Germany - Germany 1-0 (part 2)
anonymous
July 3 2009, 12:47:52 UTC
Three nights later, the moon was just a sliver hidden behind light clouds. It was a warm June evening, but the odds against success made cold sweat run down Gilbert's back. No... not Gilbert. Tonight, he was all Prussia again. Dangerous and crazy and no more of being Ivan's muzzled lapdog, who could only snarl and never bite. The mangy dog, that has to wall in his own people to keep them home, who keeps lagging after West no matter how much they work, work, work themselves to the bone. It doesn't do them any good so why should they even bother? Why not just slack off, close your eyes and heart and brain, until you're just another good little drone among others.
Prussia crawled carefully over the roof, until he was at the very edge, looking down at the empty stripe of death surrounding the wall. This time, he had no armies behind him, no master to order him forward. Unless all the hearts calling out for something else, all the blood already staining that fucking wall had become his master. For tonight only, because he knew that they were still weaker than the Soviet. If he were to stand against Ivan now, the streets would flow red with the blood of his children and while Prussia would be happy to stand with them, fight with them, it was not his decision to make.
"But they too deserve to be remembered," Prussia whispered in the mild summer night, feeling the names echo in his mind. Litfin, first to be shot. Schumann, the guard who got away, and oh, how Prussia had laughed inside when he heard about that one. Fechter, who died before the eyes of the world. So many more who had tired of waiting and tried to run in the most dangerous way. Some of them were known only to their nation and the guards who had fired the bullet, but he remembered every face and name, had felt every shot land.
And after tonight...? "Gilbert Beilschmidt's daring escape! But they'll never ever let that one be known, cowardly wankers."
His people were crafty about running away, he had to admit. They'd built tunnels, they flew balloons and some had even crazier ideas. He loved the one with the rebuilt sports car - now that was running off in style! Most of the successful attempts, though, had taken a lot of planning and often involved helpers on either side of the wall. But, to risk helping Gilbert himself escape? To perhaps be caught with what could, technically, be seen as high treason? No, there was no way in hell that he'd let Ivan get his hand on anyone for that particular crime.
Besides, nations were practically immortal. Kinda. Of course, since Prussia wasn't Prussia any longer and his stubborn little brother still refused to properly acknowledge him under his new name and this here country that he was standing on wasn't, how to put it, all that Prussian? Well, let it just be said that sometimes when Gilbert had a particularly bad night, especially if he could feel the Stasi out working like murderous little ants... When everyone who didn't curse his existence was dreaming about licking Ivan's boots and getting a little handed out glory wrapped in a pretty red flag... Now and then, Gilbert wondered exactly how much of a nation he still was.
Except of course tonight he had already decided that he was all Prussian, and that meant he would be awesome. He had even brought out his old coat as a lucky charm. Hah, that would show West who complained that he kept useless junk around, because inside his coat - which still had a bit of blood on it from where one of Napoleon's men had died on Prussia, this was probably a good omen - he had sewn fast pieces of his even older chain mail. That had been really good armour, back in the days, he was almost certain it would slow bullets down.
Almost certain.
Prussia bit his lip and drew a deep, fortifying breath. He'd already been on this bloody roof for two hours - recognisance was important - but if he was going to do it, he'd better start moving. Soon.
Germany - Germany 1-0 (part 3)
anonymous
July 3 2009, 13:03:25 UTC
From the sounds below, there was another guard change and Prussia forced himself to relax. If there were twice as many guards around, he'd be quite stupid to move right now. The little voice in Prussia's head which knew quite a bit about tactics and sounded unusually much like Old Fritz tonight, reminded him that when the guards were fresh and he had been lying here for three hours, his chances wouldn't exactly improve. It could even be argued, that right now, when they were talking to each other, was when the guards were the most relaxed and inattentive. Of course, if Prussia was afraid, he could almost come back tomorrow night? Or next week - only be then the game would be over, so he might as well stay at home and have some more vodka.
