Fic: The Thing About History
Title: The Thing about History
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Germany, Prussia, Spain, Hungary, Veneziano; cameos from most of the world
Pairings: Hungary/Prussia; some Germany/Veneziano and implied Romano/Spain
Warnings: Language, various (mostly oblique) talk of sex and kink
Summary: On the importance of fraternal duty, the definition of "seduction", and conversation topics inappropriate for polite company.
-
Because Germany is preoccupied with hefting a broad canvas bag of groceries on one arm, as well as wrestling with the cardboard box clutched between his hands and sagging dangerously along one side, he does not notice the various subtle clues as to the situation. It is only retrospectively that he realises that the bushes outside his house have been slightly damaged, as if gently grazed by a passing armoured truck, and that the one nearest the door has a very unusual fist-shaped hole in it. The complexity of the procedure he has to undertake in order to get inside - box pinned between hip and ribs and doorframe, one arm straining to both hold up the bag and simultaneously provide a balance for the unsupported side of the box - distracts him from registering that the door had been closed but not locked. As he manoeuvres his way into the house, his heel scuffs against a pair of shoes, but the items in his arms and the fact that he is having to walk backwards prevent him from seeing that the shoes are unfamiliar to him and ought not by any rights be clogging up his hallway.
It is only once he is fully indoors and pushing the door shut with his knee that he registers the raucous voice emerging from somewhere deeper in the house. Prussia is not exactly too self-conscious to talk to himself every so often - and nor is he ashamed to fling the occasional yell in the direction of the television or his laptop or, if the Bundesliga becomes particularly exciting, the radio - but even he does not normally deliver long, disjointed monologues whilst alone in the house. His words are muffled by the walls and emerge indistinct, but it seems to Germany that they were never entirely clear to start with: they are fractured, rendered nonsensical by the vehemence of his delivery, and ever so slightly slurred.
After taking a moment to summon his strength, both physical and psychological, Germany sets his jaw and heads in the direction of the voice.
Perhaps thankfully for all involved, Prussia happens to be in the kitchen: the very same room that Germany rather urgently needs to reach. For the younger brother, this is so he can place his groceries on the counter as soon as possible before his arms fall out of their sockets; the elder, it becomes apparent, has a slightly different motive.
Prussia is sitting slumped over the kitchen table with one arm flung forwards over the surface and a complex cocktail of outrage, pain and dejection colouring his face. One hand, inevitably, is cradling a small glass of an entirely inappropriate beverage for the time of day; the other, however, cradles an ice pack, wrapped sloppily in a towel and pressed firmly to the side of his jaw. His lip is split cleanly and shallowly open. Blood is collecting above his chin but flowing too slowly and sluggishly to drip any further downwards - although the fresh red spatter on his collar suggests that this has not always been the case. Beside him, Spain is sitting upright with his chin propped on his hand, face turned towards the window and eyes ever so slightly glazed over.
Germany briefly directs his own gaze heavenwards and offers up a prayer of thanks that at least Prussia has refrained from dragging both his best friends into the house.
It is whilst Germany is lurking in the doorway, trying to calculate whether or not he will be able to make it to the nearest countertop and deposit the shopping without being shouted at, that his brother glances up and spots him. Prussia at once breaks off his muttering and sits up a little straighter, blinking at him for several seconds as he evidently debates internally over whether or not to extend his circle of confidantes. Eventually he jerks his head sharply at Germany, making a beckoning gesture across the room with the hand not holding the ice pack. “C’mon then, you brat, I guess I can trust you. Oi -” and he elbows Spain hard in the ribs - “dickhead, budge over.”
“No matter where I go, I can’t escape the abuse,” Spain says in a remarkably serene manner, semi-standing and shifting his chair across the floor. Once seated again, he raises his hand to half-mast in a casual acknowledgement of Germany. “I hope you don’t mind that I raided your fridge.”
I can certainly imagine worse things that could have happened, Germany thinks, setting the bags and box down on the side at last. “I suppose not,” he says out loud. “Although I’m surprised that you found anything worth eating; I was planning on making this shopping trip much earlier than today.”
“Christ, West!” Prussia barks abruptly, thumping his fist down onto the chair he has dragged between himself and Spain. “Sit your ass down and shut the hell up. Or don’t you care how I nearly lost my jaw?”
Germany could say that Prussia’s greeting did not exactly make him feel welcomed into the conversation, that he was only making small talk, that he did not want to presume to ask for an explanation, that it is difficult to maintain concern when Prussia is evidently more angry than anything else - but in the end he simply sits down. “France isn’t here, then?” he remarks warily, fearing both that he will be shouted at for violating the second order given to him and that the mere utterance of France’s name will cause him to materialise like a suave, fashionable demon.
Prussia, interestingly, looks shaken at the very mention of his other best friend. “No way. Don’t want him hearing about this. Don’t even want to think about that. Believe me, once I’ve told you -” At this point he breaks off and seems to wince - it is difficult for Germany to see it behind the towel-swathed ice - before suddenly scowling and throwing himself back into the chair. “You know what, forget it. I’ve already told this story once. Spain, you tell him.”
Spain jumps slightly, and his eyes dart from side to side in a way that does not exactly inspire confidence. “Huh? Me?”
“No shit,” Prussia tries to snort, but fails and gives a grimace like he has been kicked in the kneecap.
“Er,” Spain says, and even though his grin is unquestionably sheepish it is still broad enough to make Germany wonder just what Spain sees in life that makes him so constantly cheerful, “well it’s not like I’m not extremely interested, and I am kind of tired right now, but I haven’t... really been listening.”
Spotting the beginning of a sharp movement in the corner of his eye, Germany stands up and steps smoothly backwards - and just barely in time, too, since Prussia’s fist practically grazes his clothing en route to Spain’s face. Despite its flawless aim, the blow never reaches its target: Spain has already pushed himself backwards in his chair and safely out of Prussia’s reach, the fist not even disturbing a hair with the air it displaces. Tired as Spain is, he can evidently pay attention when it suits him.
“That wasn’t bad!” he enthuses, gripping the table with both hands and dragging his chair back in again; Germany resumes his place with considerably more caution, gaze going back and forth between them to ensure that no more punches are imminent. “If I hadn’t known it was coming you might have got me.”
“Fucker,” Prussia says with little genuine malice, and then scowls, “of course I would. It’s only because I’ve been mortally wounded that you managed to escape this time.”
Seizing on this mention of the injury and hoping to distract his brother from further indulgence of the bizarre traditions which he and his friends have come up with, Germany reaches out to take the ice pack and move it away from Prussia’s face. The bruise it has been hiding is bright and swollen, a curiously shiny shade somewhere between red and purple, and it distorts Prussia’s cheek enough that the corner of his mouth is sagging awkwardly downwards. Although he has, inevitably, been exaggerating the extent of the damage - it is the sort of injury easily sustained by a good solid punch to the face, and Germany does not care to count just how many times Prussia has been on the receiving end of one of those - it does admittedly look painful.
“Not really a mortal wound,” Spain says from over his shoulder.
Prussia seems to sneer, although with the swelling along the fleshy part of his face, that is essentially his default expression. “Screw you. She hits hard.”
“She?” Germany and Spain say at the same time, the latter with a certain captivated interest, the former with growing suspicion.
Spain leans forward, depositing his elbows on the table and chin in his hand, and grins like a schoolboy. “Oh, so you pissed off a girlfriend? How come you never tell me about your love life? Germany, has Prussia been dating?”
“No,” says Germany.
“Oi!” Prussia exclaims indignantly, glaring from behind the ice pack he is pressing to his face once more. “Don’t sound so confident when you say that. I could be dating.”
Spain tilts his head sympathetically.
Germany just blinks. “But I know you’re not,” he points out.
His brother goes crimson in his visible cheek as well as the covered one. “I happen to like the single life, okay? Spain, don’t look at me like that. Just because I’m not shackled into a crazy masochistic ‘relationship’ with some obnoxious little - look, being alone is better, alright? Do you want to hear this story or not?”
“I was curious to hear more about the obnoxious little,” Spain says, with a look in his eyes that entirely contradicts the bland tone of his voice.
Germany is beginning to get the distinct sense that he is missing out on a fairly crucial piece of information, but decides to steer the conversation back on track rather than investigate. Despite his ignorance concerning the current topic, he remains reasonably confident that he can pin down the source of Prussia’s injury - or at least, make a fair guess. “Quite honestly, considering how much you’ve pestered Hungary in the past, it’s no wonder that she hit you.”
Prussia makes a wordless sputtering sound of protest.
“Oh yeah,” Spain says, his face clearing, “yeah, you had that one coming.”
After a few more seconds of incoherent objection, Prussia finally manages to pull himself together. “It wasn’t like that! Okay, okay,” he adds as the other two give him sceptical looks, “maybe I have been a bit persistent sometimes, but I swear, I never did anything this time. It was all her.”
Persistent does not come close, Germany thinks. When considering the number of lewd letters, attempted touches, inaudible yet unquestionably inappropriate comments, which his brother has directed towards the unsuspecting Hungary all in the name of what he calls “seduction”, it is difficult to think of it as anything other than harassment.
“Really?” Spain muses, not seeming to share Germany’s opinion - or, perhaps, simply not caring. “But she was never like that with you before.”
“Well, that’s what I thought!” Prussia says, giving a broad jerking gesture with one hand. “But this time I’d barely opened my mouth and she was all over me. I’m talking hands-in-my-clothes all over.”
Germany shifts uncomfortably in his seat and tries not to go scarlet. Not only does he find it extremely awkward to hear about his brother in these sorts of situations - especially since, try as he might, he cannot prevent his rebellious brain from visualising the scene - but he is also not far off mortified by the thought of Hungary’s involvement. He wonders, miserably, just how exactly Prussia expects him to be able to meet Hungary’s eye the next time he sees her.
