[fic] Vienna pt.2
Characters: Most of Europe
Rating: Well, there's no sex, and no real violence, so apart from bad language, it's floating around the 13+ area at best.
Pairings: None. It's really not that sort of fic, since the whole thing is about shifting alliances. Slight leaning towards Austria/ Hungary, England/ Prussia, England/ Portugal, England/ France, France/Spain, France/ Poland, and Spain/ Romano, but in all but one of these cases, it is nothing particularly sexual.
Summary: It's really just a small, tiny, general glimpse into a few of the many, many events that occurred during the turmoil that Europe faced following the French Revolution, up until Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo, and the signing of the Final Act at the Congress of Vienna.
Part 1 / Part 2
-1808-
He could see red.
Tomatoes?
‘Awww, you look just like a tomato!’
‘Shut it, bastard!’
Romano was always so mean.
Romano.
‘Romano!’
The sound of his own voice made his head buzz unpleasantly. Without thinking, he struggled against the hold he was in, his body remembering his previous battle before his mind had time to catch up.
‘Shhh, shhhh, Spain-’
Not Romano. Where was Romano? Romano was gone.
‘Romano!’ he cried out again, his anguish burning his sore throat.
‘For fuck’s sake, Spain. Fucking calm down!’
Red. Not tomatoes. England.
Spain’s eyes fluttered open, focus slowly returning to him. His vision was once again flooded with the red of England’s coat, followed by the peachy colour of his skin, the green of his eyes, and the yellow of his hair as his dazed mind began to clear, and process what he was seeing. He was tired, and confused, and didn’t even want to bother questioning why he was in England’s arms.
‘Where am I?’ he rasped. It seemed as good a question as any to start with.
‘In a camp, near the border with Portugal,’ England responded simply.
‘My house-’
‘Is in a state,’ England explained. ‘The one that we found you by had been burnt to the ground. Your house in Madrid is currently being occupied by France’s little shit of a leader’s brother.’
Too much. Too much information. He didn’t understand. France? Wait-
‘Romano?’ he gasped, clutching loosely at England’s sleeve.
England shrugged. ‘Back home in Naples. France has him under house arrest.’
Spain almost sobbed in relief. Thank God, he thought. Thank God he’s not at war. And thank God he didn’t abandon me.
He sagged, strength ebbing away as his relief overwhelmed him, reminding him sharply of the hurt that littered his body. His resulting wince did not go unnoticed by England.
‘He really did a number on you.’ It was a statement, not requiring, or desiring an answer.
Still, Spain grunted in some sort of agreement. His mind was trying to work faster than it currently could, hundreds questions flittering around in his skull. France… France had taken him. He could feel it in his chest. Feel the cold pit where his heart should have been. Madrid was no longer his. His body was weak, and fragile, no longer his own. ‘What will become of the world?’ He wondered aloud.
England shifted his grip around the other, readjusting them into a more comfortable position (though he would have sworn until he was blue in the face that it was purely for his own benefit). ‘We fight,’ England responded, the conviction in his voice almost tangible with the strength behind it.
Of course, Spain realised rather belatedly. His heart might have been gone, and he might have felt as weak as an hour old calf, but the simple fact that it had been England’s arms that he had awoken in, and not France’s suddenly made it much clearer to him. Yes, he was in agony, and yes, he felt overwhelmed by the feeling of someone trying to force him out of his own body, and yes, he had lost almost everything that he held dear, but as long as he was lying there in a dusty, almost featureless camp, he knew that some small part of him was still free.
‘England?’ he rasped. He was more tired, and vulnerable than he could ever remember feeling, supported only by the arms of a man that he hated, a man who had overseen much of his own fall from power. And yet, somewhere within him a fire had been lit. It was only small, but it burned strongly, and Spain knew then that he had to do everything in his power to protect that fire, and to nurture it until it grew into something bigger, something stronger.
England stayed silent, perhaps waiting for Spain to continue, or perhaps disinterested in what he had to say. It made Spain’s mouth curve into a small smile, regardless of the sting it caused to his cracked lip. The irony that his saviour had come in the form of his worst enemy was not lost on him. The further irony that it was an almost poetic counter to the fact that his current enemy had come in the form of his best friend, almost made him ignore his cracked ribs in order to laugh.
After a couple of stunted chuckles, Spain shook his head slowly, trying to clear the buzzing sound that they left behind.
‘Thank you,’ he muttered quietly.
England heard him. He could tell by the way that he seemed to stiffen behind him.
‘I- don’t go thinking that it was for you,’ England growled, though the embarrassment in his voice told Spain that he was probably blushing. ‘I’m here for Portugal, not you. And besides, I’m the only one in the world who can stop France, so naturally I’m going to try and push him back into his own shoddy little corner of the world.’
Somehow, Spain found the energy to pat England’s hand. ‘Of course, of course.’ He had no idea how much of that was the truth, and how much of it was a lie, and neither did he care. Former arch- nemesis or not, he was thankful that England had come when he had.
There was a long moment of silence. Tired beyond belief, Spain began to doze.
‘Portugal should be back soon,’ England said suddenly, causing Spain to crack his eyes open a fraction. He scanned the camp, only then realising that his elder brother was nowhere in sight. He hummed in question, feeling too drained to actually speak.
‘Gone out scouting,’ England answered. ‘Making sure that the area’s secure.’
‘Ah,’ Spain responded.
They lapsed into silence, Spain too weary to maintain conversation, and England too far away with his thoughts. It was just as Spain began to doze off that England moved, shifting him out of his arms, and on to the bedroll that they were sitting upon with gentleness that Spain hadn’t quite expected.
It made him smile as England rolled up what looked like a Portuguese officer’s jacket, and placed it under his head. ‘You’re almost being cute, England. Where’s the brute that I remember?’ he joked weakly.
England coloured, seeming to take it as an accusation, rather than a compliment. ‘Shut up, and get some more sleep, Spain,’ he said gruffly, rising to a standing position. ‘You’re of no use to us in this state.’
Spain’s smile tightened, iciness flooding his tired expression. He would certainly do as England had suggested, and when he awoke, refreshed, he would be ready to rain down his revenge.
He would be out for blood. He could already hear his axe singing for it.
**
-1806-
Prussia was confused.
On one hand, war was awesome, and he was awesome at war, so it seemed only natural that war would be the answer. On the other hand, it would mean helping out Austria again, and agreeing with that stuck- up, prissy aristocrat simply wasn’t cool. Still, much as Prussia had liked France in the couple of times that he’d fought alongside him, to Prussia, the very idea of beheading kings was abhorrent. So when his shiny new king had declared that they would join the so- called First Coalition, Prussia had been all for it, because really, France might have been an okay guy, but knocking his Louis- the- Whatever’s bonce off was just way too out there for Prussia to be cool with. Hell, he was the one who had gotten the ball rolling in the first place, way back in 1791 when, half drunk and still grieving for poor Old Fritz, he’d issued the Declaration of Pilnitz. Of course, the day after he’d done it, once he’d sobered up a bit, he'd realised that his clever idea had actually done little more than piss off a good part of France (what he tended to refer to as ‘the crazy part’).
Oops.
Not that he regretted being in the First Coalition, of course. Sure, it sucked to side with Austria over something for once, but France had been getting crazier, and crazier, and had, at one point, actually started to look like he would become a threat, if invasion could be counted as a threat.
Yeah. That had pissed Prussia off. Sure, he’d been on England’s side in the Seven Years war, but that was because France had sided with Austria first, and if he’d learnt anything about the crazy little continent that they lived upon, it was that France was to England, as Austria was to him: an intolerable pain in the arse. Despite everything though, he’d at least thought that he and France were, by and large, on the same general page, but no, France had gone and pulled a schizo act on everyone, and now he was in an entirely different book altogether.
So, he’d joined the First Coalition, because even he had to admit that maybe it was slightly possible that he couldn’t handle France all on his own. The fact that England, and Spain had been in it too had helped to counter the fact that Austria had decided to rain on the party. Spain was, he had recalled from previous battles, a nice guy, a great deal of fun to be around, and when he wanted to be, a complete and utter lunatic when he had that big axe of his in his hand. England, on the other hand, was also a lot of fun to fight with at your side. He was a calculating, murderous bastard on the battlefield, and a mean, greedy son of a bitch off the battlefield, once he dropped the pretentious pussy act.
He had felt both furious, and ashamed when he'd been forced to stop. Sure, he had to admit that France had got crazy- powerful, fast, but even if he had got France to agree to give up the lands that he had captured east of the Rhine, simply giving up was just not Prussia’s style. And if it was anything, the Peace of Basel, had been giving up. What could he do though, fight his own boss? That simply wasn't his style (Old Fritz, he told himself countless times after the peace treaty had been signed, would not have stood for it. He probably would have, of course, but Prussia preferred think that he would have been able to have talk Fritz around), and so the deed was done, leaving a nasty, bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He’d wanted to punch France right in the face the moment that he’d given him that smug, and slightly deranged grin that he seemed to like wearing these past few years. Instead he had forced himself to look away, from France’s satisfaction, Spain's despair and England’s disgust.
At least Prussia hadn't been alone in being coerced into signing a bullshit, so- called "peace treaty". At least he was better off than Spain, that poor fucker. Portugal, on the other hand, had decided to stick with Team England as usual, and carried on fighting, and ignoring France's threats, even despite his brother's fall making his own position extremely dangerous. That point had annoyed Prussia to no end, considering how small, and crappy England, and Portugal both were. He was growing bigger, and stronger all the time, where Portugal and England had barely changed in a millennium. Still. They had the ocean and their precious navies, and weren’t they nifty little things? England’s little boat war with France, and Spain at Trafalgar last year had been such a humiliating loss for the latter two that Prussia almost felt sorry for them. Well. Sorry for Spain, at least, since he’d clearly wanted nothing to do with it in the first place.
Boat wars, however, seemed very, very far away at that moment.
Truth be told, when he’d first heard about Austria, and Russia’s defeat at Austerlitz, he’d howled with laughter until he’d almost lost consciousness. Now that the Holy Roman Empire had crumbled, it didn’t seem so funny any more. Not that he’d ever liked the kid too much, but now he was all in parts, and calling himself the Confederation of the Rhine, and that just had to be a complete headfuck.
Bah! Prussia shook himself out of his thoughts. He couldn’t care less about the snivelling little bastard. What was far more important to him right now was the fact that France was camped right at his fucking doorstep. What was important was the next decision that he made.
Was he ready for war with France, or could he appeal to the man’s better nature, make promises, discuss?
He stared around the room, as if it would offer him some inspiration towards answering his quandary. He almost cringed when his eyes landed upon the jar that contained Poland’s right eyeball, staring balefully at him from across the room. He knew that in taking Warsaw he’d face some kind of backlash, but Jesus fuck! Why Russia had given him such a creepy gift to go with it was beyond him. He’d come close in the past to just giving it back to Poland, just to make it stop looking at him like that, but then he would make himself remember Tannenburg and, with a grimace, would force himself to look at it. Remember how he’d got it, what it had taken. Think about Old Fritz, and what he would do.
He looked away, staring down at the paper at the paper, scanning England’s not- at- all very polite demands that he help him out, goading him with a pointed remark that Prussia was acting like little more than a frightened lapdog.
Damn diplomacy to Hell, he smirked as he wrote his not- at- all very diplomatic response. If France didn’t want him to come out to play, then he wouldn’t have set up camp right on his fucking doorstep. And if there was one thing that Prussia simply couldn’t do, it was back down from a challenge.
‘This should be fun,’ he grinned, sealing the letter shut with wax, his eagle emblazoned proudly upon it.
Time for the Third Coalition to move aside, Prussia thought. Because with me back in the game, it’s about to become something much more awesome..
**
-1809-
Italy- no. Veneziano was worried. With everything being so crazy lately, he was finding it hard to catch his breath. Even his new name was causing him some confusion. Well. It wasn’t a new name, but now that his brother was back with him, he wasn’t Italy any more. They were both Italy. So calling him Italy made no sense. Veneziano made much more sense. Probably because of Venice.
Italy- no no! Veneziano! Veneziano-
Veneziano was worried about his big brother.
When he’d first arrived at their new house a few months back, he’d been kicking, and screaming, throwing obscenities at big brother France as he was dragged into the villa, flanked by soldiers. Personally, Veneziano hadn’t understood why his big brother was so upset. He’d been expecting his arrival for years now, as big brother France had promised, and was a little upset that his big brother hadn’t seemed at all very enthusiastic to see him. The way in which he had fought against Veneziano’s excited hug hurt his feelings even now.
‘Aren’t you happy to be with me?’ Veneziano had cried. ‘Aren’t you happy that we can finally be together, just as Grandpa wanted it?’
‘As soon as Romano gets Sicily to stop fighting, you two can be together properly. “The Kingdom of Italy”. How does that sound?’ France had smiled that benevolent smile that It- Veneziano loved so much.
‘It sounds wonderful! Oh doesn’t it sound wonderful, big brother?’ Veneziano grinned, eyes brimming with joyful tears.
His big brother hadn’t even looked at him. He had, instead, stared levelly at France. ‘With a French king, no doubt,’ he had sneered.
Veneziano remembered gasping at that point, remembered tugging on his brother’s arm, admonishing him for his rudeness. France had looked equally unimpressed. ‘You need to remember who you’re answering to, Romano. I’m not Spain, and I am not as willing to tolerate such blatant disregard.’
Something about the way that his brother had stiffened had terrified Veneziano.
But he had simply remained silent.
His big brother hadn’t talked much since that day. He spoke, from time to time, but Veneziano’s memory held a precious image of a big brother who was always the first to speak his mind. It had been something that Veneziano had always admired in him. Now that it was almost gone, he found himself worrying constantly, and, beyond that, faintly disappointed.
Christmas had been an even more strained affair. In the past, Veneziano had spent several Christmases with his big brother, and though they had declined in frequency once Spain and Austria had gotten divorced, and despite the fact that his big brother had always ended up yelling at big brother Spain over something or other, he always recalled them being happy times. The Christmas of 1808, however, had not been happy. Veneziano had anticipated it to be a wonderful affair, and had put a lot of time and effort into making a perfect meal for them both, but when he called his brother for supper, he had refused to come. Eventually he had cried, sobbing about how unfair it was that he had tried so hard to make a good meal, and how much he had wanted to spend his first Christmas as a complete kingdom making happy memories. When his brother had eventually come out of his room, he had slapped him across the face.
‘You have no idea do you? None at all,’ he had hissed with so much venom that, for a moment, Veneziano had been afraid of him.
‘I- I don’t understand-’
‘There’s a war going on, and all you can care about is fucking food. People are dying, Veneziano!’
‘Bu- but, I know, but I- I only wanted to make some g- good new memories with you, big brother,’ he’d sobbed. He’d known all of that. He’d known. He’d only wanted to help make his brother smile again.
But his brother had only glared at him, eyes glinting with barely concealed rage, and sorrow. ‘Grow up.’
He’d closed the door then, leaving Veneziano to cry himself into hiccups, and finish off the meal alone. He didn’t hear his brother speak again, until a few days later, early into the New Year, when he caught him grabbing a passing French soldier by the arm and demanding to know about something called Zaragoza. Veneziano wasn’t sure if it was a place, or a person, but the way in which his brother looked sick at the reply the soldier gave him told him not to ask.
Christmas had been a month ago. Big brother France had come again today, asking him if he could get his brother to get Sicily to back down again. Veneziano knew that he probably wouldn’t but he promised big brother France that he would do his very best.
He found his brother late in the evening, sitting alone on the beach, staring quietly out into the west. Cautiously, Veneziano joined him, sitting beside him slowly, so as not to disturb the sand too much. Then he too fell silent, watching the sun sinking leisurely into the Mediterranean.
‘It’s so pretty, don’t you think?’ Veneziano asked, turning sparkling eyes towards his brother. His brother didn’t return the look, but responded with a hum of agreement.
‘I wish that I could stay here forever,’ he continued. ‘I’m so happy to be with you.’
His brother said nothing, staring out across the waves, searching for something that Veneziano couldn’t see. ‘A- are you looking for Sicily?’ he asked. When he received no answer, he took a deep breath, and tried to keep his promise. ‘You know… if you get Sicily to stop fighting, then we can become a proper kingdom. Wouldn’t that be nice? Yes? Big brother?’
Finally, his brother turned to look at him. He looked tired, Veneziano noted with alarm. He looked dog tired, but Veneziano waited patiently, knowing that he would speak, silently urging him on with a gentle expression.
‘No.’
Veneziano’s face fell. ‘Big brother… big brother please. There’s no reason to fight.’
‘I have every reason to fight,’ his brother whispered, voice raw with some sort of emotion. ‘I promised him. I promised him that I would help him. He’s useless, and he can’t do anything on his own, and I-’ his voice caught in his throat, and he clutched at his knees. For a moment, to Veneziano, he looked like a child again.
‘Who? Who are you talking about, big brother?’ Veneziano asked, voice gentle at the sight of his brother’s unshed tears.
‘And now England’s going home, and he’s all alone. And those people…’ he stopped, burying his head in his knees, shaking with quiet sobs.
In a flash, Veneziano was at his side, hands grabbing him, and holding him close, babbling comforting nothings to him.
‘I want to go home,’ his brother sobbed mournfully. Veneziano thought that he felt his heart stop.
‘But you are home, big brother. You’re home. With me,’ he cried, rocking his brother backwards and forwards in his arms.
‘Not like this,’ his brother whispered. ‘Not like this.’
**
-1799-
‘I don’t think that this is going very well, England,’ Russia said in an almost sing- song voice as he jabbed a stick into their campfire.
England watched him, a deadpan expression upon his face. ‘No. Really? I hadn’t noticed.’
Russia pouted at him in what was supposed to be a cute way. England found it creepy for a grown man to pull such an expression. ‘There’s no need to be a meanie, England. I was just telling the truth.’
‘I’m not paying you to tell me the truth,’ England muttered.
Russia puffed out his cheeks, blowing a short puff of air. Then, after a moment, he spoke up again. ‘I’m doing much better in Italy.’
England stared at him for a long moment, feeling vaguely insulted. ‘The people in Italy are more willing to fight back than the Dutch are,’ he explained.
‘Ahhh!’ Russia said, as if he’d won some sort of game ‘but you said that the Dutch would be happy to see us.’
‘That’s what I was led to believe by William.’
‘The Orange man?’
‘The Orange man.’
Russia was silent for an entire five seconds before he spoke up again. ‘But, England. The Dutch aren’t happy to see us. They’re fighting for France.’
England rubbed tiredly at his eyes. If Russia didn’t have an endless supply of soldiers stored up his sleeves, he swore that he would- ‘Again, Russia. All facts that I am very much aware of, thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Russia smiled back.
Unfortunately, Russia was right in his brilliant assumptions. England had been too hasty, assuming that the Dutch, like the Italians, and the Swiss, would be just as ready to rise up against their French oppressors, and rejoin the coalition. This had, of course, been very much encouraged by William the… Whatever (so many bloody Williams), former Prince of Orange, who had assured himself, and old George that the Dutch would be positively scrambling to rally to the call of Orange. England could only thank God that he’d had the foresight to make it clear that this was an expeditionary force, and not a military invasion. It had kept France off his back a bit, though they had the odd scuffle from time to time (and really, since when was that out of the ordinary?), but still. It had cost him a bloody fortune to hire out some of Russia’s troops, and now it looked like it had been completely wasted.
Roll on the Nineteenth Century, England thought bitterly as he wiped at his tired eyes with a gloved hand. 1799 had been crap. Dirty, dusty sieges of cities that he didn’t care about with that idiotic Ottoman Empire, and tramping about on a so- called “expeditionary” trip around the Netherlands were simply not his style. Especially not when Austria, Russia, and Switzerland were doing a right proper job of shoving France back into the West, while he was stuck doing sod all. It was embarrassing to say the least.
‘Next year can’t fucking come soon enough,’ he muttered glumly, reaching for his silver flask, ever- secure at his hip, and taking a long swig of gin out of it.
Russia stabbed at something with his stick in agreement.
‘… What was that?’ England asked. He didn’t know why he asked, since he was fairly sure that he didn’t want to know.
‘A little froggy. Look!’ Russia grinned, waggling the dead creature in the air, and making its legs bounce.
England grimaced and returned to his drink.
It was going to be a long, long, long few months.
----
I might hasten to add in this part that Romano is certainly not against the idea of forming a single nation with Veneziano, in fact, his sudden growth spurt is a physical manifestation of his desire to seek, and gain independence, which I've tried to include flashes of in this story. However, Italy at the time was nothing more than a puppet state constructed by France, and not truly a united nation. As a result, Romano wants nothing to do with it, Sicily remaining separate, and staunchly in opposition to France. However, this period of time did begin the sequence of events that would eventually lead to the unification of Italy.
Rating: Well, there's no sex, and no real violence, so apart from bad language, it's floating around the 13+ area at best.
Pairings: None. It's really not that sort of fic, since the whole thing is about shifting alliances. Slight leaning towards Austria/ Hungary, England/ Prussia, England/ Portugal, England/ France, France/Spain, France/ Poland, and Spain/ Romano, but in all but one of these cases, it is nothing particularly sexual.
Summary: It's really just a small, tiny, general glimpse into a few of the many, many events that occurred during the turmoil that Europe faced following the French Revolution, up until Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo, and the signing of the Final Act at the Congress of Vienna.
Part 1 / Part 2
-1808-
He could see red.
Tomatoes?
‘Awww, you look just like a tomato!’
‘Shut it, bastard!’
Romano was always so mean.
Romano.
‘Romano!’
The sound of his own voice made his head buzz unpleasantly. Without thinking, he struggled against the hold he was in, his body remembering his previous battle before his mind had time to catch up.
‘Shhh, shhhh, Spain-’
Not Romano. Where was Romano? Romano was gone.
‘Romano!’ he cried out again, his anguish burning his sore throat.
‘For fuck’s sake, Spain. Fucking calm down!’
Red. Not tomatoes. England.
Spain’s eyes fluttered open, focus slowly returning to him. His vision was once again flooded with the red of England’s coat, followed by the peachy colour of his skin, the green of his eyes, and the yellow of his hair as his dazed mind began to clear, and process what he was seeing. He was tired, and confused, and didn’t even want to bother questioning why he was in England’s arms.
‘Where am I?’ he rasped. It seemed as good a question as any to start with.
‘In a camp, near the border with Portugal,’ England responded simply.
‘My house-’
‘Is in a state,’ England explained. ‘The one that we found you by had been burnt to the ground. Your house in Madrid is currently being occupied by France’s little shit of a leader’s brother.’
Too much. Too much information. He didn’t understand. France? Wait-
‘Romano?’ he gasped, clutching loosely at England’s sleeve.
England shrugged. ‘Back home in Naples. France has him under house arrest.’
Spain almost sobbed in relief. Thank God, he thought. Thank God he’s not at war. And thank God he didn’t abandon me.
He sagged, strength ebbing away as his relief overwhelmed him, reminding him sharply of the hurt that littered his body. His resulting wince did not go unnoticed by England.
‘He really did a number on you.’ It was a statement, not requiring, or desiring an answer.
Still, Spain grunted in some sort of agreement. His mind was trying to work faster than it currently could, hundreds questions flittering around in his skull. France… France had taken him. He could feel it in his chest. Feel the cold pit where his heart should have been. Madrid was no longer his. His body was weak, and fragile, no longer his own. ‘What will become of the world?’ He wondered aloud.
England shifted his grip around the other, readjusting them into a more comfortable position (though he would have sworn until he was blue in the face that it was purely for his own benefit). ‘We fight,’ England responded, the conviction in his voice almost tangible with the strength behind it.
Of course, Spain realised rather belatedly. His heart might have been gone, and he might have felt as weak as an hour old calf, but the simple fact that it had been England’s arms that he had awoken in, and not France’s suddenly made it much clearer to him. Yes, he was in agony, and yes, he felt overwhelmed by the feeling of someone trying to force him out of his own body, and yes, he had lost almost everything that he held dear, but as long as he was lying there in a dusty, almost featureless camp, he knew that some small part of him was still free.
‘England?’ he rasped. He was more tired, and vulnerable than he could ever remember feeling, supported only by the arms of a man that he hated, a man who had overseen much of his own fall from power. And yet, somewhere within him a fire had been lit. It was only small, but it burned strongly, and Spain knew then that he had to do everything in his power to protect that fire, and to nurture it until it grew into something bigger, something stronger.
England stayed silent, perhaps waiting for Spain to continue, or perhaps disinterested in what he had to say. It made Spain’s mouth curve into a small smile, regardless of the sting it caused to his cracked lip. The irony that his saviour had come in the form of his worst enemy was not lost on him. The further irony that it was an almost poetic counter to the fact that his current enemy had come in the form of his best friend, almost made him ignore his cracked ribs in order to laugh.
After a couple of stunted chuckles, Spain shook his head slowly, trying to clear the buzzing sound that they left behind.
‘Thank you,’ he muttered quietly.
England heard him. He could tell by the way that he seemed to stiffen behind him.
‘I- don’t go thinking that it was for you,’ England growled, though the embarrassment in his voice told Spain that he was probably blushing. ‘I’m here for Portugal, not you. And besides, I’m the only one in the world who can stop France, so naturally I’m going to try and push him back into his own shoddy little corner of the world.’
Somehow, Spain found the energy to pat England’s hand. ‘Of course, of course.’ He had no idea how much of that was the truth, and how much of it was a lie, and neither did he care. Former arch- nemesis or not, he was thankful that England had come when he had.
There was a long moment of silence. Tired beyond belief, Spain began to doze.
‘Portugal should be back soon,’ England said suddenly, causing Spain to crack his eyes open a fraction. He scanned the camp, only then realising that his elder brother was nowhere in sight. He hummed in question, feeling too drained to actually speak.
‘Gone out scouting,’ England answered. ‘Making sure that the area’s secure.’
‘Ah,’ Spain responded.
They lapsed into silence, Spain too weary to maintain conversation, and England too far away with his thoughts. It was just as Spain began to doze off that England moved, shifting him out of his arms, and on to the bedroll that they were sitting upon with gentleness that Spain hadn’t quite expected.
It made him smile as England rolled up what looked like a Portuguese officer’s jacket, and placed it under his head. ‘You’re almost being cute, England. Where’s the brute that I remember?’ he joked weakly.
England coloured, seeming to take it as an accusation, rather than a compliment. ‘Shut up, and get some more sleep, Spain,’ he said gruffly, rising to a standing position. ‘You’re of no use to us in this state.’
Spain’s smile tightened, iciness flooding his tired expression. He would certainly do as England had suggested, and when he awoke, refreshed, he would be ready to rain down his revenge.
He would be out for blood. He could already hear his axe singing for it.
**
-1806-
Prussia was confused.
On one hand, war was awesome, and he was awesome at war, so it seemed only natural that war would be the answer. On the other hand, it would mean helping out Austria again, and agreeing with that stuck- up, prissy aristocrat simply wasn’t cool. Still, much as Prussia had liked France in the couple of times that he’d fought alongside him, to Prussia, the very idea of beheading kings was abhorrent. So when his shiny new king had declared that they would join the so- called First Coalition, Prussia had been all for it, because really, France might have been an okay guy, but knocking his Louis- the- Whatever’s bonce off was just way too out there for Prussia to be cool with. Hell, he was the one who had gotten the ball rolling in the first place, way back in 1791 when, half drunk and still grieving for poor Old Fritz, he’d issued the Declaration of Pilnitz. Of course, the day after he’d done it, once he’d sobered up a bit, he'd realised that his clever idea had actually done little more than piss off a good part of France (what he tended to refer to as ‘the crazy part’).
Oops.
Not that he regretted being in the First Coalition, of course. Sure, it sucked to side with Austria over something for once, but France had been getting crazier, and crazier, and had, at one point, actually started to look like he would become a threat, if invasion could be counted as a threat.
Yeah. That had pissed Prussia off. Sure, he’d been on England’s side in the Seven Years war, but that was because France had sided with Austria first, and if he’d learnt anything about the crazy little continent that they lived upon, it was that France was to England, as Austria was to him: an intolerable pain in the arse. Despite everything though, he’d at least thought that he and France were, by and large, on the same general page, but no, France had gone and pulled a schizo act on everyone, and now he was in an entirely different book altogether.
So, he’d joined the First Coalition, because even he had to admit that maybe it was slightly possible that he couldn’t handle France all on his own. The fact that England, and Spain had been in it too had helped to counter the fact that Austria had decided to rain on the party. Spain was, he had recalled from previous battles, a nice guy, a great deal of fun to be around, and when he wanted to be, a complete and utter lunatic when he had that big axe of his in his hand. England, on the other hand, was also a lot of fun to fight with at your side. He was a calculating, murderous bastard on the battlefield, and a mean, greedy son of a bitch off the battlefield, once he dropped the pretentious pussy act.
He had felt both furious, and ashamed when he'd been forced to stop. Sure, he had to admit that France had got crazy- powerful, fast, but even if he had got France to agree to give up the lands that he had captured east of the Rhine, simply giving up was just not Prussia’s style. And if it was anything, the Peace of Basel, had been giving up. What could he do though, fight his own boss? That simply wasn't his style (Old Fritz, he told himself countless times after the peace treaty had been signed, would not have stood for it. He probably would have, of course, but Prussia preferred think that he would have been able to have talk Fritz around), and so the deed was done, leaving a nasty, bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He’d wanted to punch France right in the face the moment that he’d given him that smug, and slightly deranged grin that he seemed to like wearing these past few years. Instead he had forced himself to look away, from France’s satisfaction, Spain's despair and England’s disgust.
At least Prussia hadn't been alone in being coerced into signing a bullshit, so- called "peace treaty". At least he was better off than Spain, that poor fucker. Portugal, on the other hand, had decided to stick with Team England as usual, and carried on fighting, and ignoring France's threats, even despite his brother's fall making his own position extremely dangerous. That point had annoyed Prussia to no end, considering how small, and crappy England, and Portugal both were. He was growing bigger, and stronger all the time, where Portugal and England had barely changed in a millennium. Still. They had the ocean and their precious navies, and weren’t they nifty little things? England’s little boat war with France, and Spain at Trafalgar last year had been such a humiliating loss for the latter two that Prussia almost felt sorry for them. Well. Sorry for Spain, at least, since he’d clearly wanted nothing to do with it in the first place.
Boat wars, however, seemed very, very far away at that moment.
Truth be told, when he’d first heard about Austria, and Russia’s defeat at Austerlitz, he’d howled with laughter until he’d almost lost consciousness. Now that the Holy Roman Empire had crumbled, it didn’t seem so funny any more. Not that he’d ever liked the kid too much, but now he was all in parts, and calling himself the Confederation of the Rhine, and that just had to be a complete headfuck.
Bah! Prussia shook himself out of his thoughts. He couldn’t care less about the snivelling little bastard. What was far more important to him right now was the fact that France was camped right at his fucking doorstep. What was important was the next decision that he made.
Was he ready for war with France, or could he appeal to the man’s better nature, make promises, discuss?
He stared around the room, as if it would offer him some inspiration towards answering his quandary. He almost cringed when his eyes landed upon the jar that contained Poland’s right eyeball, staring balefully at him from across the room. He knew that in taking Warsaw he’d face some kind of backlash, but Jesus fuck! Why Russia had given him such a creepy gift to go with it was beyond him. He’d come close in the past to just giving it back to Poland, just to make it stop looking at him like that, but then he would make himself remember Tannenburg and, with a grimace, would force himself to look at it. Remember how he’d got it, what it had taken. Think about Old Fritz, and what he would do.
He looked away, staring down at the paper at the paper, scanning England’s not- at- all very polite demands that he help him out, goading him with a pointed remark that Prussia was acting like little more than a frightened lapdog.
Damn diplomacy to Hell, he smirked as he wrote his not- at- all very diplomatic response. If France didn’t want him to come out to play, then he wouldn’t have set up camp right on his fucking doorstep. And if there was one thing that Prussia simply couldn’t do, it was back down from a challenge.
‘This should be fun,’ he grinned, sealing the letter shut with wax, his eagle emblazoned proudly upon it.
Time for the Third Coalition to move aside, Prussia thought. Because with me back in the game, it’s about to become something much more awesome..
**
-1809-
Italy- no. Veneziano was worried. With everything being so crazy lately, he was finding it hard to catch his breath. Even his new name was causing him some confusion. Well. It wasn’t a new name, but now that his brother was back with him, he wasn’t Italy any more. They were both Italy. So calling him Italy made no sense. Veneziano made much more sense. Probably because of Venice.
Italy- no no! Veneziano! Veneziano-
Veneziano was worried about his big brother.
When he’d first arrived at their new house a few months back, he’d been kicking, and screaming, throwing obscenities at big brother France as he was dragged into the villa, flanked by soldiers. Personally, Veneziano hadn’t understood why his big brother was so upset. He’d been expecting his arrival for years now, as big brother France had promised, and was a little upset that his big brother hadn’t seemed at all very enthusiastic to see him. The way in which he had fought against Veneziano’s excited hug hurt his feelings even now.
‘Aren’t you happy to be with me?’ Veneziano had cried. ‘Aren’t you happy that we can finally be together, just as Grandpa wanted it?’
‘As soon as Romano gets Sicily to stop fighting, you two can be together properly. “The Kingdom of Italy”. How does that sound?’ France had smiled that benevolent smile that It- Veneziano loved so much.
‘It sounds wonderful! Oh doesn’t it sound wonderful, big brother?’ Veneziano grinned, eyes brimming with joyful tears.
His big brother hadn’t even looked at him. He had, instead, stared levelly at France. ‘With a French king, no doubt,’ he had sneered.
Veneziano remembered gasping at that point, remembered tugging on his brother’s arm, admonishing him for his rudeness. France had looked equally unimpressed. ‘You need to remember who you’re answering to, Romano. I’m not Spain, and I am not as willing to tolerate such blatant disregard.’
Something about the way that his brother had stiffened had terrified Veneziano.
But he had simply remained silent.
His big brother hadn’t talked much since that day. He spoke, from time to time, but Veneziano’s memory held a precious image of a big brother who was always the first to speak his mind. It had been something that Veneziano had always admired in him. Now that it was almost gone, he found himself worrying constantly, and, beyond that, faintly disappointed.
Christmas had been an even more strained affair. In the past, Veneziano had spent several Christmases with his big brother, and though they had declined in frequency once Spain and Austria had gotten divorced, and despite the fact that his big brother had always ended up yelling at big brother Spain over something or other, he always recalled them being happy times. The Christmas of 1808, however, had not been happy. Veneziano had anticipated it to be a wonderful affair, and had put a lot of time and effort into making a perfect meal for them both, but when he called his brother for supper, he had refused to come. Eventually he had cried, sobbing about how unfair it was that he had tried so hard to make a good meal, and how much he had wanted to spend his first Christmas as a complete kingdom making happy memories. When his brother had eventually come out of his room, he had slapped him across the face.
‘You have no idea do you? None at all,’ he had hissed with so much venom that, for a moment, Veneziano had been afraid of him.
‘I- I don’t understand-’
‘There’s a war going on, and all you can care about is fucking food. People are dying, Veneziano!’
‘Bu- but, I know, but I- I only wanted to make some g- good new memories with you, big brother,’ he’d sobbed. He’d known all of that. He’d known. He’d only wanted to help make his brother smile again.
But his brother had only glared at him, eyes glinting with barely concealed rage, and sorrow. ‘Grow up.’
He’d closed the door then, leaving Veneziano to cry himself into hiccups, and finish off the meal alone. He didn’t hear his brother speak again, until a few days later, early into the New Year, when he caught him grabbing a passing French soldier by the arm and demanding to know about something called Zaragoza. Veneziano wasn’t sure if it was a place, or a person, but the way in which his brother looked sick at the reply the soldier gave him told him not to ask.
Christmas had been a month ago. Big brother France had come again today, asking him if he could get his brother to get Sicily to back down again. Veneziano knew that he probably wouldn’t but he promised big brother France that he would do his very best.
He found his brother late in the evening, sitting alone on the beach, staring quietly out into the west. Cautiously, Veneziano joined him, sitting beside him slowly, so as not to disturb the sand too much. Then he too fell silent, watching the sun sinking leisurely into the Mediterranean.