"Ahhh...." Prussia squeezed his eyes shut and, very softly because he wasn't quite suicidal thank you, began to beat his fist against the roof. Would he? Would he not? It was- it wasn't running away, it wasn't abandoning his country! And it was absolutely not because he couldn't help trembling (from excitement!) because being shot by East German guards when he was probably only halfway East Germany might do more than hurt like a bitch...
The letter! With suddenly frantic movements, he dug out the letter from West. Such a short little message. Come join me for the match, if they let you. If they let you. Nobody, and nobody at all, was to 'let' him do anything; high time to remind Ivan of that fact. Now if only his body didn't feel so leaden with dread, frozen with old regrets.
"I'm a Prussian, do you know my colours?" he growled tunelessly, "humdidum, 'm a Prussian, want a Prussian remain... Aw, FUCK THIS!"
With a scream halfway between rage and terror, Prussia pushed off the roof and leapt towards the death strip. The guards looked up at the flailing maniac falling towards them and immediately hefted their weapons, one of them yelling at him to put his hands in the air and stop at once.
Prussia landed hard, but he was running before his brain had time to feel the painful jolt. There rose the wall before him, forbidding concrete and barbed wire to keep him down. And now, finally, the anger overtook the fear and he was practically flying towards the wall, a grapnel and rope swinging in his hand - the heart may falter a little, but his body knew what to do when faced with a big, ugly wall that he wasn't allowed to cross.
Then the bullets began to fly and, somehow, Prussia found just a little more energy inside for a last burst of speed. Let the grapnel fly, there, and-
"HALT!"
To be shot really, really hurt. Prussia had, to his the displeasure, already experienced many kinds of bullets, from those spit out by old slow muskets (shoulder), to machine guns (thigh and calf) and pistols (shoulder again and right ear) and had even ended up on the wrong end of a Red Army tank muzzle once. Discounting the tank, this was possibly his most painful being shot experience so far.
A line of fire worked itself up his entire right side and the bullets were still pinging around him like popcorn from hell. But with some combination of adrenaline and pure thick-headed stubbornness, Prussia hooked the grapnel up properly against the wall and more or less ran up the concrete, ignoring the wetness on his left side and the angry yells from the border guards. Of course, after that they hit him with another fucking round all over his back and neck and his throat began fucking spraying blood like some bad horror flick. Prussia took a moment, when he was on the very top of the wall and he had to tear apart some barbed wire anyway to come through. So, starting to feel just a little bit dizzy and very, very upset with the state of things, he turned around and yelled at the border guards that they had better watch themselves, because he knew where they lived and they would fucking pay for this, the ungrateful, unpatriotic sods - well, for some reason the guards stopped shooting and began screaming instead.
"That'll show them," Prussia slurred and fell off the wall. On the West side, he hoped, he'd never live the humiliation down otherwise. A woman screamed shrilly and American voices began yelling things. They'd let West know... He smiled. Let the darkness take him.
Germany - Germany 1-0 (part 4)
anonymous
July 3 2009, 14:33:39 UTC
The sweet, heady smell of newly baked chocolate cake makes Gilbert's mouth water almost before he is properly awake. Underlying that, there is the lovely fresh smell of- oh god, was that fresh doughnuts?
"Mffhn... cake?"
"Brother! Are you alright?"
"West?! What the hell are you doing here?"
Indeed, it was his brother, sitting there in a black tank-top virtually indistinguishable from the one he had worn last Gilbert saw him. Although, in contrast to that time, West was no longer shackled in a cell, nor was his face fatigued and worn. Now, he looked healthy and hale, although the worried frown was still present.
"I should be asking you that," West rumbled. "What where you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?" He clutched Gilbert's hand almost painfully hard and the frown deepened when this only made Gilbert grin widen. God, West... He'd thought he'd never see the little brat again!
"I smell cake," the older nation announced. It was important to keep your priorities straight, after all.
"Wha- yes. I had to do something, waiting for you to wake up," West muttered, a slight blush spreading over his features. "If you were going to wake up... Do you want a bite?"
"Do I?"
When West left for the kitchen to bring some plates and dessert forks, Gilbert realized that not only was he in West Germany, he seemed to be in his brother's house. Bedroom, in fact. These impossibly drab curtains? The perfectly polished floor with the hideous carpet? Those looming stack of (boring) papers and (even more boring) books about - Gilbert squinted - New Economic Measures for Increased Productivity and Its Application On the Automobile Industry? Impossible that there was one more person in the world with such a horrid taste.
Although, Gilbert was happy to admit that his brother was a damn fine baker when he put his mind to it. Especially if, like now, he appeared with a tray practically laden with extravagant cakes and a steaming pot of coffee.
"If I knew this reception was waiting, I'd have jumped the wall years ago!" Gilbert gushed and reached for the cake tray. "Is that a banana cake I see? It is, isn't it! Gimme!"
"Wait, brother, I haven't cut your part yet." West tried to keep him away from the cakes, which proved to be a big mistake when he almost dropped the entire overloaded tray on the bed.
"There's absolutely no point in that," Gilbert said, before cramming half the banana cake into his mouth. Bliss. Perfection. "Mmhr ghmd choom!"
"Brother, please, can't you at least pretend you are civilized?"
A question like that hardly deserved an answer, especially not when he had a banana cake all for himself. And ohohoho, if that wasn't his brother's Schwarzwald cake he spotted, then his name wasn't Prussia.
...hang on a minute.
"You should be more careful, so that your wounds don't open up again," West nagged. He was pouring coffee for Gilbert though, so he could be forgiven.
Wounds? Right, he had those. Although, when Gilbert carefully poked himself in the throat, he discovered that he was hurting a lot less than he had expected.
"Oh my god! West!"
"Yes?" West snapped to attention immediately. "Is there a problem, brother?"
"What day is it? Don't tell me I missed the match!"
Germany - Germany 1-0 (part 5)
anonymous
July 3 2009, 16:16:07 UTC
It would have been nice to say that the stern mien left West's face, or that his icy blue eyes softened. Unfortunately, he only frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose in a familiar movement of exasperation. "That is all you are worried about?"
"Hey, I came here for the game, didn't I?"
"Oh." Slowly, West put away the cake tray and absentmindedly picked up a napkin to wipe Gilbert's mouth. Okay, weird. Had his little brother gone and picked a few kids of his own, or what? "I though..." Though Gilbert was absolutely certain that he was clean from cake crumbs now, West didn't stop wiping his mouth. For some reason though, he found himself reluctant to stop the younger nation's distracted movements. It had, after all, been a very long time since anyone had touched him with any kind of gentleness.
"I thought, perhaps, you wanted to stay here?" West's voice was uncharacteristically soft as his hand stilled against Gilbert's cheek.
Ahh... Gilbert allowed himself to entertain the idea for a few moments, resting his against West's hand. To escape from Ivan once and for all, to be free to go visit whomever he wanted and work only for himself? Not too shoddy. "I'm East Germany," he said. "It's not. I can't just abandon my responsibility. My people..." Their eyes met and Gilbert saw a reluctant understanding in his brother. "My self."
"The game is tonight," West mumbled. "You've been asleep for two days. But how- are you sure it's safe to return?"
With a wild cackle, Gilbert threw his head back. "What are they going to do? Hah, shoot me? Ahahaha!"
He hadn't expected West to sit on his bedside, waiting for him to wake. He hadn't expected the cakes or the unusual amount of, well, caring. Gilbert hadn't been one for coddling kids, no, he had raised little Ludwig to be a self-sufficient nation. West had taken to those lessons like a Bavarian to beer and this behaviour was, to say the least, highly unusual. If there hadn't been this weird lump in his throat, Gilbert would have protested that his brother had become soft and decadent, perhaps even tried to give him a smack to remind him of how a man should act.
"Maybe they'll try to replace you with a new nation," West said, still not moving his hand. "Someone more obedient."
"Like that'll ever happen," Gilbert huffed, although his insides twisted at the thought. That was actually one outcome he had never predicted. And wouldn't it be something right up Ivan's alley? "I'll go back as soon as we are done with the cup, yeah? And they can't admit they lost their own nation, it'll just be swept under the carpet with all the other filthy secrets! Now..." he buried any rebellious, fearful thoughts deep inside. "Now I want more cake. Gimme that, the chocolate one. And for dinner tonight, I want steak, you hear me? Huge steaks. Nuh-uh," he put a silencing finger against West's lips, "we're concentrating on the food here, okay? And then football and then, maybe, we can take politics afterwards."
"Would you like some coffee as well?"
"Sure." Gilbert took the cup and gulped down the wonderful, strong coffee (with no milk and two sugar cubes, godfuckingdammit, West remembered, that shouldn't be enough to almost make him tear up) so quickly he almost burned his tongue off.
Germany - Germany 1-0 (part 6)
anonymous
July 3 2009, 16:17:00 UTC
Then chocolate cake followed by jelly donuts - man, could West bake. He was just reaching for the pineapple crumb cake that he figured had been made especially for him, when West decided that he'd had enough of watching a smear of chocolate cream on Gilbert's nose. Somehow, between West trying to clean him off and Gilbert completely focused on the pineapple cake (pineapples! Ahhh!) their heads clonked together rather painfully. West dropped his napkin and Gilbert turned to yell at him but then West bent forward and licked the bloody chocolate of and suddenly, Gilbert felt himself go all funny inside for completely new reasons.
"Uhm... Uh?" he tried, knowing he was probably looking a right mess. Bandaged, full of cake crumbs everywhere and probably cross-eyed too, since he was trying to stare down West who was somehow very close and yet still a little bit too far away. Which was just weird, considering how they hadn't even seen each other for years and Gilbert had, all in all, managed fine on his own.
"I'm sorry," West whispered, growing increasingly red in the face, but, Gilbert noted with interest, still not moving away. "It's just." He swallowed and crept closer, his breath warm and smelling of coffee against Gilbert's face. "I don't want you to go back over the wall..."
"Have to," Gilbert said and closed his eyes. His little brother had certainly grown up during these years, hadn't he? "But," he continued before West's disappointed little noise turned into disappointing action, such as him moving away, "we can to some things to remember, before I leave..."
"Mm." West's lips on his were too soft to be true. When he cradled Gilbert's head in his hands to lick the crumbs and chocolate smears away, the older nation knew he must be dreaming. Perhaps he had fallen down on the wrong side of the wall after all? Or he had only imagined having the strength to move away from it, before he bled to death? Or West really had lost his mind and was actually, honest to god, kissing him far too skilfully for a nation who had been a blushing virgin only some thirty years ago.
"Just as long as we don't miss the match," Gilbert muttered when he was released, "'cuz my guys are gonna kick your ass!" Then he dove right back in, returning the kiss with full force. This was, after all, no more insane than the plan that had brought him here and it felt so much better.
"Of course not, brother," West promised, looking down at him with a too sappy smily on his face, "we have plenty of time."
"Liar," Gilbert whispered. West stiffened against him, but he drew the other man closer, pulling free the severely slicked-back hair and kept kissing him. "My liar."
They didn't have any time at all, and all these little touches and kisses were stolen. But one day, perhaps even one day soon... One day, Gilbert knew that they would have all the time in the world, when there would be no East or West and no Ivan or Alfred hanging over their shoulders and interfering with their business. If he would have to wait a hundred years, he would endure until that day. For now, they would just steal these moments for themselves and no walls in the world could stop them.
Germany - Germany 1-0 (footnotes)
anonymous
July 3 2009, 16:22:44 UTC
Footnotes for your pleasure: This fic takes place in 1974. West Germany lost against East Germany in the football World Cup that year. Of course, then they won the entire cup...
Western marks = The Deutsche Mark. It and the dollar were stronger currencies than the east bloc money and often used on the black market.
Re: Germany - Germany 1-0 (footnotes)
anonymous
July 3 2009, 17:28:57 UTC
(not op) Oh my goodness. This is like new favorite fic. You made me fall in love with Prussia all over again, the voice was absolutely perfect for Gilbert, and the interaction between East and West (heartbreaking and awww)... I love the details about the bedroom and West's taste in literature and just the cakes and the worry and.... *loves* ^^ Thank you!
Re: Germany - Germany 1-0 (footnotes)
anonymous
July 4 2009, 06:53:44 UTC
(Still not OP) Like the other anon said, it's fills like these that make me remember why I loved Prussia in the first place. Wonderful interaction and I loved how you managed to keep the mix of funny and melancholy so well balanced. Really, beautifully handled. There's not nearly enough (well-written)GDR!Gilbert around.
New Economic Measures for Increased Productivity and Its Application On the Automobile Industry - I think I saw this one on the anon meme a couple of days ago. Or it might just be my memory playing around. Somehow that bit looked very familiar when I read it
Dangerous and crazy and no more of being Ivan's muzzled lapdog, who could only snarl and never bite. The mangy dog, that has to wall in his own people to keep them home, who keeps lagging after West no matter how much they work, work, work themselves to the bone. It doesn't do them any good so why should they even bother? Why not just slack off, close your eyes and heart and brain, until you're just another good little drone among others.
Prussia crawled carefully over the roof, until he was at the very edge, looking down at the empty stripe of death surrounding the wall. This time, he had no armies behind him, no master to order him forward. Unless all the hearts calling out for something else, all the blood already staining that fucking wall had become his master. For tonight only, because he knew that they were still weaker than the Soviet. If he were to stand against Ivan now, the streets would flow red with the blood of his children and while Prussia would be happy to stand with them, fight with them, it was not his decision to make.
"But they too deserve to be remembered," Prussia whispered in the mild summer night, feeling the names echo in his mind. Litfin, first to be shot. Schumann, the guard who got away, and oh, how Prussia had laughed inside when he heard about that one. Fechter, who died before the eyes of the world. So many more who had tired of waiting and tried to run in the most dangerous way. Some of them were known only to their nation and the guards who had fired the bullet, but he remembered every face and name, had felt every shot land.
And after tonight...?
"Gilbert Beilschmidt's daring escape! But they'll never ever let that one be known, cowardly wankers."
His people were crafty about running away, he had to admit. They'd built tunnels, they flew balloons and some had even crazier ideas. He loved the one with the rebuilt sports car - now that was running off in style! Most of the successful attempts, though, had taken a lot of planning and often involved helpers on either side of the wall. But, to risk helping Gilbert himself escape? To perhaps be caught with what could, technically, be seen as high treason? No, there was no way in hell that he'd let Ivan get his hand on anyone for that particular crime.
Besides, nations were practically immortal. Kinda. Of course, since Prussia wasn't Prussia any longer and his stubborn little brother still refused to properly acknowledge him under his new name and this here country that he was standing on wasn't, how to put it, all that Prussian? Well, let it just be said that sometimes when Gilbert had a particularly bad night, especially if he could feel the Stasi out working like murderous little ants... When everyone who didn't curse his existence was dreaming about licking Ivan's boots and getting a little handed out glory wrapped in a pretty red flag... Now and then, Gilbert wondered exactly how much of a nation he still was.
Except of course tonight he had already decided that he was all Prussian, and that meant he would be awesome. He had even brought out his old coat as a lucky charm. Hah, that would show West who complained that he kept useless junk around, because inside his coat - which still had a bit of blood on it from where one of Napoleon's men had died on Prussia, this was probably a good omen - he had sewn fast pieces of his even older chain mail. That had been really good armour, back in the days, he was almost certain it would slow bullets down.
Almost certain.
Prussia bit his lip and drew a deep, fortifying breath. He'd already been on this bloody roof for two hours - recognisance was important - but if he was going to do it, he'd better start moving. Soon.
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The little voice in Prussia's head which knew quite a bit about tactics and sounded unusually much like Old Fritz tonight, reminded him that when the guards were fresh and he had been lying here for three hours, his chances wouldn't exactly improve. It could even be argued, that right now, when they were talking to each other, was when the guards were the most relaxed and inattentive. Of course, if Prussia was afraid, he could almost come back tomorrow night? Or next week - only be then the game would be over, so he might as well stay at home and have some more vodka.
"Ahhh...." Prussia squeezed his eyes shut and, very softly because he wasn't quite suicidal thank you, began to beat his fist against the roof. Would he? Would he not? It was- it wasn't running away, it wasn't abandoning his country! And it was absolutely not because he couldn't help trembling (from excitement!) because being shot by East German guards when he was probably only halfway East Germany might do more than hurt like a bitch...
The letter! With suddenly frantic movements, he dug out the letter from West. Such a short little message. Come join me for the match, if they let you. If they let you.
Nobody, and nobody at all, was to 'let' him do anything; high time to remind Ivan of that fact. Now if only his body didn't feel so leaden with dread, frozen with old regrets.
"I'm a Prussian, do you know my colours?" he growled tunelessly, "humdidum, 'm a Prussian, want a Prussian remain... Aw, FUCK THIS!"
With a scream halfway between rage and terror, Prussia pushed off the roof and leapt towards the death strip. The guards looked up at the flailing maniac falling towards them and immediately hefted their weapons, one of them yelling at him to put his hands in the air and stop at once.
Prussia landed hard, but he was running before his brain had time to feel the painful jolt. There rose the wall before him, forbidding concrete and barbed wire to keep him down. And now, finally, the anger overtook the fear and he was practically flying towards the wall, a grapnel and rope swinging in his hand - the heart may falter a little, but his body knew what to do when faced with a big, ugly wall that he wasn't allowed to cross.
Then the bullets began to fly and, somehow, Prussia found just a little more energy inside for a last burst of speed. Let the grapnel fly, there, and-
"HALT!"
To be shot really, really hurt. Prussia had, to his the displeasure, already experienced many kinds of bullets, from those spit out by old slow muskets (shoulder), to machine guns (thigh and calf) and pistols (shoulder again and right ear) and had even ended up on the wrong end of a Red Army tank muzzle once. Discounting the tank, this was possibly his most painful being shot experience so far.
A line of fire worked itself up his entire right side and the bullets were still pinging around him like popcorn from hell. But with some combination of adrenaline and pure thick-headed stubbornness, Prussia hooked the grapnel up properly against the wall and more or less ran up the concrete, ignoring the wetness on his left side and the angry yells from the border guards. Of course, after that they hit him with another fucking round all over his back and neck and his throat began fucking spraying blood like some bad horror flick. Prussia took a moment, when he was on the very top of the wall and he had to tear apart some barbed wire anyway to come through. So, starting to feel just a little bit dizzy and very, very upset with the state of things, he turned around and yelled at the border guards that they had better watch themselves, because he knew where they lived and they would fucking pay for this, the ungrateful, unpatriotic sods - well, for some reason the guards stopped shooting and began screaming instead.
"That'll show them," Prussia slurred and fell off the wall. On the West side, he hoped, he'd never live the humiliation down otherwise. A woman screamed shrilly and American voices began yelling things. They'd let West know... He smiled. Let the darkness take him.
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"Mffhn... cake?"
"Brother! Are you alright?"
"West?! What the hell are you doing here?"
Indeed, it was his brother, sitting there in a black tank-top virtually indistinguishable from the one he had worn last Gilbert saw him. Although, in contrast to that time, West was no longer shackled in a cell, nor was his face fatigued and worn. Now, he looked healthy and hale, although the worried frown was still present.
"I should be asking you that," West rumbled. "What where you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?"
He clutched Gilbert's hand almost painfully hard and the frown deepened when this only made Gilbert grin widen. God, West... He'd thought he'd never see the little brat again!
"I smell cake," the older nation announced. It was important to keep your priorities straight, after all.