Spain still seems to have other priorities foremost in his mind. “Well, some people have it easy, don’t they?”
“But,” Germany says, and then breaks off to clear his throat: he has still not quite shaken the mental image of the alleged incident in question, “but why? I mean, I didn’t think she was interested - that is,” he falters, as Prussia shoots him an offended glare, “from what you’ve told me she doesn’t respond well when you approach her, and if she was interested then surely you wouldn’t have to be so persistent...” He looks aside and coughs, Prussia’s unwavering stare growing too uncomfortable for him to bear.
“You little shit,” Prussia says, sounding slightly awestruck. “I’ll have you know we have a history, her and me. Can’t hate me that much, can she? Anyway, I always knew she wants me. Secretly. Who doesn’t?” he adds, with a cocky grin that is only slightly spoiled by the puffiness of his cheek.
Spain reaches his arm around the front of Germany to take hold of Prussia’s drink and give it a wary sniff. “The thing about history,” he says at length, “is that it’s in the past.”
Germany has a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder even before Prussia is dramatically attempting to stand. “Calm down, we don’t mean anything by it,” he says firmly over Prussia’s cursing and struggling to get away. “We believe you. We’re interested.”
Eventually Prussia slumps back into his seat, defeated; Germany releases his grip, but leaves his hand ready on the tabletop, just in case. “Maybe you don’t mean anything by it, but he sure does,” he says, jerking a thumb at Spain. “Dick.”
Spain smiles placidly and knocks back the drink.
“Okay,” Prussia says and plants one hand flat upon the table with enough force to set the surface resonating, “now if you women can shut your traps for longer than two seconds, I’m going to paint you this picture. West,” he says turning to Germany with a sombre expression, “this is probably going to make you blush like a Catholic schoolgirl, but frankly I couldn’t care less. You’ve got to man up some time.”
Wonderful, thinks Germany, bracing himself, although he realises that he ought to be grateful for getting any warning at all. Despite the discomfort which this conversation has already caused him, even despite the promise of more to come, he does not entertain the thought of politely excusing himself. Prussia’s admonition has seen to that - which was, he supposes, probably at least part of his intention.
Prussia snatches the empty glass back off Spain and places it on the table in front of them. “Right, so this is me. We’re still in her garden - she hasn’t even let me in yet - and she’s all -” he runs his hand sensually along the glass, fingers caressing the surface - “like this, yeah? I’m thinking, she’s finally realised how fantastic I am - took her long enough, talk about hard to get - but this is great. I wouldn’t have minded just doing it right there, but I didn’t know how she felt about it, especially since she’s got that prissy Austria as a neighbour. So I ask her if she wants to take it inside, and she says yeah.”
Flawed as Prussia is, he can certainly predict his little brother’s behaviour correctly. Germany can sense his face burning, even his ears feeling hotter than usual, and he is finding it increasingly difficult to continue looking Prussia in the face. Glancing around, he sees that Spain has folded his arms on the table and is leaning forwards over them, appearing absorbed in the narrative and evidently not at all perturbed. For his part, Germany cannot help but wonder just how long this story is, and whether Prussia means to tell it all in this much detail.
Abandoning the glass, Prussia begins to trace lines on the table’s surface, as if sketching out an invisible map. “I was heading for the bedroom, but she told me - or did she just drag me? Yeah, she pulled me into the kitchen instead.”
Spain raises an eyebrow. “That’s kind of kinky.”
“You haven’t heard the half of it,” Prussia assures him.
Admonitions be damned, Germany decides, beginning to struggle to his feet. “I - I really think -”
Prussia places a hand on top of his head and yanks him back down, with much more force than Germany used on him earlier. “Seriously, man up. How do you expect to get laid if you can’t even stand hearing about it?”
Germany winds his face up into a deep frown and glares, red-faced, at the tabletop.
“Right, so where was I?” Prussia muses, releasing him and stroking his chin theatrically. “Oh yeah, the kitchen. Okay, so she pushes me into a chair -” he makes an elaborate gesture with one hand, leaving the palm hovering parallel to the tabletop, wrist bent up and fingers steepled upon the wood - “and then she goes -” he wraps his other hand around the first in a way that Germany can only imagine much have been highly uncomfortable for the actual people involved, assuming that Prussia’s fingers are indeed supposed to represent Hungary’s limbs - “kind of like this. She’d already got my shirt half-off from before, but by then it was like she really meant it, although I did think that part might have been a bit easier without the chair there getting in the way. But worry not,” he says with a placatory sweep of the hand which up until now has been playing Hungary’s role, “I emerged triumphant in the end, if by triumphant you mean shirtless. And I was, well. Kind of - happy. By that stage.”
Germany squirms, knowing exactly what his brother means and hating every second of it.
Spain just laughs.
“And then,” Prussia says, and suddenly hesitates, looking self-conscious for the first time during the narrative. “Well. Then she, uh, she tied me to the chair.”
“With what?” Germany cannot help but ask; the words overlap with Spain’s as he raises an eyebrow and says, “I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”
Prussia looks away for a second and harrumphs noisily. “W-well, she’d been distracting me, and she had the ropes right there, God knows why, so I didn’t even notice she was doing anything till it was too late.” He frowns a little at the windowsill, for once appearing contemplative, his gaze turning blank and seeming to fold slightly in on itself as he recalls the scene. “It wasn’t... well, it wasn’t bad. And the way she looked at me then...” His head slowly tilts and hangs to one side and he forgets to blink for a few moments, before abruptly jerking upright and snapping out of his reverie. “But - but she hadn’t even asked me about it! Hadn’t even warned me. Not cool.”
“No,” Spain intones, shaking his head solemnly.
But Prussia appears to have hit his stride, his voice growing ever more strident and his gestures ever more rapid as he continues. “So there I was, right, tied to the chair - legs and arms - with her standing there looking at me like - like that. I wasn’t happy about the ropes - not cool, plus I couldn’t touch her anymore which wasn’t really as planned - but also... I don’t know. It was different. And hell, I was about to get laid. Then she -” He pauses, and then half-stands, pushing his chair back and turning to his audience expectantly. “Hey, will one of you be me for a second? Then I can be Hungary and show you, yeah?”
Germany almost contracts whiplash with the speed at which he shakes his head. Beside him, Spain raises his hands defensively in front of his chest and leans his whole body away. “Don’t look at me. I do have limits, you know.”
“Fine,” Prussia pouts. “You’ll have to picture it for yourselves.”
I would really rather not, Germany thinks, but he knows he has no control over the matter.
“I was sitting, and then she came up to me and - aw hell, what’s the word? Sitting on my lap, legs sort of like -” and he makes another complicated gesture.
“Straddling,” Spain supplies helpfully.
Germany buries his face in his hands.
“Right, that. And she’s touching me all over, so I’m even more - uh, happy. And then she leans in -” Prussia does just that; Germany’s chair scrapes loudly over the floor as he moves away - “and whispers in my ear. Said she’d wanted to do something to me for a while, it was hard for her to hold back before, and was I up for it.”
Even though their reactions are entirely opposed - Spain’s eyebrows slowly vanishing into his messy hair while Germany narrows his eyes and furrows his brow - the glance they exchange solidifies Germany’s suspicion that they both know where this is heading. Spain’s eyes crease at the corners and he shoots a glance at Prussia before meeting Germany’s gaze again, swallowing a grin. Germany presses his lips together: the other nation’s smile is infectious, and there is in fact something sadistically humorous in the story - assuming, of course, that he is predicting its conclusion correctly - but no, he reprimands himself, that is cruel and he ought to be sympathetic. No matter how badly his brother brought this on himself.
Prussia does not appear to have noticed this moment of wordless communication: he is leaning his head on his fist, face tilted awkwardly to one side to avoid aggravating his bruise, and glowers at the shopping on the counter, enveloped in his own recollection. “I guess I should have asked her to specify,” he says reluctantly. “But she should have explained anyway! Hell, in that situation - practically her duty. And since I had no idea - well, I agreed. Bad move,” he muses; it is the first - and almost certainly only - time that Germany has heard Prussia refer to himself in terms less than exclusively complimentary. “So then she got off me,” Prussia continues, leaning forwards intently to ensure he has their attention, “took a couple of steps back -” he swings his arm back “- and cracked me one!”
He turns to each of them in turn, his eyes wide and hands spread in a bid for a suitable reaction.
Spain’s expression transforms instantly into a look of sympathy. “Really,” he says, “who’d have thought it?”
“Er,” Germany says as his brother’s expectant gaze lands on him, “ouch?”
Despite the undeniable fact that this response is entirely pathetic, Prussia seems satisfied by it, leaning back in his chair and giving a self-indulgent shrug. “On my mother’s grave. Hypothetical mother. And the real kicker is, she started yelling at me.”
This is a little unexpected. “What was she saying?”
“Beats me,” Prussia snorts, tilting his chair onto its back legs. “We were kind of yelling together. Something about me being stupid and not getting it.”
“I can’t believe she would say that,” Spain says with the deepest sincerity.
Germany folds his arms and twists his lips thoughtfully, barely registering the exaggerated exclamations coming from one side of him as his brother relates the tale of his escape - which seems to have involved equal parts shouting and pleading. He cannot avoid the conclusion that, assuming Prussia’s story to be true - and the welt on his cheek does seem to at least partially confirm it - Germany is obligated to discuss it with Hungary. It is not that he wants to; indeed, at this moment, sitting rigidly in his chair with his ears glowing a nigh-on luminous pink, there are very few concepts which appeal less to him. Nor does he entirely blame Hungary: Prussia’s constant advances would be enough to drive even the mildest-tempered nation to drastic action, and there is little doubt that he will be thinking twice before attempting a “seduction” again.
But despite it all, Prussia deserves to have someone stand up for him; although his advances are often ill-calculated and persistent at the very least, he does at least have no malicious intent. Even the sheer tenacity of his attempts does not necessarily cast him in an unfavourable light: it proves that he is determined and impassioned - possibly even devoted.