‘It’s so pretty, don’t you think?’ Veneziano asked, turning sparkling eyes towards his brother. His brother didn’t return the look, but responded with a hum of agreement.
‘I wish that I could stay here forever,’ he continued. ‘I’m so happy to be with you.’
His brother said nothing, staring out across the waves, searching for something that Veneziano couldn’t see. ‘A- are you looking for Sicily?’ he asked. When he received no answer, he took a deep breath, and tried to keep his promise. ‘You know… if you get Sicily to stop fighting, then we can become a proper kingdom. Wouldn’t that be nice? Yes? Big brother?’
Finally, his brother turned to look at him. He looked tired, Veneziano noted with alarm. He looked dog tired, but Veneziano waited patiently, knowing that he would speak, silently urging him on with a gentle expression.
‘No.’
Veneziano’s face fell. ‘Big brother… big brother please. There’s no reason to fight.’
‘I have every reason to fight,’ his brother whispered, voice raw with some sort of emotion. ‘I promised him. I promised him that I would help him. He’s useless, and he can’t do anything on his own, and I-’ his voice caught in his throat, and he clutched at his knees. For a moment, to Veneziano, he looked like a child again.
‘Who? Who are you talking about, big brother?’ Veneziano asked, voice gentle at the sight of his brother’s unshed tears.
‘And now England’s going home, and he’s all alone. And those people…’ he stopped, burying his head in his knees, shaking with quiet sobs.
In a flash, Veneziano was at his side, hands grabbing him, and holding him close, babbling comforting nothings to him.
‘I want to go home,’ his brother sobbed mournfully. Veneziano thought that he felt his heart stop.
‘But you are home, big brother. You’re home. With me,’ he cried, rocking his brother backwards and forwards in his arms.
‘Not like this,’ his brother whispered. ‘Not like this.’
**
-1799-
‘I don’t think that this is going very well, England,’ Russia said in an almost sing- song voice as he jabbed a stick into their campfire.
England watched him, a deadpan expression upon his face. ‘No. Really? I hadn’t noticed.’
Russia pouted at him in what was supposed to be a cute way. England found it creepy for a grown man to pull such an expression. ‘There’s no need to be a meanie, England. I was just telling the truth.’
‘I’m not paying you to tell me the truth,’ England muttered.
Russia puffed out his cheeks, blowing a short puff of air. Then, after a moment, he spoke up again. ‘I’m doing much better in Italy.’
England stared at him for a long moment, feeling vaguely insulted. ‘The people in Italy are more willing to fight back than the Dutch are,’ he explained.
‘Ahhh!’ Russia said, as if he’d won some sort of game ‘but you said that the Dutch would be happy to see us.’
‘That’s what I was led to believe by William.’
‘The Orange man?’
‘The Orange man.’
Russia was silent for an entire five seconds before he spoke up again. ‘But, England. The Dutch aren’t happy to see us. They’re fighting for France.’
England rubbed tiredly at his eyes. If Russia didn’t have an endless supply of soldiers stored up his sleeves, he swore that he would- ‘Again, Russia. All facts that I am very much aware of, thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Russia smiled back.
Unfortunately, Russia was right in his brilliant assumptions. England had been too hasty, assuming that the Dutch, like the Italians, and the Swiss, would be just as ready to rise up against their French oppressors, and rejoin the coalition. This had, of course, been very much encouraged by William the… Whatever (so many bloody Williams), former Prince of Orange, who had assured himself, and old George that the Dutch would be positively scrambling to rally to the call of Orange. England could only thank God that he’d had the foresight to make it clear that this was an expeditionary force, and not a military invasion. It had kept France off his back a bit, though they had the odd scuffle from time to time (and really, since when was that out of the ordinary?), but still. It had cost him a bloody fortune to hire out some of Russia’s troops, and now it looked like it had been completely wasted.
Roll on the Nineteenth Century, England thought bitterly as he wiped at his tired eyes with a gloved hand. 1799 had been crap. Dirty, dusty sieges of cities that he didn’t care about with that idiotic Ottoman Empire, and tramping about on a so- called “expeditionary” trip around the Netherlands were simply not his style. Especially not when Austria, Russia, and Switzerland were doing a right proper job of shoving France back into the West, while he was stuck doing sod all. It was embarrassing to say the least.
‘Next year can’t fucking come soon enough,’ he muttered glumly, reaching for his silver flask, ever- secure at his hip, and taking a long swig of gin out of it.
Russia stabbed at something with his stick in agreement.
‘… What was that?’ England asked. He didn’t know why he asked, since he was fairly sure that he didn’t want to know.
‘A little froggy. Look!’ Russia grinned, waggling the dead creature in the air, and making its legs bounce.
England grimaced and returned to his drink.
It was going to be a long, long, long few months.
----
I might hasten to add in this part that Romano is certainly not against the idea of forming a single nation with Veneziano, in fact, his sudden growth spurt is a physical manifestation of his desire to seek, and gain independence, which I've tried to include flashes of in this story. However, Italy at the time was nothing more than a puppet state constructed by France, and not truly a united nation. As a result, Romano wants nothing to do with it, Sicily remaining separate, and staunchly in opposition to France. However, this period of time did begin the sequence of events that would eventually lead to the unification of Italy.