"Wha- yes. I had to do something, waiting for you to wake up," West muttered, a slight blush spreading over his features. "If you were going to wake up... Do you want a bite?"
"Do I?"
When West left for the kitchen to bring some plates and dessert forks, Gilbert realized that not only was he in West Germany, he seemed to be in his brother's house. Bedroom, in fact. These impossibly drab curtains? The perfectly polished floor with the hideous carpet? Those looming stack of (boring) papers and (even more boring) books about - Gilbert squinted - New Economic Measures for Increased Productivity and Its Application On the Automobile Industry? Impossible that there was one more person in the world with such a horrid taste.
Although, Gilbert was happy to admit that his brother was a damn fine baker when he put his mind to it. Especially if, like now, he appeared with a tray practically laden with extravagant cakes and a steaming pot of coffee.
"If I knew this reception was waiting, I'd have jumped the wall years ago!" Gilbert gushed and reached for the cake tray. "Is that a banana cake I see? It is, isn't it! Gimme!"
"Wait, brother, I haven't cut your part yet." West tried to keep him away from the cakes, which proved to be a big mistake when he almost dropped the entire overloaded tray on the bed.
"There's absolutely no point in that," Gilbert said, before cramming half the banana cake into his mouth. Bliss. Perfection. "Mmhr ghmd choom!"
"Brother, please, can't you at least pretend you are civilized?"
A question like that hardly deserved an answer, especially not when he had a banana cake all for himself. And ohohoho, if that wasn't his brother's Schwarzwald cake he spotted, then his name wasn't Prussia.
...hang on a minute.
"You should be more careful, so that your wounds don't open up again," West nagged. He was pouring coffee for Gilbert though, so he could be forgiven.
Wounds? Right, he had those. Although, when Gilbert carefully poked himself in the throat, he discovered that he was hurting a lot less than he had expected.
"Oh my god! West!"
"Yes?" West snapped to attention immediately. "Is there a problem, brother?"
"What day is it? Don't tell me I missed the match!"
Reply
"That is all you are worried about?"
"Hey, I came here for the game, didn't I?"
"Oh." Slowly, West put away the cake tray and absentmindedly picked up a napkin to wipe Gilbert's mouth. Okay, weird. Had his little brother gone and picked a few kids of his own, or what?
"I though..." Though Gilbert was absolutely certain that he was clean from cake crumbs now, West didn't stop wiping his mouth. For some reason though, he found himself reluctant to stop the younger nation's distracted movements. It had, after all, been a very long time since anyone had touched him with any kind of gentleness.
"I thought, perhaps, you wanted to stay here?" West's voice was uncharacteristically soft as his hand stilled against Gilbert's cheek.
Ahh... Gilbert allowed himself to entertain the idea for a few moments, resting his against West's hand. To escape from Ivan once and for all, to be free to go visit whomever he wanted and work only for himself? Not too shoddy.
"I'm East Germany," he said. "It's not. I can't just abandon my responsibility. My people..." Their eyes met and Gilbert saw a reluctant understanding in his brother. "My self."
"The game is tonight," West mumbled. "You've been asleep for two days. But how- are you sure it's safe to return?"
With a wild cackle, Gilbert threw his head back. "What are they going to do? Hah, shoot me? Ahahaha!"
He hadn't expected West to sit on his bedside, waiting for him to wake. He hadn't expected the cakes or the unusual amount of, well, caring. Gilbert hadn't been one for coddling kids, no, he had raised little Ludwig to be a self-sufficient nation. West had taken to those lessons like a Bavarian to beer and this behaviour was, to say the least, highly unusual. If there hadn't been this weird lump in his throat, Gilbert would have protested that his brother had become soft and decadent, perhaps even tried to give him a smack to remind him of how a man should act.
"Maybe they'll try to replace you with a new nation," West said, still not moving his hand. "Someone more obedient."
"Like that'll ever happen," Gilbert huffed, although his insides twisted at the thought. That was actually one outcome he had never predicted. And wouldn't it be something right up Ivan's alley?
"I'll go back as soon as we are done with the cup, yeah? And they can't admit they lost their own nation, it'll just be swept under the carpet with all the other filthy secrets! Now..." he buried any rebellious, fearful thoughts deep inside. "Now I want more cake. Gimme that, the chocolate one. And for dinner tonight, I want steak, you hear me? Huge steaks. Nuh-uh," he put a silencing finger against West's lips, "we're concentrating on the food here, okay? And then football and then, maybe, we can take politics afterwards."
"Would you like some coffee as well?"
"Sure." Gilbert took the cup and gulped down the wonderful, strong coffee (with no milk and two sugar cubes, godfuckingdammit, West remembered, that shouldn't be enough to almost make him tear up) so quickly he almost burned his tongue off.
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West dropped his napkin and Gilbert turned to yell at him but then West bent forward and licked the bloody chocolate of and suddenly, Gilbert felt himself go all funny inside for completely new reasons.
"Uhm... Uh?" he tried, knowing he was probably looking a right mess. Bandaged, full of cake crumbs everywhere and probably cross-eyed too, since he was trying to stare down West who was somehow very close and yet still a little bit too far away. Which was just weird, considering how they hadn't even seen each other for years and Gilbert had, all in all, managed fine on his own.
"I'm sorry," West whispered, growing increasingly red in the face, but, Gilbert noted with interest, still not moving away. "It's just." He swallowed and crept closer, his breath warm and smelling of coffee against Gilbert's face. "I don't want you to go back over the wall..."
"Have to," Gilbert said and closed his eyes. His little brother had certainly grown up during these years, hadn't he? "But," he continued before West's disappointed little noise turned into disappointing action, such as him moving away, "we can to some things to remember, before I leave..."
"Mm." West's lips on his were too soft to be true. When he cradled Gilbert's head in his hands to lick the crumbs and chocolate smears away, the older nation knew he must be dreaming. Perhaps he had fallen down on the wrong side of the wall after all? Or he had only imagined having the strength to move away from it, before he bled to death? Or West really had lost his mind and was actually, honest to god, kissing him far too skilfully for a nation who had been a blushing virgin only some thirty years ago.
"Just as long as we don't miss the match," Gilbert muttered when he was released, "'cuz my guys are gonna kick your ass!" Then he dove right back in, returning the kiss with full force. This was, after all, no more insane than the plan that had brought him here and it felt so much better.
"Of course not, brother," West promised, looking down at him with a too sappy smily on his face, "we have plenty of time."
"Liar," Gilbert whispered. West stiffened against him, but he drew the other man closer, pulling free the severely slicked-back hair and kept kissing him. "My liar."
They didn't have any time at all, and all these little touches and kisses were stolen. But one day, perhaps even one day soon... One day, Gilbert knew that they would have all the time in the world, when there would be no East or West and no Ivan or Alfred hanging over their shoulders and interfering with their business. If he would have to wait a hundred years, he would endure until that day. For now, they would just steal these moments for themselves and no walls in the world could stop them.
- The end -
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This fic takes place in 1974. West Germany lost against East Germany in the football World Cup that year. Of course, then they won the entire cup...
Western marks = The Deutsche Mark. It and the dollar were stronger currencies than the east bloc money and often used on the black market.
Victims of the Berlin wall:
http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maueropfer
(one of the) Prussian national anthems which Gilbert hums to himself:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Preu%C3%9Fenlied
Ludwig has prepared loads of cakes, among them
Berliner - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berliner_(pastry)
Streuselkuchen - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Streuselkuchen
Not traditionally done with pineapple, but since those were near impossible to get in East Germany, I figured Ludwig would make one for Gilbert's sake
He probably made something like Sachertorte as well: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sachertorte
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New Economic Measures for Increased Productivity and Its Application On the Automobile Industry - I think I saw this one on the anon meme a couple of days ago. Or it might just be my memory playing around. Somehow that bit looked very familiar when I read it
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thanks, glad you liked my characterization!
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