Germany tests out this word in his mind. It is not one that he would normally use to describe his brother, but at this moment it seems rather, uncannily fitting.
“Tell you what though,” Prussia says suddenly, before pausing to hack a violent cough and spit a lump of blood-stained phlegm into the empty shot glass. “If she’s always been into that kind of thing? That pansy Austria is more of a man than I thought.”
*
“Prussia,” Germany says, managing to curb the despair but not the terseness from his voice, “you don’t even have a shirt on.”
His brother, tongue protruding from between his teeth and body hunched intently forwards, does not look around. “Do too.”
“I don’t mean a t-shirt. A real shirt. With buttons,” Germany clarifies, and tries not to wince as a man’s head explodes colourfully not fifteen feet away.
“Oh,” Prussia says, thumbs working furiously. “Then no. No I don’t.”
Germany leans his shoulder on the doorframe and checks his watch again. “So stop that and get ready. We’ll never be early now, but we can still make it.”
“Stop this?” Prussia echoes in disbelief, and then cracks his neck with a smirk. “No way bro, I’m going in for the long haul. Oh, shit, I thought I’d cleared this room. Stay down, you son of a bitch!”
“It does look like a difficult layout,” Germany comments despite himself. “You should be wary of the blind spots.”
Prussia snorts. “Yeah, should be, if they weren’t too damn stupid to strategise. Don’t think too hard about it, West.”
Germany can allow him this, if only for the sake of returning more quickly to the topic at hand. “These meetings are important.”
“Yeah, I guess they are,” Prussia says - and breaks off to curse at one particularly belligerent aggressor, before resuming. “But I’m not strictly speaking required at these meetings, now am I?”
“That doesn’t mean -” Germany begins.
“And as such, I’m going to be strictly speaking at home shooting zombies for the duration.” He flashes a brief grin over his shoulder, and then turns back around.
Germany lingers in the doorway a few seconds longer, frowning hard at the screen flashing grey and red across the living room.
“You were a bad influence on me when I was growing up,” he says in the end, and leaves Prussia to it.
*
Although he will perhaps keep it a secret, at least from his brother, Germany is not too proud to admit that there were in the end two advantages to Prussia’s absence from the conference. The first is that, without his incendiary presence, the proceedings took markedly longer to break out into scuffles: two minutes and forty-six seconds longer than the average, by Germany’s calculations, not including any confrontations which may have taken place in the hallways before the meeting officially began. This is still evidently far from ideal, but Germany is nothing if not a pragmatist, and he has learned to seize on any improvement in conduct as a sign of progress, no matter how minute.
The second advantage is rather more selfish, and concerns how easily Germany will be able to speak to Hungary in private. His plan has always been to try and catch her alone outside the conference room, and his chances of success are greatly improved now that his brother will not be following her around like an obnoxious, albino puppy.
Despite how much they bristle and protest throughout the meeting itself, few of the other nations now seem in an enormous hurry to leave, Germany broods as he gathers his notes. He had noticed one or two of the Baltic brothers bolt from the room as soon as the meeting adjourned, but for the most part there is more of a meander than a rush towards the door. Russia has not moved at all, still smiling amicably around at the room with his hands clasped on the table before him; Greece and Turkey are arguing energetically with no apparent thought of leaving; South Korea seems to be trying to reach someone else, but is unable to get anywhere very fast through the confusion of chairs being pushed out and nations standing around in what empty spaces there are.
Movement is relatively scarce near to Germany, too. Italy, who had begun to sag little more than twenty minutes after they began and whose forehead had finally made contact with the table shortly after their break for lunch, is now sleeping peacefully and drooling onto his barely touched copy of the day’s schedule. After a brief but still agonising moment of indecision, Germany resolves not to wake him: he must be exhausted to be falling asleep somewhere like this, Germany tells himself, although admittedly he does have his doubts. Instead he scribbles out a note (didn’t want to wake you - try to stop sleeping in meetings - you can visit this evening if you like) and tucks it carefully into Italy’s breast pocket.
As Germany stands to make his way out, he is vaguely aware of some sort of commotion - Italy’s elder brother shouting about something and struggling to get somewhere, only to be held back by the nations on either side of him - but he decides to ignore it. There are few things in the world which don’t seem to drive Romano into fits of rage, after all.
Near the door, someone surges abruptly forwards against Germany’s back, almost knocking him into Switzerland and Liechtenstein. Apologising, he steps back and glances over his shoulder to try and locate the culprit - but whoever it was, they are not making themselves known within the crowd. Germany swiftly comes to the conclusion that it is not at all worth it, and instead moves forwards to hold the door open for the siblings. Switzerland gives him a hostile look as his sister passes between them but eventually, apparently satisfied that Germany has no suspicious motives, moves on without comment to take Liechtenstein’s hand and walk with her down the corridor. Germany follows at some distance, trying to look as non-threatening as possible should his neighbour look back at him, but stops on the corner to wait for Hungary.
No sooner has he stopped than Japan practically sprints out of the conference room, clinging for dear life to a sheaf of papers and with his eyes fixed desperately ahead of him. He is in such a hurry that he does not even stop to acknowledge Germany, merely slowing a little and giving him a hasty bow before speeding off again. Germany looks in sudden trepidation at the doors, which are currently swinging rather dramatically shut: if the normally so collected Japan is this flustered, whatever is going on beyond the doors must be truly horrifying.
Before Germany can decide on a plan of action, the doors open again and China emerges, walking at a much slower pace than Japan and looking entirely dissatisfied with his lot in life. Clinging to him, hands around his waist but occasionally exploring an area slightly further to the north, is South Korea.
Germany nods a little to himself, the pieces falling into place.
There comes a larger group of people after that, all seeming to be making an awful lot of noise. America, the chief offender, manages to give Germany a point of one index finger and a casual, “Hey,” whilst barely pausing in the long, chattering monologue he is delivering to the entire building. As the exuberant nation passes by, Germany suddenly seems to see a flash of ethereal presence beside and slightly behind him, as if America’s profile has been caught briefly in a ghostly mirror. After blinking, however, the image vanishes, and Germany is left shaking his head a little to clear his thoughts.
Hot on America’s heels is England, hands clamped firmly over his ears and chanting repeated vigorous denials of being able to hear anything. For a moment Germany is bemused - America’s constant yelling is annoying, certainly, but hardly merits such an exaggerated response - until he spots France, leaning forwards over England’s shoulder and into his personal space to talk directly into his ear through his fingers. The words themselves are lost, drowned in America’s voice and the speed at which the pair pass by, but Germany has seen more than enough of the gestures that France is currently making with his hands, and quickly concludes that he is better off not hearing.
Spain is on France’s other side, grinning, dishevelled and dragging a sullen, red-faced Romano along by the wrist. Behind them, walking shoulder to shoulder and at a slightly more humane speed, are Austria and Hungary.
Germany turns to them in relief, just barely avoiding the vicious kick that Romano aims at his shins as he does so, and steps out away from the wall. “Ah, Hungary... Could I talk to you for a moment?”
Hungary assumes a mask of innocent surprise far too thin to hide the glimmer of gleeful comprehension in her features. “Of course.”
“...Well then,” Austria says, and coughs a little. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Germany inclines his head in gratitude.
“Don’t get lost on your way home!” Hungary calls cheerfully after her ex-husband’s retreating back; Austria responds with a demure wave of one hand, evidently not rising to the bait. “Well then,” Hungary says, turning back to Germany and putting her arm through his, “shall we find somewhere private?”
“Please don’t phrase it like that,” Germany says reproachfully, thanking every deity he can think of that France is already too far away to have heard the suggestion.
Hungary just giggles in a surprisingly girlish manner and begins dragging him towards a nearby door. “Before you say anything,” she says confidingly just as Denmark appears in the corridor, laughing uproariously and clapping everything within reach on the shoulder, “I’ll have you know that Prussia is a blabbermouth. And he exaggerates.”
“I don’t really need to be told that,” Germany says dryly, but follows her through the doorway without further comment. The meeting room is small: nothing but a table, four spotless white walls and a handful of strangely unblemished chairs. It is evidently very rarely used.
Hungary parks herself in one of the chairs and crosses her legs, leaning an elbow on the backrest. “I just wanted to get that out of the way. Go ahead.”
“Well,” Germany begins, closing the door behind him and feeling somehow disarmed, “I know you’ve been having trouble getting Prussia to leave you alone, but I really don’t think you should hit him.”
She purses her lips thoughtfully. “We are talking about the same incident, aren’t we?”
He stares at her, suddenly uncertain. He does know of his brother’s tendency for hyperbole - bitter experience has taught him of that - and yet he has assumed that the bare bones of the story, at least, are accurate. But what if he is mistaken? To falsely accuse Hungary of something like this, to unthinkingly accept false testimony on the matter from a known distorter of the truth: it would be almost unforgivable.
“He was at your house a few days ago, wasn’t he?” Germany ventures, beginning with the simplest question.
Hungary nods in understanding. “Alright, that. Just making sure we’re on the same page. Yes,” she adds after Germany has frowned at her in confusion for several seconds.
“Then why were you -”
“Nothing really,” she says, waving a hand airily. “Just that I’ve hit him more than once, so I wasn’t sure which time you were referring to.”
Germany blinks at her. “I only knew about the once, but I think it would apply to every time.”
“Most of the time it couldn’t be helped,” she muses. “Often we were fighting, and even when we’re not he’s still so aggravating. I’d say he deserves it.”
“It’s possible,” Germany agrees. “I don’t like the way he chases after you either, believe me. It’s just that to trick him like that -”
“Trick him?” she interrupts again. “You still mean last weekend?”
Please let this not be a misunderstanding, Germany begs the world, before steeling his nerve and taking the plunge. “Tying him to the chair, and, um. I mean, I know you want him to stop going after you like he does, but you didn’t need to scare him, and you shouldn’t trick him into thinking you like to...” He trails off, partially out of pure mortification, partly because she is looking at him with a mixture of surprise, affront and amusement.
“Why would you think that was a trick?”
“Well,” Germany says, and then stops. Stares. “What?”
Hungary looks back with an expression of deep, soul-rending sincerity.
He has fought a valiant fight, but Germany at last feels himself overcome by a surge of blood to his face. So he has interpreted everything incorrectly after all. Now not only does he look like an idiot, but he has apparently spent several minutes inadvertently casting judgement on Hungary’s sexual preferences... oh, God. Not to mention that he comes across as a pervert merely for having broached the subject, no matter how obliquely, in polite company - although that latter part, he supposes, is debatable.
“W-well,” he begins again, determinedly not looking at anything in the room which bears even a passing resemblance to Hungary but still feeling it necessary to express an important point - if rather a different one to the one that he began with, and if possible one that he feels even less comfortable discussing, “in that case you ought to discuss it beforehand and make sure it’s all right -”
“Ah -”
Germany breaks off, startled: he had not anticipated any interruption, least of all one which sounded very much like startled laughter. Turning back towards her, he lifts a brow questioningly.
Hungary’s face twitches at the corners, and then suddenly she is laughing openly, hand clamped over her mouth as if to hold the peals back - but her shoulders are shaking hard with the force of it and the sound is not remotely stifled. Germany can only stare at her, by now with absolutely no solid comprehension in his head whatsoever; each new event has served to undermine his assumptions, and he is left stranded in open water with no discernible route to follow and no explanatory notions to grasp at.
Hungary is waving a hand vigorously back and forth at him, obviously trying to hold his attention, but she is still breathless with her inexplicable amusement and her words come few and far between, scattered amongst gasps and gulping pauses for breath. “No - no. Sorry. It’s just... I just... oh -” At that she hits herself hard in the chest with her fist as if to dislodge her breathlessness; a strange gesture, although she does speak more coherently afterwards. “I was just joking,” she explains, red-faced and apologetic. “Teasing. I know how you get about these things, so... Sorry.”
Germany gapes, very nearly ready to launch into an outraged rebuke - if not for the genuine look of penitence in her face. As it is, he spends a good while grunting and harrumphing and attempting to gather his dignity whilst still glowing red all over his head. He thinks about reminding her of the impropriety of broaching such topics of conversation in a professional building under any circumstances, let alone making insinuations of this sort, but decides in the end that it is unnecessary. Hungary must have been referring to this very same professional disapproval when she mentioned “how he gets about these things”.
“So I was right from the start,” Germany mutters gruffly, after collecting himself.
She smiles sympathetically. “I think so. I know you don’t want me to hit your brother, but honestly, he was getting on my nerves.”
“I understand,” Germany says with sincerity. “But couldn’t you have found some other way to get the message across?”
“I’ve tried them!” she exclaims. “Throwing away the presents, pushing him off when he tries to kiss me - heck, I’ve tried burning his letters in front of him and he still does the same thing. I don’t want that stuff from him.”
It seems to Germany that there is an obvious solution staring them in the face. “Why don’t you just tell him you’re not interested in him?”
Hungary looks at him, very long and very thoughtful. “Germany,” she says, “dear Germany, you do try hard, don’t you?”
It is the end of the line for Germany. His mind’s attempts to contort itself to accommodate his observations have been admirable, but at this it gives in, submitting itself to quietly and efficiently shutting down. “Yes,” he sighs, allowing his shoulders to slump and his body to sag against the table. “Yes, I do.”
She reaches over to pat his shoulder soothingly, all the while making soft murmuring noises. It is in all honestly extremely reassuring, and Germany allows it to continue, pushing away the various sensations of discomfort that usually emerge at such physical displays of tenderness.
“I can see why you’d think I wasn’t interested in your brother,” Hungary is telling him, still patting him gently on the back. “It probably appears that way, to look at us. But... we have a history, him and me.”
Her hand hesitates and pulls back a little from Germany’s shoulder at the slight twitch that goes through him when he registers the phrase. “What is it?” she asks, more curious than concerned.
Germany wrestles with his words for a brief moment but is soon subdued once again, not possessing the energy for a real struggle. “You just reminded me of something, that’s all.”
“Ah,” Hungary says with an air of utmost comprehension, but in the lack of any further response Germany is left to wonder what exactly she has surmised.
“But if that’s how you feel,” he dares to ask after a brief silence, a little apprehensive of having the fabric of his supposed reality torn apart again, “why did you keep rejecting him?”
This time the look Hungary gives him is far less sympathetic - bordering on disgust, in fact. “Germany, think about it. Flowers? Chocolates? Love letters? That’s not Prussia and you know it.”
Germany is in complete agreement, or would be, if his brain had not become jammed somewhere around the middle of this miniature speech. “Love letters?”
“God knows,” Hungary says, rolling her eyes expressively. “But he seems to have got it into his head that that’s what I want.”
How inexplicable, is what Germany would say if he were able to process the information. “Love letters?” is what he says.
“Dear Hungary, most lovely, be mine, blah blah.” Hungary waves a hand in contempt. “I’d have called bullshit to his face if I hadn’t been busy puking. Honestly, what the hell made him think that was a good idea? I ought to take this one up with France...”
“I think it’s good of him to treat you with courtesy,” Germany offers, at last beginning to bend his brain around the concept.
She snorts. “I don’t. I think it’s shameless pretence - and I can see right through it. Prussia, courteous? My ass.”
Germany waits for her to offer some sort of elaboration or diversion to explain this last utterance, but after a few moments have passed without her breaking eye contact or showing any inclination to speak, he is forced to accept the statement on its own merits. “I see what you mean. That is, not your ass, but -”
“I know,” Hungary says, and has the graciousness to say it without laughing. “Honestly, I get that what I did was drastic, but frankly I was sick to death of the facade. I just wanted to show him once and for all, I don’t want all that romantic chivalrous crap from him.”
Germany remains of the opinion that the tactic adopted was unnecessarily physical, but ultimately decides to let that point lie. “I think he might have thought that Austria -”
“Austria,” says Hungary with the tone of a person not willing to argue the point any further, “was genuine.”
They sit in silence for some time after that, Germany not wishing - indeed, not able - to issue a challenge to this point; Hungary seeming calm, confident and disinclined to spend any more of her time ruminating on Prussia’s phony romanticism.
“Should I tell Prussia any of this?” Germany says after a while. He is afraid to make the offer, knowing as he does that Hungary’s acceptance will mean yet another discussion concerning matters which he would rather not bring up in conversation, but ranks his fraternal duty as being of greater importance - or at least, feels that this prioritisation would be the more morally admirable path. “He didn’t understand what you were trying to tell him, you see. So he’s been sort of... put off the idea.”
Hungary rotates a free chair around to face her and kicks up a foot onto the seat. “Well, damn it. I suppose you can’t just tell him that it wasn’t because I’m into that.”
“Definitely not,” Germany agrees, turning pale. There is no knowing what Prussia might read into that.
“I’ll tell you what,” Hungary says eventually, tilting her head back to regard the ceiling and absently pulling a bobby pin out of her hair. “You tell him to come to my house this evening, and if he brings any presents I’m going to kick him down a flight of stairs.”
*
Perhaps inevitably, Italy ended up staying the night after, entirely inevitably, accepting Germany’s invitation to visit him. It is for this reason alone that Germany is not locked away in his study at midday, buried beneath piles of paperwork with no visible daylight and no way of digging a tunnel to freedom. Instead he is sitting in the living room, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other and Italy’s legs stretched out sideways over his lap like a blanket. Germany is feeling rather more at ease than he is used to, his attention slipping back and forth between Italy, the paper, and the television which the principal occupant of his thoughts is watching, himself with only sporadic interest. The coffee has gone cold already.
It is this setting, then, which is violently disturbed by the sudden slam of the door; it is a mug of neglected coffee, rather than a pen, which Germany places on the table with patient resignation; it is Italy’s knee, rather than a stack of reports, which he places his freed hand upon in a steadying manner.
“West!” Prussia bellows to the entire continent as he flings the door open - before stopping short and blinking at them. “Italy.”
Italy waves cheerily.
“Italy,” Prussia begins again, this time wearing an exceedingly earnest expression, “did you know that my little brother is a beautiful person?”
“Well, of course!”
“I’m glad to hear you’re happy,” Germany says with flawless composure, regardless of how hot the backs of his ears have become at the last exchange, “but I’d rather you didn’t tell us about it.”
Prussia regards him steadily, before walking up abruptly and seizing his hand from off Italy’s knee. “West, you are a beautiful person.”
“Thank you,” Germany says, figuring that acceptance of the assertion will be the quickest way to get Prussia to stop repeating it. “Don’t tell us about it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” his brother says rather too casually, releasing him and practically skipping to the door. Once there, he turns around and fixes them both with a look of intense rapture. “God, I could kiss you both.”
“Please don’t.”
Prussia blows them a kiss anyway, before retreating as loudly as he had arrived.
“He’s really happy,” Italy observes, extending his legs as far as they will go and wriggling his toes against Germany’s elbow. “What did you do?”
“Nothing at all,” Germany says in all truthfulness.
He receives a meaningful look for his honesty, Italy arching an eyebrow in a way that manages to be both knowing and innocent as he squirms his shoulders back against the armrest of the sofa. “Germany is a good little brother.”
“Germany is unsure that it is a worthwhile endeavour,” Germany says, half-wry, half-sincere; in the end, again, he decides to let it rest and allow himself to be pleased for Prussia. What with Italy smiling at him with such confident affection and running his toes along the inside of his forearm, it is difficult not to.
-
The Bundesliga is the top league in the German professional football system.
Italy continues to invade every fic I write that has Germany in it, for no better reason than that he wants to.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Germany, Prussia, Spain, Hungary, Veneziano; cameos from most of the world
Pairings: Hungary/Prussia; some Germany/Veneziano and implied Romano/Spain
Warnings: Language, various (mostly oblique) talk of sex and kink
Summary: On the importance of fraternal duty, the definition of "seduction", and conversation topics inappropriate for polite company.
-
Because Germany is preoccupied with hefting a broad canvas bag of groceries on one arm, as well as wrestling with the cardboard box clutched between his hands and sagging dangerously along one side, he does not notice the various subtle clues as to the situation. It is only retrospectively that he realises that the bushes outside his house have been slightly damaged, as if gently grazed by a passing armoured truck, and that the one nearest the door has a very unusual fist-shaped hole in it. The complexity of the procedure he has to undertake in order to get inside - box pinned between hip and ribs and doorframe, one arm straining to both hold up the bag and simultaneously provide a balance for the unsupported side of the box - distracts him from registering that the door had been closed but not locked. As he manoeuvres his way into the house, his heel scuffs against a pair of shoes, but the items in his arms and the fact that he is having to walk backwards prevent him from seeing that the shoes are unfamiliar to him and ought not by any rights be clogging up his hallway.
It is only once he is fully indoors and pushing the door shut with his knee that he registers the raucous voice emerging from somewhere deeper in the house. Prussia is not exactly too self-conscious to talk to himself every so often - and nor is he ashamed to fling the occasional yell in the direction of the television or his laptop or, if the Bundesliga becomes particularly exciting, the radio - but even he does not normally deliver long, disjointed monologues whilst alone in the house. His words are muffled by the walls and emerge indistinct, but it seems to Germany that they were never entirely clear to start with: they are fractured, rendered nonsensical by the vehemence of his delivery, and ever so slightly slurred.
After taking a moment to summon his strength, both physical and psychological, Germany sets his jaw and heads in the direction of the voice.
Perhaps thankfully for all involved, Prussia happens to be in the kitchen: the very same room that Germany rather urgently needs to reach. For the younger brother, this is so he can place his groceries on the counter as soon as possible before his arms fall out of their sockets; the elder, it becomes apparent, has a slightly different motive.
Prussia is sitting slumped over the kitchen table with one arm flung forwards over the surface and a complex cocktail of outrage, pain and dejection colouring his face. One hand, inevitably, is cradling a small glass of an entirely inappropriate beverage for the time of day; the other, however, cradles an ice pack, wrapped sloppily in a towel and pressed firmly to the side of his jaw. His lip is split cleanly and shallowly open. Blood is collecting above his chin but flowing too slowly and sluggishly to drip any further downwards - although the fresh red spatter on his collar suggests that this has not always been the case. Beside him, Spain is sitting upright with his chin propped on his hand, face turned towards the window and eyes ever so slightly glazed over.
Germany briefly directs his own gaze heavenwards and offers up a prayer of thanks that at least Prussia has refrained from dragging both his best friends into the house.
It is whilst Germany is lurking in the doorway, trying to calculate whether or not he will be able to make it to the nearest countertop and deposit the shopping without being shouted at, that his brother glances up and spots him. Prussia at once breaks off his muttering and sits up a little straighter, blinking at him for several seconds as he evidently debates internally over whether or not to extend his circle of confidantes. Eventually he jerks his head sharply at Germany, making a beckoning gesture across the room with the hand not holding the ice pack. “C’mon then, you brat, I guess I can trust you. Oi -” and he elbows Spain hard in the ribs - “dickhead, budge over.”
“No matter where I go, I can’t escape the abuse,” Spain says in a remarkably serene manner, semi-standing and shifting his chair across the floor. Once seated again, he raises his hand to half-mast in a casual acknowledgement of Germany. “I hope you don’t mind that I raided your fridge.”
I can certainly imagine worse things that could have happened, Germany thinks, setting the bags and box down on the side at last. “I suppose not,” he says out loud. “Although I’m surprised that you found anything worth eating; I was planning on making this shopping trip much earlier than today.”
“Christ, West!” Prussia barks abruptly, thumping his fist down onto the chair he has dragged between himself and Spain. “Sit your ass down and shut the hell up. Or don’t you care how I nearly lost my jaw?”
Germany could say that Prussia’s greeting did not exactly make him feel welcomed into the conversation, that he was only making small talk, that he did not want to presume to ask for an explanation, that it is difficult to maintain concern when Prussia is evidently more angry than anything else - but in the end he simply sits down. “France isn’t here, then?” he remarks warily, fearing both that he will be shouted at for violating the second order given to him and that the mere utterance of France’s name will cause him to materialise like a suave, fashionable demon.
Prussia, interestingly, looks shaken at the very mention of his other best friend. “No way. Don’t want him hearing about this. Don’t even want to think about that. Believe me, once I’ve told you -” At this point he breaks off and seems to wince - it is difficult for Germany to see it behind the towel-swathed ice - before suddenly scowling and throwing himself back into the chair. “You know what, forget it. I’ve already told this story once. Spain, you tell him.”
Spain jumps slightly, and his eyes dart from side to side in a way that does not exactly inspire confidence. “Huh? Me?”
“No shit,” Prussia tries to snort, but fails and gives a grimace like he has been kicked in the kneecap.
“Er,” Spain says, and even though his grin is unquestionably sheepish it is still broad enough to make Germany wonder just what Spain sees in life that makes him so constantly cheerful, “well it’s not like I’m not extremely interested, and I am kind of tired right now, but I haven’t... really been listening.”
Spotting the beginning of a sharp movement in the corner of his eye, Germany stands up and steps smoothly backwards - and just barely in time, too, since Prussia’s fist practically grazes his clothing en route to Spain’s face. Despite its flawless aim, the blow never reaches its target: Spain has already pushed himself backwards in his chair and safely out of Prussia’s reach, the fist not even disturbing a hair with the air it displaces. Tired as Spain is, he can evidently pay attention when it suits him.
“That wasn’t bad!” he enthuses, gripping the table with both hands and dragging his chair back in again; Germany resumes his place with considerably more caution, gaze going back and forth between them to ensure that no more punches are imminent. “If I hadn’t known it was coming you might have got me.”
“Fucker,” Prussia says with little genuine malice, and then scowls, “of course I would. It’s only because I’ve been mortally wounded that you managed to escape this time.”
Seizing on this mention of the injury and hoping to distract his brother from further indulgence of the bizarre traditions which he and his friends have come up with, Germany reaches out to take the ice pack and move it away from Prussia’s face. The bruise it has been hiding is bright and swollen, a curiously shiny shade somewhere between red and purple, and it distorts Prussia’s cheek enough that the corner of his mouth is sagging awkwardly downwards. Although he has, inevitably, been exaggerating the extent of the damage - it is the sort of injury easily sustained by a good solid punch to the face, and Germany does not care to count just how many times Prussia has been on the receiving end of one of those - it does admittedly look painful.
“Not really a mortal wound,” Spain says from over his shoulder.
Prussia seems to sneer, although with the swelling along the fleshy part of his face, that is essentially his default expression. “Screw you. She hits hard.”
“She?” Germany and Spain say at the same time, the latter with a certain captivated interest, the former with growing suspicion.
Spain leans forward, depositing his elbows on the table and chin in his hand, and grins like a schoolboy. “Oh, so you pissed off a girlfriend? How come you never tell me about your love life? Germany, has Prussia been dating?”
“No,” says Germany.
“Oi!” Prussia exclaims indignantly, glaring from behind the ice pack he is pressing to his face once more. “Don’t sound so confident when you say that. I could be dating.”
Spain tilts his head sympathetically.
Germany just blinks. “But I know you’re not,” he points out.
His brother goes crimson in his visible cheek as well as the covered one. “I happen to like the single life, okay? Spain, don’t look at me like that. Just because I’m not shackled into a crazy masochistic ‘relationship’ with some obnoxious little - look, being alone is better, alright? Do you want to hear this story or not?”
“I was curious to hear more about the obnoxious little,” Spain says, with a look in his eyes that entirely contradicts the bland tone of his voice.
Germany is beginning to get the distinct sense that he is missing out on a fairly crucial piece of information, but decides to steer the conversation back on track rather than investigate. Despite his ignorance concerning the current topic, he remains reasonably confident that he can pin down the source of Prussia’s injury - or at least, make a fair guess. “Quite honestly, considering how much you’ve pestered Hungary in the past, it’s no wonder that she hit you.”
Prussia makes a wordless sputtering sound of protest.
“Oh yeah,” Spain says, his face clearing, “yeah, you had that one coming.”
After a few more seconds of incoherent objection, Prussia finally manages to pull himself together. “It wasn’t like that! Okay, okay,” he adds as the other two give him sceptical looks, “maybe I have been a bit persistent sometimes, but I swear, I never did anything this time. It was all her.”
Persistent does not come close, Germany thinks. When considering the number of lewd letters, attempted touches, inaudible yet unquestionably inappropriate comments, which his brother has directed towards the unsuspecting Hungary all in the name of what he calls “seduction”, it is difficult to think of it as anything other than harassment.
“Really?” Spain muses, not seeming to share Germany’s opinion - or, perhaps, simply not caring. “But she was never like that with you before.”
“Well, that’s what I thought!” Prussia says, giving a broad jerking gesture with one hand. “But this time I’d barely opened my mouth and she was all over me. I’m talking hands-in-my-clothes all over.”
Germany shifts uncomfortably in his seat and tries not to go scarlet. Not only does he find it extremely awkward to hear about his brother in these sorts of situations - especially since, try as he might, he cannot prevent his rebellious brain from visualising the scene - but he is also not far off mortified by the thought of Hungary’s involvement. He wonders, miserably, just how exactly Prussia expects him to be able to meet Hungary’s eye the next time he sees her.
Spain still seems to have other priorities foremost in his mind. “Well, some people have it easy, don’t they?”
“But,” Germany says, and then breaks off to clear his throat: he has still not quite shaken the mental image of the alleged incident in question, “but why? I mean, I didn’t think she was interested - that is,” he falters, as Prussia shoots him an offended glare, “from what you’ve told me she doesn’t respond well when you approach her, and if she was interested then surely you wouldn’t have to be so persistent...” He looks aside and coughs, Prussia’s unwavering stare growing too uncomfortable for him to bear.
“You little shit,” Prussia says, sounding slightly awestruck. “I’ll have you know we have a history, her and me. Can’t hate me that much, can she? Anyway, I always knew she wants me. Secretly. Who doesn’t?” he adds, with a cocky grin that is only slightly spoiled by the puffiness of his cheek.
Spain reaches his arm around the front of Germany to take hold of Prussia’s drink and give it a wary sniff. “The thing about history,” he says at length, “is that it’s in the past.”
Germany has a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder even before Prussia is dramatically attempting to stand. “Calm down, we don’t mean anything by it,” he says firmly over Prussia’s cursing and struggling to get away. “We believe you. We’re interested.”
Eventually Prussia slumps back into his seat, defeated; Germany releases his grip, but leaves his hand ready on the tabletop, just in case. “Maybe you don’t mean anything by it, but he sure does,” he says, jerking a thumb at Spain. “Dick.”
Spain smiles placidly and knocks back the drink.
“Okay,” Prussia says and plants one hand flat upon the table with enough force to set the surface resonating, “now if you women can shut your traps for longer than two seconds, I’m going to paint you this picture. West,” he says turning to Germany with a sombre expression, “this is probably going to make you blush like a Catholic schoolgirl, but frankly I couldn’t care less. You’ve got to man up some time.”
Wonderful, thinks Germany, bracing himself, although he realises that he ought to be grateful for getting any warning at all. Despite the discomfort which this conversation has already caused him, even despite the promise of more to come, he does not entertain the thought of politely excusing himself. Prussia’s admonition has seen to that - which was, he supposes, probably at least part of his intention.
Prussia snatches the empty glass back off Spain and places it on the table in front of them. “Right, so this is me. We’re still in her garden - she hasn’t even let me in yet - and she’s all -” he runs his hand sensually along the glass, fingers caressing the surface - “like this, yeah? I’m thinking, she’s finally realised how fantastic I am - took her long enough, talk about hard to get - but this is great. I wouldn’t have minded just doing it right there, but I didn’t know how she felt about it, especially since she’s got that prissy Austria as a neighbour. So I ask her if she wants to take it inside, and she says yeah.”
Flawed as Prussia is, he can certainly predict his little brother’s behaviour correctly. Germany can sense his face burning, even his ears feeling hotter than usual, and he is finding it increasingly difficult to continue looking Prussia in the face. Glancing around, he sees that Spain has folded his arms on the table and is leaning forwards over them, appearing absorbed in the narrative and evidently not at all perturbed. For his part, Germany cannot help but wonder just how long this story is, and whether Prussia means to tell it all in this much detail.
Abandoning the glass, Prussia begins to trace lines on the table’s surface, as if sketching out an invisible map. “I was heading for the bedroom, but she told me - or did she just drag me? Yeah, she pulled me into the kitchen instead.”
Spain raises an eyebrow. “That’s kind of kinky.”
“You haven’t heard the half of it,” Prussia assures him.
Admonitions be damned, Germany decides, beginning to struggle to his feet. “I - I really think -”
Prussia places a hand on top of his head and yanks him back down, with much more force than Germany used on him earlier. “Seriously, man up. How do you expect to get laid if you can’t even stand hearing about it?”
Germany winds his face up into a deep frown and glares, red-faced, at the tabletop.
“Right, so where was I?” Prussia muses, releasing him and stroking his chin theatrically. “Oh yeah, the kitchen. Okay, so she pushes me into a chair -” he makes an elaborate gesture with one hand, leaving the palm hovering parallel to the tabletop, wrist bent up and fingers steepled upon the wood - “and then she goes -” he wraps his other hand around the first in a way that Germany can only imagine much have been highly uncomfortable for the actual people involved, assuming that Prussia’s fingers are indeed supposed to represent Hungary’s limbs - “kind of like this. She’d already got my shirt half-off from before, but by then it was like she really meant it, although I did think that part might have been a bit easier without the chair there getting in the way. But worry not,” he says with a placatory sweep of the hand which up until now has been playing Hungary’s role, “I emerged triumphant in the end, if by triumphant you mean shirtless. And I was, well. Kind of - happy. By that stage.”
Germany squirms, knowing exactly what his brother means and hating every second of it.
Spain just laughs.
“And then,” Prussia says, and suddenly hesitates, looking self-conscious for the first time during the narrative. “Well. Then she, uh, she tied me to the chair.”
“With what?” Germany cannot help but ask; the words overlap with Spain’s as he raises an eyebrow and says, “I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”
Prussia looks away for a second and harrumphs noisily. “W-well, she’d been distracting me, and she had the ropes right there, God knows why, so I didn’t even notice she was doing anything till it was too late.” He frowns a little at the windowsill, for once appearing contemplative, his gaze turning blank and seeming to fold slightly in on itself as he recalls the scene. “It wasn’t... well, it wasn’t bad. And the way she looked at me then...” His head slowly tilts and hangs to one side and he forgets to blink for a few moments, before abruptly jerking upright and snapping out of his reverie. “But - but she hadn’t even asked me about it! Hadn’t even warned me. Not cool.”
“No,” Spain intones, shaking his head solemnly.
But Prussia appears to have hit his stride, his voice growing ever more strident and his gestures ever more rapid as he continues. “So there I was, right, tied to the chair - legs and arms - with her standing there looking at me like - like that. I wasn’t happy about the ropes - not cool, plus I couldn’t touch her anymore which wasn’t really as planned - but also... I don’t know. It was different. And hell, I was about to get laid. Then she -” He pauses, and then half-stands, pushing his chair back and turning to his audience expectantly. “Hey, will one of you be me for a second? Then I can be Hungary and show you, yeah?”
Germany almost contracts whiplash with the speed at which he shakes his head. Beside him, Spain raises his hands defensively in front of his chest and leans his whole body away. “Don’t look at me. I do have limits, you know.”
“Fine,” Prussia pouts. “You’ll have to picture it for yourselves.”
I would really rather not, Germany thinks, but he knows he has no control over the matter.
“I was sitting, and then she came up to me and - aw hell, what’s the word? Sitting on my lap, legs sort of like -” and he makes another complicated gesture.
“Straddling,” Spain supplies helpfully.
Germany buries his face in his hands.
“Right, that. And she’s touching me all over, so I’m even more - uh, happy. And then she leans in -” Prussia does just that; Germany’s chair scrapes loudly over the floor as he moves away - “and whispers in my ear. Said she’d wanted to do something to me for a while, it was hard for her to hold back before, and was I up for it.”
Even though their reactions are entirely opposed - Spain’s eyebrows slowly vanishing into his messy hair while Germany narrows his eyes and furrows his brow - the glance they exchange solidifies Germany’s suspicion that they both know where this is heading. Spain’s eyes crease at the corners and he shoots a glance at Prussia before meeting Germany’s gaze again, swallowing a grin. Germany presses his lips together: the other nation’s smile is infectious, and there is in fact something sadistically humorous in the story - assuming, of course, that he is predicting its conclusion correctly - but no, he reprimands himself, that is cruel and he ought to be sympathetic. No matter how badly his brother brought this on himself.
Prussia does not appear to have noticed this moment of wordless communication: he is leaning his head on his fist, face tilted awkwardly to one side to avoid aggravating his bruise, and glowers at the shopping on the counter, enveloped in his own recollection. “I guess I should have asked her to specify,” he says reluctantly. “But she should have explained anyway! Hell, in that situation - practically her duty. And since I had no idea - well, I agreed. Bad move,” he muses; it is the first - and almost certainly only - time that Germany has heard Prussia refer to himself in terms less than exclusively complimentary. “So then she got off me,” Prussia continues, leaning forwards intently to ensure he has their attention, “took a couple of steps back -” he swings his arm back “- and cracked me one!”
He turns to each of them in turn, his eyes wide and hands spread in a bid for a suitable reaction.
Spain’s expression transforms instantly into a look of sympathy. “Really,” he says, “who’d have thought it?”
“Er,” Germany says as his brother’s expectant gaze lands on him, “ouch?”
Despite the undeniable fact that this response is entirely pathetic, Prussia seems satisfied by it, leaning back in his chair and giving a self-indulgent shrug. “On my mother’s grave. Hypothetical mother. And the real kicker is, she started yelling at me.”
This is a little unexpected. “What was she saying?”
“Beats me,” Prussia snorts, tilting his chair onto its back legs. “We were kind of yelling together. Something about me being stupid and not getting it.”
“I can’t believe she would say that,” Spain says with the deepest sincerity.
Germany folds his arms and twists his lips thoughtfully, barely registering the exaggerated exclamations coming from one side of him as his brother relates the tale of his escape - which seems to have involved equal parts shouting and pleading. He cannot avoid the conclusion that, assuming Prussia’s story to be true - and the welt on his cheek does seem to at least partially confirm it - Germany is obligated to discuss it with Hungary. It is not that he wants to; indeed, at this moment, sitting rigidly in his chair with his ears glowing a nigh-on luminous pink, there are very few concepts which appeal less to him. Nor does he entirely blame Hungary: Prussia’s constant advances would be enough to drive even the mildest-tempered nation to drastic action, and there is little doubt that he will be thinking twice before attempting a “seduction” again.
But despite it all, Prussia deserves to have someone stand up for him; although his advances are often ill-calculated and persistent at the very least, he does at least have no malicious intent. Even the sheer tenacity of his attempts does not necessarily cast him in an unfavourable light: it proves that he is determined and impassioned - possibly even devoted.
Germany tests out this word in his mind. It is not one that he would normally use to describe his brother, but at this moment it seems rather, uncannily fitting.
“Tell you what though,” Prussia says suddenly, before pausing to hack a violent cough and spit a lump of blood-stained phlegm into the empty shot glass. “If she’s always been into that kind of thing? That pansy Austria is more of a man than I thought.”
*
“Prussia,” Germany says, managing to curb the despair but not the terseness from his voice, “you don’t even have a shirt on.”
His brother, tongue protruding from between his teeth and body hunched intently forwards, does not look around. “Do too.”
“I don’t mean a t-shirt. A real shirt. With buttons,” Germany clarifies, and tries not to wince as a man’s head explodes colourfully not fifteen feet away.
“Oh,” Prussia says, thumbs working furiously. “Then no. No I don’t.”
Germany leans his shoulder on the doorframe and checks his watch again. “So stop that and get ready. We’ll never be early now, but we can still make it.”
“Stop this?” Prussia echoes in disbelief, and then cracks his neck with a smirk. “No way bro, I’m going in for the long haul. Oh, shit, I thought I’d cleared this room. Stay down, you son of a bitch!”
“It does look like a difficult layout,” Germany comments despite himself. “You should be wary of the blind spots.”
Prussia snorts. “Yeah, should be, if they weren’t too damn stupid to strategise. Don’t think too hard about it, West.”
Germany can allow him this, if only for the sake of returning more quickly to the topic at hand. “These meetings are important.”
“Yeah, I guess they are,” Prussia says - and breaks off to curse at one particularly belligerent aggressor, before resuming. “But I’m not strictly speaking required at these meetings, now am I?”
“That doesn’t mean -” Germany begins.
“And as such, I’m going to be strictly speaking at home shooting zombies for the duration.” He flashes a brief grin over his shoulder, and then turns back around.
Germany lingers in the doorway a few seconds longer, frowning hard at the screen flashing grey and red across the living room.
“You were a bad influence on me when I was growing up,” he says in the end, and leaves Prussia to it.
*
Although he will perhaps keep it a secret, at least from his brother, Germany is not too proud to admit that there were in the end two advantages to Prussia’s absence from the conference. The first is that, without his incendiary presence, the proceedings took markedly longer to break out into scuffles: two minutes and forty-six seconds longer than the average, by Germany’s calculations, not including any confrontations which may have taken place in the hallways before the meeting officially began. This is still evidently far from ideal, but Germany is nothing if not a pragmatist, and he has learned to seize on any improvement in conduct as a sign of progress, no matter how minute.
The second advantage is rather more selfish, and concerns how easily Germany will be able to speak to Hungary in private. His plan has always been to try and catch her alone outside the conference room, and his chances of success are greatly improved now that his brother will not be following her around like an obnoxious, albino puppy.
Despite how much they bristle and protest throughout the meeting itself, few of the other nations now seem in an enormous hurry to leave, Germany broods as he gathers his notes. He had noticed one or two of the Baltic brothers bolt from the room as soon as the meeting adjourned, but for the most part there is more of a meander than a rush towards the door. Russia has not moved at all, still smiling amicably around at the room with his hands clasped on the table before him; Greece and Turkey are arguing energetically with no apparent thought of leaving; South Korea seems to be trying to reach someone else, but is unable to get anywhere very fast through the confusion of chairs being pushed out and nations standing around in what empty spaces there are.
Movement is relatively scarce near to Germany, too. Italy, who had begun to sag little more than twenty minutes after they began and whose forehead had finally made contact with the table shortly after their break for lunch, is now sleeping peacefully and drooling onto his barely touched copy of the day’s schedule. After a brief but still agonising moment of indecision, Germany resolves not to wake him: he must be exhausted to be falling asleep somewhere like this, Germany tells himself, although admittedly he does have his doubts. Instead he scribbles out a note (didn’t want to wake you - try to stop sleeping in meetings - you can visit this evening if you like) and tucks it carefully into Italy’s breast pocket.
As Germany stands to make his way out, he is vaguely aware of some sort of commotion - Italy’s elder brother shouting about something and struggling to get somewhere, only to be held back by the nations on either side of him - but he decides to ignore it. There are few things in the world which don’t seem to drive Romano into fits of rage, after all.
Near the door, someone surges abruptly forwards against Germany’s back, almost knocking him into Switzerland and Liechtenstein. Apologising, he steps back and glances over his shoulder to try and locate the culprit - but whoever it was, they are not making themselves known within the crowd. Germany swiftly comes to the conclusion that it is not at all worth it, and instead moves forwards to hold the door open for the siblings. Switzerland gives him a hostile look as his sister passes between them but eventually, apparently satisfied that Germany has no suspicious motives, moves on without comment to take Liechtenstein’s hand and walk with her down the corridor. Germany follows at some distance, trying to look as non-threatening as possible should his neighbour look back at him, but stops on the corner to wait for Hungary.
No sooner has he stopped than Japan practically sprints out of the conference room, clinging for dear life to a sheaf of papers and with his eyes fixed desperately ahead of him. He is in such a hurry that he does not even stop to acknowledge Germany, merely slowing a little and giving him a hasty bow before speeding off again. Germany looks in sudden trepidation at the doors, which are currently swinging rather dramatically shut: if the normally so collected Japan is this flustered, whatever is going on beyond the doors must be truly horrifying.
Before Germany can decide on a plan of action, the doors open again and China emerges, walking at a much slower pace than Japan and looking entirely dissatisfied with his lot in life. Clinging to him, hands around his waist but occasionally exploring an area slightly further to the north, is South Korea.
Germany nods a little to himself, the pieces falling into place.
There comes a larger group of people after that, all seeming to be making an awful lot of noise. America, the chief offender, manages to give Germany a point of one index finger and a casual, “Hey,” whilst barely pausing in the long, chattering monologue he is delivering to the entire building. As the exuberant nation passes by, Germany suddenly seems to see a flash of ethereal presence beside and slightly behind him, as if America’s profile has been caught briefly in a ghostly mirror. After blinking, however, the image vanishes, and Germany is left shaking his head a little to clear his thoughts.
Hot on America’s heels is England, hands clamped firmly over his ears and chanting repeated vigorous denials of being able to hear anything. For a moment Germany is bemused - America’s constant yelling is annoying, certainly, but hardly merits such an exaggerated response - until he spots France, leaning forwards over England’s shoulder and into his personal space to talk directly into his ear through his fingers. The words themselves are lost, drowned in America’s voice and the speed at which the pair pass by, but Germany has seen more than enough of the gestures that France is currently making with his hands, and quickly concludes that he is better off not hearing.
Spain is on France’s other side, grinning, dishevelled and dragging a sullen, red-faced Romano along by the wrist. Behind them, walking shoulder to shoulder and at a slightly more humane speed, are Austria and Hungary.
Germany turns to them in relief, just barely avoiding the vicious kick that Romano aims at his shins as he does so, and steps out away from the wall. “Ah, Hungary... Could I talk to you for a moment?”
Hungary assumes a mask of innocent surprise far too thin to hide the glimmer of gleeful comprehension in her features. “Of course.”
“...Well then,” Austria says, and coughs a little. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Germany inclines his head in gratitude.
“Don’t get lost on your way home!” Hungary calls cheerfully after her ex-husband’s retreating back; Austria responds with a demure wave of one hand, evidently not rising to the bait. “Well then,” Hungary says, turning back to Germany and putting her arm through his, “shall we find somewhere private?”
“Please don’t phrase it like that,” Germany says reproachfully, thanking every deity he can think of that France is already too far away to have heard the suggestion.
Hungary just giggles in a surprisingly girlish manner and begins dragging him towards a nearby door. “Before you say anything,” she says confidingly just as Denmark appears in the corridor, laughing uproariously and clapping everything within reach on the shoulder, “I’ll have you know that Prussia is a blabbermouth. And he exaggerates.”
“I don’t really need to be told that,” Germany says dryly, but follows her through the doorway without further comment. The meeting room is small: nothing but a table, four spotless white walls and a handful of strangely unblemished chairs. It is evidently very rarely used.
Hungary parks herself in one of the chairs and crosses her legs, leaning an elbow on the backrest. “I just wanted to get that out of the way. Go ahead.”
“Well,” Germany begins, closing the door behind him and feeling somehow disarmed, “I know you’ve been having trouble getting Prussia to leave you alone, but I really don’t think you should hit him.”
She purses her lips thoughtfully. “We are talking about the same incident, aren’t we?”
He stares at her, suddenly uncertain. He does know of his brother’s tendency for hyperbole - bitter experience has taught him of that - and yet he has assumed that the bare bones of the story, at least, are accurate. But what if he is mistaken? To falsely accuse Hungary of something like this, to unthinkingly accept false testimony on the matter from a known distorter of the truth: it would be almost unforgivable.
“He was at your house a few days ago, wasn’t he?” Germany ventures, beginning with the simplest question.
Hungary nods in understanding. “Alright, that. Just making sure we’re on the same page. Yes,” she adds after Germany has frowned at her in confusion for several seconds.
“Then why were you -”
“Nothing really,” she says, waving a hand airily. “Just that I’ve hit him more than once, so I wasn’t sure which time you were referring to.”
Germany blinks at her. “I only knew about the once, but I think it would apply to every time.”
“Most of the time it couldn’t be helped,” she muses. “Often we were fighting, and even when we’re not he’s still so aggravating. I’d say he deserves it.”
“It’s possible,” Germany agrees. “I don’t like the way he chases after you either, believe me. It’s just that to trick him like that -”
“Trick him?” she interrupts again. “You still mean last weekend?”
Please let this not be a misunderstanding, Germany begs the world, before steeling his nerve and taking the plunge. “Tying him to the chair, and, um. I mean, I know you want him to stop going after you like he does, but you didn’t need to scare him, and you shouldn’t trick him into thinking you like to...” He trails off, partially out of pure mortification, partly because she is looking at him with a mixture of surprise, affront and amusement.
“Why would you think that was a trick?”
“Well,” Germany says, and then stops. Stares. “What?”
Hungary looks back with an expression of deep, soul-rending sincerity.
He has fought a valiant fight, but Germany at last feels himself overcome by a surge of blood to his face. So he has interpreted everything incorrectly after all. Now not only does he look like an idiot, but he has apparently spent several minutes inadvertently casting judgement on Hungary’s sexual preferences... oh, God. Not to mention that he comes across as a pervert merely for having broached the subject, no matter how obliquely, in polite company - although that latter part, he supposes, is debatable.
“W-well,” he begins again, determinedly not looking at anything in the room which bears even a passing resemblance to Hungary but still feeling it necessary to express an important point - if rather a different one to the one that he began with, and if possible one that he feels even less comfortable discussing, “in that case you ought to discuss it beforehand and make sure it’s all right -”
“Ah -”
Germany breaks off, startled: he had not anticipated any interruption, least of all one which sounded very much like startled laughter. Turning back towards her, he lifts a brow questioningly.
Hungary’s face twitches at the corners, and then suddenly she is laughing openly, hand clamped over her mouth as if to hold the peals back - but her shoulders are shaking hard with the force of it and the sound is not remotely stifled. Germany can only stare at her, by now with absolutely no solid comprehension in his head whatsoever; each new event has served to undermine his assumptions, and he is left stranded in open water with no discernible route to follow and no explanatory notions to grasp at.
Hungary is waving a hand vigorously back and forth at him, obviously trying to hold his attention, but she is still breathless with her inexplicable amusement and her words come few and far between, scattered amongst gasps and gulping pauses for breath. “No - no. Sorry. It’s just... I just... oh -” At that she hits herself hard in the chest with her fist as if to dislodge her breathlessness; a strange gesture, although she does speak more coherently afterwards. “I was just joking,” she explains, red-faced and apologetic. “Teasing. I know how you get about these things, so... Sorry.”
Germany gapes, very nearly ready to launch into an outraged rebuke - if not for the genuine look of penitence in her face. As it is, he spends a good while grunting and harrumphing and attempting to gather his dignity whilst still glowing red all over his head. He thinks about reminding her of the impropriety of broaching such topics of conversation in a professional building under any circumstances, let alone making insinuations of this sort, but decides in the end that it is unnecessary. Hungary must have been referring to this very same professional disapproval when she mentioned “how he gets about these things”.
“So I was right from the start,” Germany mutters gruffly, after collecting himself.
She smiles sympathetically. “I think so. I know you don’t want me to hit your brother, but honestly, he was getting on my nerves.”
“I understand,” Germany says with sincerity. “But couldn’t you have found some other way to get the message across?”
“I’ve tried them!” she exclaims. “Throwing away the presents, pushing him off when he tries to kiss me - heck, I’ve tried burning his letters in front of him and he still does the same thing. I don’t want that stuff from him.”
It seems to Germany that there is an obvious solution staring them in the face. “Why don’t you just tell him you’re not interested in him?”
Hungary looks at him, very long and very thoughtful. “Germany,” she says, “dear Germany, you do try hard, don’t you?”
It is the end of the line for Germany. His mind’s attempts to contort itself to accommodate his observations have been admirable, but at this it gives in, submitting itself to quietly and efficiently shutting down. “Yes,” he sighs, allowing his shoulders to slump and his body to sag against the table. “Yes, I do.”
She reaches over to pat his shoulder soothingly, all the while making soft murmuring noises. It is in all honestly extremely reassuring, and Germany allows it to continue, pushing away the various sensations of discomfort that usually emerge at such physical displays of tenderness.
“I can see why you’d think I wasn’t interested in your brother,” Hungary is telling him, still patting him gently on the back. “It probably appears that way, to look at us. But... we have a history, him and me.”
Her hand hesitates and pulls back a little from Germany’s shoulder at the slight twitch that goes through him when he registers the phrase. “What is it?” she asks, more curious than concerned.
Germany wrestles with his words for a brief moment but is soon subdued once again, not possessing the energy for a real struggle. “You just reminded me of something, that’s all.”
“Ah,” Hungary says with an air of utmost comprehension, but in the lack of any further response Germany is left to wonder what exactly she has surmised.
“But if that’s how you feel,” he dares to ask after a brief silence, a little apprehensive of having the fabric of his supposed reality torn apart again, “why did you keep rejecting him?”
This time the look Hungary gives him is far less sympathetic - bordering on disgust, in fact. “Germany, think about it. Flowers? Chocolates? Love letters? That’s not Prussia and you know it.”
Germany is in complete agreement, or would be, if his brain had not become jammed somewhere around the middle of this miniature speech. “Love letters?”
“God knows,” Hungary says, rolling her eyes expressively. “But he seems to have got it into his head that that’s what I want.”
How inexplicable, is what Germany would say if he were able to process the information. “Love letters?” is what he says.
“Dear Hungary, most lovely, be mine, blah blah.” Hungary waves a hand in contempt. “I’d have called bullshit to his face if I hadn’t been busy puking. Honestly, what the hell made him think that was a good idea? I ought to take this one up with France...”
“I think it’s good of him to treat you with courtesy,” Germany offers, at last beginning to bend his brain around the concept.
She snorts. “I don’t. I think it’s shameless pretence - and I can see right through it. Prussia, courteous? My ass.”
Germany waits for her to offer some sort of elaboration or diversion to explain this last utterance, but after a few moments have passed without her breaking eye contact or showing any inclination to speak, he is forced to accept the statement on its own merits. “I see what you mean. That is, not your ass, but -”
“I know,” Hungary says, and has the graciousness to say it without laughing. “Honestly, I get that what I did was drastic, but frankly I was sick to death of the facade. I just wanted to show him once and for all, I don’t want all that romantic chivalrous crap from him.”
Germany remains of the opinion that the tactic adopted was unnecessarily physical, but ultimately decides to let that point lie. “I think he might have thought that Austria -”
“Austria,” says Hungary with the tone of a person not willing to argue the point any further, “was genuine.”
They sit in silence for some time after that, Germany not wishing - indeed, not able - to issue a challenge to this point; Hungary seeming calm, confident and disinclined to spend any more of her time ruminating on Prussia’s phony romanticism.
“Should I tell Prussia any of this?” Germany says after a while. He is afraid to make the offer, knowing as he does that Hungary’s acceptance will mean yet another discussion concerning matters which he would rather not bring up in conversation, but ranks his fraternal duty as being of greater importance - or at least, feels that this prioritisation would be the more morally admirable path. “He didn’t understand what you were trying to tell him, you see. So he’s been sort of... put off the idea.”
Hungary rotates a free chair around to face her and kicks up a foot onto the seat. “Well, damn it. I suppose you can’t just tell him that it wasn’t because I’m into that.”
“Definitely not,” Germany agrees, turning pale. There is no knowing what Prussia might read into that.
“I’ll tell you what,” Hungary says eventually, tilting her head back to regard the ceiling and absently pulling a bobby pin out of her hair. “You tell him to come to my house this evening, and if he brings any presents I’m going to kick him down a flight of stairs.”
*
Perhaps inevitably, Italy ended up staying the night after, entirely inevitably, accepting Germany’s invitation to visit him. It is for this reason alone that Germany is not locked away in his study at midday, buried beneath piles of paperwork with no visible daylight and no way of digging a tunnel to freedom. Instead he is sitting in the living room, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other and Italy’s legs stretched out sideways over his lap like a blanket. Germany is feeling rather more at ease than he is used to, his attention slipping back and forth between Italy, the paper, and the television which the principal occupant of his thoughts is watching, himself with only sporadic interest. The coffee has gone cold already.
It is this setting, then, which is violently disturbed by the sudden slam of the door; it is a mug of neglected coffee, rather than a pen, which Germany places on the table with patient resignation; it is Italy’s knee, rather than a stack of reports, which he places his freed hand upon in a steadying manner.
“West!” Prussia bellows to the entire continent as he flings the door open - before stopping short and blinking at them. “Italy.”
Italy waves cheerily.
“Italy,” Prussia begins again, this time wearing an exceedingly earnest expression, “did you know that my little brother is a beautiful person?”
“Well, of course!”
“I’m glad to hear you’re happy,” Germany says with flawless composure, regardless of how hot the backs of his ears have become at the last exchange, “but I’d rather you didn’t tell us about it.”
Prussia regards him steadily, before walking up abruptly and seizing his hand from off Italy’s knee. “West, you are a beautiful person.”
“Thank you,” Germany says, figuring that acceptance of the assertion will be the quickest way to get Prussia to stop repeating it. “Don’t tell us about it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” his brother says rather too casually, releasing him and practically skipping to the door. Once there, he turns around and fixes them both with a look of intense rapture. “God, I could kiss you both.”
“Please don’t.”
Prussia blows them a kiss anyway, before retreating as loudly as he had arrived.
“He’s really happy,” Italy observes, extending his legs as far as they will go and wriggling his toes against Germany’s elbow. “What did you do?”
“Nothing at all,” Germany says in all truthfulness.
He receives a meaningful look for his honesty, Italy arching an eyebrow in a way that manages to be both knowing and innocent as he squirms his shoulders back against the armrest of the sofa. “Germany is a good little brother.”
“Germany is unsure that it is a worthwhile endeavour,” Germany says, half-wry, half-sincere; in the end, again, he decides to let it rest and allow himself to be pleased for Prussia. What with Italy smiling at him with such confident affection and running his toes along the inside of his forearm, it is difficult not to.
-
The Bundesliga is the top league in the German professional football system.
Italy continues to invade every fic I write that has Germany in it, for no better reason than that he wants to.