himself worrying about when that frying pan was the most he would have to worry about. But for now, Hungary orders a shot of pálinka and he knows it won’t be her last for the night, it never is. They all know he will drop by their houses any day now, and so only these nights at the bar are theirs.
In the end he’s invited to join the other two, enduring their fond childhood memories rather than sitting alone. They talk the night away, keeping that which is waiting for them at bay, and as the sun rises in the early morning and a yawn escapes one of their lips, clearly showing it’s time to return home, Prussia looks outside the window. The sun is colouring it all red, shining in through the window and casting a shadow on the table they moved to earlier in the night, the morning light making everything dusk in that same colour. And Prussia isn’t sure if the sun is a sign of them being here for another day, or if it’s just telling them what’s to come.
Re: Red [2/2]
anonymous
June 17 2009, 11:55:35 UTC
I adore everything about this fill, "anon." I love how jaded they all are, how resigned to it- I love that they know it won't be Hungary's first shot. And frankly, I just love seeing fic with these three together. It's amazing and sparklingly rare, and I loved it. <3
“It’s not, like, the same, y’know,” he said, holding the glass tightly in his hand, the temptation of another taste just a movement away. “There’s totally a difference between wódka and vodka, y’know?”
“Tastes like the same shit to me,” the other nation replied, taking a swig of it with a grimace, whatever the case, if he drowned enough of it, his senses would drown in time.
“You’re, like, way simplifying it. Tot-totally unfair!” came the response, as Poland in the end decided that the glass was, indeed, for drinking.
If there was something Prussia, no he was East Germany now, could agree with Poland on, it was that. He was tired of Russia’s sudden visits, of Russia’s sudden calls, and for all he knew one might come at any moment. And if that was true, it was just as good as to finish another glass of the disgusting liquid of it before that nation made his presence known again.
“Yeah, sure. whatever you say idiot,” Prussia, replied with a hand wave. All he wanted was to have his mind gone before Russia came knocking at the door and checking up to be sure that really, he wasn’t trying to peek over that wall, was he? As much as he would have preferred some real strong beer, Poland’s wòdka would have to do. And as much as the other nation was none he’d like to associate with, he’d have to admit he was better than Russia. Both caught on the fringe, both completely abandoned by England to search out contact with that America. Old alliances be damned.
“Oi, you don’t exactly have a say in it,” came the grumpy snarl, and Prussia was downing his glass. They both knew what awaited them. In the light of the dimly lit cellar, Poland almost looked pretty. There was something about how he still held his shoulders high and refused to admit Russia’s dominance, no matter how obvious it was. In any other circumstances, Prussia would have called it foolish.
“It’s like… like, the colour red!” Poland rambled on, hand stroking the side of the glass, finally lifting it up and swallowing its contents. That faraway gaze was focused on something that couldn’t possibly be there, something long ago, before concrete apartments replaced widespread rye fields. “You’d just rather become one with that bastard Germany, wouldn’t you?”
At once Prussia was at his throat, lifting the other nation up by his collar, trying to get those eyes to focus on his and not look away like there was something else, something beyond Russia. The whole satellite thing was really a joke, and Prussia doubted it would really have made a difference if Russia had included them in the Union proper or not. And the other Nation’s eyes infuriated him the most, because if nothing else, yes, as much as he hated to admit it, he wanted to see Germany again. “Shut up! You’re just a Slavic little brat; you’re the same as him, aren’t you?”
Instantly he was rewarded with spit in his face, Poland would never stand to be compared to Russia, and in the back of his mind, he should have known it. But they were both here for a reason, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t had his own fair share of glasses, not that he would ever admit to the growing need for that disgusting liquid the rest of his fellow residents seemed so fond of.
Still it was a slight gone too far to ignore, and he was quick to wipe it off with the back of his hand and swing his fist in Poland’s direction. It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before; the blond got on his nerves far more than enough for it to have happened quite a few times in the past, and watching him reel back was as satisfying as ever. He didn’t have a doubt the other nation would bruise, and if the Soviet complained then to hell with him.
Reply
“What do you think you’re doing, Prussia?” she says as she resolutely slips down in between them, clearly not wanting any more fights between them, she knows that would be too dangerous.
Prussia looks her over from the corner of his eye, the way she moves to make sure Poland is alright, how he shakes his head at her, saying Prussia’s even weaker now than when he was a duchy, that this is nothing. And he believes it; Poland can take it, and so much more, and every time he’ll come out of it alive. Himself, Prussia feels he’s living on borrowed time, clinging to Russia like some pathetic loser, clinging to whatever his people will believe in, because if he doesn’t, there might very well be nothing left.
And so he retreats as much as he can without moving from his chair, watching the other two from the corner of his eye, pretending to care only about the contents of his glass and not about how close the two are. Not about how it’s still obvious in the scars Hungary still wears since Russia rolled his tanks over her, not how Poland sat by her side all the time, giving all he could, all he was allowed to give her, while he himself just stayed around the corner. And Prussia will down his glass.
“Really, that’s not nothing” she worries at Poland, “If times weren’t the way they are, I would have given him what he deserves!”
And Prussia finds himself almost wishing she would. All three of them are hungry, beaten and tired, and he finds himself worrying about when that frying pan was the most he would have to worry about. But for now, Hungary orders a shot of pálinka and he knows it won’t be her last for the night, it never is. They all know he will drop by their houses any day now, and so only these nights at the bar are theirs.
In the end he’s invited to join the other two, enduring their fond childhood memories rather than sitting alone. They talk the night away, keeping that which is waiting for them at bay, and as the sun rises in the early morning and a yawn escapes one of their lips, clearly showing it’s time to return home, Prussia looks outside the window. The sun is colouring it all red, shining in through the window and casting a shadow on the table they moved to earlier in the night, the morning light making everything dusk in that same colour. And Prussia isn’t sure if the sun is a sign of them being here for another day, or if it’s just telling them what’s to come.
Reply
Reply
reCaptcha: Pardoned anti-Western lolwut
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment