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I.
Prussia has always, always been an early riser. Perhaps not early to bed all the time, no, but as long as Germany can accurately remember Prussia in his life, Prussia has never been one to sleep in, unless he found himself so sick he physically could not get up (the early 20th century was rough on both of them, for certain).
When Prussia first moves into the basement, after a forty-something year absence in Germany’s life, he sleeps in obscene amounts. If Prussia wasn’t just what he is—a nation—Germany would be accounting the oversleeping to depression; it’s not that nations don’t get depressed, but it doesn’t usually play out with hours or entire days of sleeping. It’s almost more like Prussia is sick—nation-sick, not regular catching-a-cold-on-the-train kind of sick—and Germany keeps his reservations, inane worries, buried deep down in the uneasy pit of his stomach.
It might be nothing. But, it could also be something, and Germany might not know what something is, because he can’t really go asking Prussia if he’s downstairs asleep for the entire day, but if Prussia isn’t saying anything, it could very well be bad.
But, just when Germany feels like he’s about to start going grey at the hairs is, of course, the same morning when he shuffles into the kitchen and nearly shouts in surprise to see Prussia there at the counter, grinding coffee beans in his rumpled pajamas, hair sticking up at all sorts of funny angles. When he turns to see his brother, Prussia smiles at him (still a little drowsy, it seems), and Germany is honestly surprised to see that he doesn’t… really look as terrible as Germany had expected him to look, after sleeping nearly fifteen hours a day for the past four months, at least.
Germany can’t help but ask if Prussia feels okay as he watches Prussia focus on starting a pot of coffee, struggling a little with what buttons to push.
Prussia just gives him a shrug of lanky shoulders—too thin, too out of character—once the coffee is started, and stretches his arms up over his head until something cracks audibly.
“I just needed some sleep,” is all he says in response, cryptically so.
Germany just leaves it at that, because that’s what they do best with these kinds of things, it seems. He focuses on getting breakfast before he has to leave for a meeting with his boss, and it’s almost alien, the fact Prussia sits across the table from him and eats as well; they haven’t had an actual meal together in weeks, because Prussia’s been up at weird times, sneaking upstairs to munch on something before slinking back down to the basement to sleep some more.
He doesn’t miss just how much milk and sugar Prussia dumps into his coffee. When Prussia catches Germany watching him with his nearly-white coffee, Prussia just shoots a grin at him before taking a big sip and, subsequently, scalding his mouth. He screams behind his closed lips, fanning at his face desperately, and Germany bows his head with a smile as Prussia scurries to spit out the mouthful of drink in the sink, cursing and spluttering.
It’s the most eventful a morning has been in a long time. Germany is grateful.
II.
“West,” Prussia says. He’s standing in the doorway of Germany’s office, shoulder propped against the doorframe, waiting to be acknowledged.
Germany lets out a very loud sigh. “I don’t like it when you call me that,” he tells Prussia without looking up from his work. He feels one of the dogs walk under the desk, resting his chin on Germany’s knee, and Germany indulges the hound with some petting as he continues reading.
Prussia is still standing in the doorway, though, so Germany drags his gaze up to look at his brother over the tops of his reading glasses, lips pursed in a little frown. “What is it?”
“Do you really have that much work?” Prussia asks, and the way he arches a skeptical eyebrow, the way his face twists is almost comical in how expressive it is. But, Prussia has always looked like that for as long as he can remember, so Germany doesn’t really find it amusing. “You’re always in here—that’s not healthy.”
He sighs again, looking back down to the documents before him. “I’m fine,” he says, because he is, he’s been fine, but he can’t help how tired his voice seems—mostly because Prussia’s doing that annoying thing where he just kind of bothers Germany for no reason at all, except there is sort of a reason, except also not really. Germany, being the youngest of many brothers, is used to this kind of thing, and particularly hates this treatment.
“Did you need something from me?” Germany asks. The very pointed Don’t bother me if not is clear in his tone, but it seems Prussia just doesn’t understand it or chooses to ignore it, because that is, as Germany is very familiar with, just what older brothers do.
Prussia smiles. “Aw, West—“ he’s starting to say, but there are several things Germany doesn’t like about just that one word, so he interrupts whatever stupid thing Prussia felt appropriate to begin with that word.
“Please stop calling me that.”
“’Little’?” Prussia ventures in reply, obnoxiously so. God, Germany has a handful of annoying brothers, but Prussia can be the real champion of them when he feels like it.
Germany deadpans. “No.”
“I think it’s cute,” Prussia sniffs. Aster leaves Germany’s knee in order to make his way towards Prussia, who generously gives him a fond few ruffles and a pat on the back. Germany looks back down at his paperwork, listening to Prussia coo fondly at the dog, who lets out a gruff woof when Prussia riles him up a little with aggressive ruffling before smoothing down his fur with a flat hand.
“I don’t like it,” Germany tells Prussia when he’s finished trilling nonsense at the dog, and he hears Prussia click his tongue in disagreement.
“Why?” Prussia challenges.
Germany goes quiet. The thing is, he can’t admit to what it is that bothers him, because Prussia will turn it around on him. Why did you think I meant that? He’ll say incredulously, and laugh at Germany as he rolls his eyes, flapping a hand at him dismissively. You’re so ridiculous, West, he’ll say, just to truly rub it in that Germany has, as he often does, taken things out of proportion, out of context, and made them into something entirely different, something to worry about.
It makes me feel so different from you, Germany wants to tell him. It makes me feel we’re still separated. It makes me feel you can’t think of us as equal brothers again. I don’t like feeling so fragmented from you, brother.
He can’t tell Prussia any of this, so he doesn’t. Germany just bows his head down to look at his work, listening to Prussia turn away from him as he calls out for the other two dogs, asking if they want to go for a walk, which is greeted by several booming barks that echo throughout the house.
“Hey,” Prussia addresses him with, which is much better, so Germany looks up this time without the same kind of delay as before.
Prussia gives him a lopsided smile. “I’m gonna get dinner while I’m out,” he tells him quietly, and Germany nods in response, almost thinks that’s just that, until he hears Prussia pat his palm against the wall, grinning impishly at him.
“Later, West!” He tells him before sliding away to collect the barking dogs for their evening walk.
Germany lets out a loud sigh, thoroughly annoyed, and goes back to work with a deep frown on his face, feels the worry lines on his forehead deepening.
He could never feel comfortable calling Prussia “East”. He feels like it’s just Prussia trying to rile him up, daring him to say it.
You got the worst end of the deal, Germany would have to admit, just with that one word, which is not something Germany would ever be able to do to him. Prussia is kind of an asshole, sometimes, but that’s just how brothers are, Germany knows from experience.
It certainly doesn’t mean he deserved a title that, with the rest of Soviet-occupied states, was synonymous with Hell, as far as Germany and his severely-western occupiers were concerned at the time. Even now, Germany admits reluctantly, guiltily.
His chest aches a little. He closes his eyes.
Germany gives up on his work for the evening.
III.
Germany hears the word when listening to a conversation he is not supposed to be listening to.
Prussia had told him that afternoon that he was having someone over—Not like that, West!—so that Germany shouldn’t be alarmed if he heard people downstairs. Admittedly, it was a nice warning, because sometimes Prussia does things in Germany’s house that Germany swears are doing awful things to his blood pressure (seriously, who buys an entire set of encyclopedias in one purchase?).
The warning was also cryptic, and consistent with Prussia’s doublespeak diction as So don’t bother us, which is… a little alarming. There’s only been a handful of things in the past Prussia has been truly secretive about, but while Germany ponders over that, he does nod his consent. Prussia does live here, after all, and he’s allowed to have his own life without Germany sitting in the center of it, even if that is how things were done in the past, involving the two of them.
Germany did not hear them come in and head downstairs, but it was later in the night, when Germany was washing the dishes before heading to bed, that he discovered he could hear two voices quite clearly from down in the basement.
The door to the basement has a bad habit of not shutting, swinging wide open when left even the tiniest bit ajar. The door hangs open to the widest degree, Germany notices when he glances over his shoulder at it, the light from downstairs spilling into the dim kitchen, the voices along with it.
He obviously recognizes Prussia’s voice, but it takes a moment to place the other one, which he comes to realize is Hungary. This is surprising to Germany, who turns down the water just a little bit, so that it’s no longer a loud roar in the sink so much as a softer shhh against the metal basin and the dishes Germany washes slowly. He doesn’t like eavesdropping, knows that it’s wrong, but there are many things curious about this visit—Hungary being over here for something other than business is not something Germany would have expected. Ever, if he’s honest.
There’s a bit of laughter from downstairs, and Germany furrows his brow as he waits for words to be spoken again.
“—another drink?” Prussia asks.
Hungary’s German is a little off, the sound much different than Prussia’s or Germany’s, for obvious reasons. “Sure—thank you.”
Silence for a moment, before Germany hears two explosive sighs. Probably not beer, then, he thinks with a purse of his lips. Prussia told Germany a few months back about vodka, mostly telling him that it’s cheap and gets the job done—it isn’t nice, like relaxing with a beer at a bar. Germany has to say he agrees with that, especially because he himself has been present to watch Finland slam vodka down (egged on by a drunk Denmark slamming his hands on the table with shouts-bordering-on-screams of “Fin! Fin! Fin!”) with the most uncomfortable look on his face at the burn of it down his throat. People—nations, seemingly—drink vodka to drink, not to just… drink.
Troubling, because Germany knows how Prussia and Hungary tend to get with each other when the stage is set just right—loud, vicious, a little violent. Not that they’re always like that, not at all, but Germany is a man who thinks of all the options, and while there are serval options that Germany doesn’t care about the outcome, there are still the few that end with Germany’s things being broken and one that involves the police being called on account of domestic violence and/or assault charges. Not a comforting thought to have before bed.
“—talked to Poland today,” Hungary says, very lightly, and Germany has to scramble with the plate he’s holding, struggling not to drop it.
Prussia hums, like he doesn’t know what to say. But, he actually says, “You know, I heard something weird today.”
Hungary must make a face that warrants explanation, because she doesn’t say anything at that, but Prussia continues to speak.
“Ostalgie,” is all he says, and Germany makes a face at the word as he stares into the soapy water his hands are sitting limply in. East nostalgia. It doesn’t make much sense, any sense, at face value, but it only takes a second, three, before Germany feels his heart drop, bottom out at the soles of his feet.
East nostalgia.
Hungary makes a weird noise, one of question. “But why? That’s…”
Prussia laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. Confused, maybe. Definitely off. “Weird, right? I don’t know. I didn’t know what to make of it at first, either.”
Germany is literally clutching at the edge of the counter, because he isn’t sure he can trust his legs to keep him up. Mostly because they seem to have gone numb, like the rest of him, as he listens to their conversation he’s not supposed to even be aware of.
East nostalgia. It’s disturbing to think about.
East nostalgia. Germany feels himself breathing too hard, feels the blood rushing in his ears.
East nostalgia.
His chest aches. He feels so out of sync all of a sudden that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He isn’t West, he’s just Germany, and Prussia is just—he’s—well. He’s not East, that’s for damn sure, and Germany tries hard to will away the tremors in his hands as he works on finishing the dishes; it’s going to seem suspicious if he’s here for too long, after all.
He tries not to listen anymore, because he isn’t sure he can handle hearing anything else like that. Anxiety tells him Prussia must truly hate him, must think Germany wished him gone once the Wall came down, and that’s why Prussia insists on keeping up a boundary that isn’t physically there anymore, insists on keeping up the façade that they are different nations, different sides, different, different, different.
Prussia still thinks he’s West and it hurts, it hurts to know that, it hurts to think Prussia can willingly shove Germany into a role he did not want to be in to begin with. It hurts to think that Prussia won’t let things go back to how they were—does Prussia hate him, too, after everything—after—?
Germany goes to bed with a heart so heavy, he almost thinks maybe the Wall really is still there. He can only remember feeling so miserable when he had to look at the damn thing day in and day out, and deal with three voices—three occupying nuisances— constantly reminding him that he has it better, this side is better than that side.
Germany truly doesn’t know if things will ever be alright.
IV.
They donate their uniforms. Germany feels ill to know they’re up there in the storage, sins looming over him for atrocities he couldn’t stop, couldn’t resist, couldn’t end. He wants them gone, he tells Prussia, when they’re trying to clear out some old things to make room for more of Prussia’s stuff.
Prussia is fingering the brim of a cap at present, pressing his thumb against the metal symbol at the center. Germany is trying to hand him a case of pipes that he is certainly not going to be using any time soon, but he stops shoving it at him when he can see Prussia is preoccupied. The look of concentration on Prussia’s face is stunning, an expression Germany has not seen him wear in a very long time.
Germany can’t help it. “What are you thinking?”
Prussia’s lips quirk in a smile that isn’t actually a smile. “It doesn’t seem real.”
Germany could slap him. Germany wants to slap him. Punch him. Scream. Germany wants to tell him that he’s being stupid, it’s not a joke, nothing was a joke, how could he be so fucking cruel, sitting there with a smile on his stupid fucking face, pretending like something was nothing—
But it occurs to Germany, as he feels himself tensing with silent rage that pretending something is nothing is literally all they do. It’s all they’ve done since the 20th century. Pretending something is nothing, pretending away until it really does become nothing at all.
They did it with the recessions. They did it with the wars. They did it with everything that’s happened.
They’re doing this to themselves.
Germany relents, sitting beside Prussia with a grunt. They’re both looking at the cap Prussia’s holding—he has no respect for the thing, at least, Germany thinks with great relief. Germany thinks he could spit on it and would feel nothing but gratification, satisfaction.
“It was real,” Germany says, grave, because there is no other way to address the thing they are vaguely addressing. “Everything was. Everything that happened.”
Prussia doesn’t say anything, giving the cap a toss to the rest of the filthy (not literally, the thing is pressed and cleaned, has been for decades) uniform out in front of him. His jaw tightens, and he almost says something, but nothing comes out the first time.
Then, he mumbles, almost disappointed, “I didn’t think it’d be like this.”
Germany swallows. They’ve never had this kind of conversation before, so he doesn’t know what to say. He wishes there was a guide on How To Talk About The Global Atrocities You Committed With Your Older Brother And The Consequences Thereafter. He would read it thoroughly.
“I don’t like when you call me ‘West’,” Germany says, and it’s a little off topic, but not by much. Prussia looks at him, and, surprisingly, doesn’t crack a smile. Germany has never been gladder to see his brother take something seriously.
Prussia’s eyes search him for a long time, but for what, Germany isn’t sure.
“I… don’t like the implication,” Germany clarifies, because maybe Prussia just didn’t get it the first time. “That you and I are still separate.” It hurts to think my own brother doesn’t want to be associated with me.
Prussia nods at this, thoughtful.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” Prussia tells him honestly, but he does not actually look at Germany until he adds, “I thought… if I pretended it was some joke, it wouldn’t bother me as much.”
Prussia’s face looks rather blank, but there’s something in his eyes. Germany thinks he can relate to the look (do they really seem so similar?), the slight bow in the brows.
I missed you.
Germany swallows, debating what to say in reply to this. He has two options.
“It isn’t a very funny joke, then,” he decides, and thus, becomes part of the joke Prussia has so expertly spun for the both of them.
Prussia’s face breaks out into a grin at this realization, and he gives Germany an entirely-brotherly slap on the knee (which, admittedly, kind of hurts, but that’s another one of those things he’s used to, having several other brothers).
Suddenly, Germany notices as Prussia goes back to sorting things into piles of what they’re taking out of the attic and what they’re keeping up here, everything seems to fall into place about them, about this, about everything that now is Germany and Prussia themselves. The epiphany leaves Germany stunned for a solid minute as the gears finally click.
They might not be able to talk about it, but all is not lost, not like Germany had assumed, has assumed for the past twenty-something years. There are things they can’t talk about yet, but that doesn’t mean they never will.
Things are… okay. They aren’t fixed, they’re not solved, but they’re okay, he realizes. And that’s okay.
“West,” Prussia is saying to him, nudging Germany’s leg with the tip of his sneaker to get his attention. “You’ve got some of Austria’s stuff in here, too. Looks like crap to me—you better go through it.”
“You’re not throwing out Austria’s things,” Germany automatically tells him as he moves to where Prussia is searching; admittedly, a lot of it does seem to be crap, good lord. When he tells Prussia precisely this, Prussia ends up laughing so hard he has to hold his sides, and begs Germany to stop, he’s too funny, he can’t laugh this hard, Germany, seriously—
Things are alright, for now, Germany thinks with a relieved satisfaction as he tosses one of Austria’s old coats (some hideous thing that Germany doesn’t think anyone has worn for at least two centuries) towards the trash bag they’ve brought up here. Prussia snorts at it, mumbles something like “good riddance” at it while they continue.
Germany’s chest feels a little bit better.