|The sad Song of Sunflowers
Author: mimi 007 PM
It seems no-one wants to become one with him, no matter how good his intentions are. All he truly wants are friends... but it is not going well... So... Only one thing can be done. Everyone must be one for him! Rated for violence. About WWIIIRated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Tragedy - Russia - Chapters: 3 - Words: 32,790 - Reviews: 8 - Favs: 8 - Follows: 6 - Updated: 02-04-13 - Published: 11-30-11 - id: 7596789
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A second chapter! I would like you to know that I never stopped writing after Christmas – my attention just turned to one of the stories I am not going to post before I am finished with at least five of my current stories. It is a story that might never get up, but that's that. I still have the intention to finish all my stories, though.
Disclaimer: I own no characters of Hetalia or any of the other people mentioned. I do not profit from anything I write, even if I have a dream of becoming a writer. I also apologize if anyone should take offense at the people mentioned.
Sigart: Thank you for telling ^^ I hope you continue to read.
The leaders of the Russian Federation lead Ivan into the halls of the democratic affairs of the country where the State Duma and the Federation Council, the lower and upper houses of the political estate. Both houses had been collected in one hall, a feat that had never truly happened before. The incarnation of Russia had forced both Putin and Medvedev together in an office at five o'clock in the morning, telling them the situation. They had no choice.
The doors to the hall opened and the few mutters that had been heard silenced. The moment Ivan entered the hall seemed to shrink, and uneasy aura filling the big room. Putin and Medvedev sat in their own seats while Russia stayed in the front, his violet eyes regarding the room with an empty coldness that did not fit his smile.
"Who is this?" one asked. They all knew every face in the Federal Assembly, and it was no surprise that they did not know Ivan. He had not taken part in any official business since the fall of the USSR except for the world meetings with the rest of the incarnated countries. The politicians had thought him too unstable, in which they were right, but they also needed to uphold an image of being friends with him towards the rest of the world. A bad relationship between the politicians and their country was a sign of weakness.
"This man is called Ivan Braginski," Putin announced, though the name itself held no meaning. The importance came now. "He is Russia, the incarnation of our country. And he has something to tell you." Even the members of the party 'United Russia' muttered loudly, confusion as well and disbelief in every face.
"What is this madness?" one of the men asked, staring at the smiling man supposed to be their… country? "I cannot believe you truly mean this idiocy. A country in human form, or what? You truly think we should believe this?" Ivan simply waited, unconcerned, uncaring, for silence to regain control. He looked like a man with no care in the world, his eyes currently closed and hidden behind that smile. But everyone could still remember the look in those violet orbs.
The silence only slowly came, but when it did Russia opened his eyes, watching the faces in front of him. Then he opened his mouth, words so impossible taking air from those breaths. "Mr. Putin and Mr. Medvedev apparently think you important enough to share this with. I do not understand democracy. It is so slow. If everyone should agree with everything, nothing is going to happen. It is so boring, da."
Most of them blinked, surprised at the softness of the voice of such a big man as well as the meaning of the words he voiced in the very hall of democracy. A corrupted democracy, yes, but democracy no less. What was this childish man doing here among serious adults supposed to lead the country? They had more important matters to discuss than listening to this!
"Of course," Russia continued, and his movement from when he first arrived to the room was minimal, "I do what Mr. Putin says. So here I am, supposed to convince you to go forward with my plans in all democratic sense. Mr. Stalin and dear Tsar Nikolay were so much easier to talk to. Things were begun nearly instantly after we agreed upon the action supposed to be taken. No matter how you want this done, though, we are going to begin a war."
The silence continued, the disbelief grew. The relationships between Russia and many countries were a bit tense, that was true, but war meant death, devastation and chaos. They all had agreed to at least attempt to keep the peace, no matter how insulting the other countries' actions could be. A war…
"Why are we listening to this?" another politician asked, his gaze turned towards Putin and Medvedev.
"Because he is Russia," Putin answered resignedly, his face looking so tired. "He has the upper hand. Physical injury caused upon him and the actual country reacts. And I can promise you he has no qualms of going through a little pain to get his way. If we go against him we risk the destruction of Moscow and all the other big cities in our land."
New noise, this time yells and shouts, disrupted the silence, the echoes thundering against the walls of the hall and coming back to the mouths with nearly the same strength. "Insanity!", "This is madness!", "Such powers does not exist!" and worse was claimed, though the seriousness of their leaders told them a discouraging truth.
A loud BANG! stopped the shouting, and all eyes turned to smiling man at the front of the hall. A pipe lied in his outstretched hand and had been extended into the wooden wall beside its owner, showing cracks and dents in the fine wood. The smile was still on his face, unwavering, untouched. "Russia is disappointed," he said.
New murmurs began, but a swipe with the iron-pipe caused them to stop. They felt threatened, even if it was nothing but pipe. He had to come in close range to truly endanger them, and yet they all felt uneasy and frightened. As if the mere presence of this man was dangerous. As if he could kill you in less than a glance or put you through great suffering with no remorse. The smile on his face and the light voice only made it all the more worse.
"You do not believe in my authority. How sad. You want proof of my relation with the country. I can give you proof, da! If you want proof, Russia gives proof~" The violet orbs, which had only been partly present, now hid themselves totally, and a moment, a glimpse, of deep sadness crossed the childish face, showing that this man had experienced thousands of years of suffering. And then the most grotesque thing the gathering would ever experience happened. None, not even the two knowing what was about to happen, got time to argue.
Ivan opened his coat the slightest bit, and a still pulsing heart, a heart fitting somewhere in his chest, fell into his hand from beneath its covers. The big man smiled as though he had accomplished a great feat, but the sight caused many of the politicians to double over and spill out the contents of their stomachs.
"Now," the country said, smiling wide as though they were conversing over a cup of coffee, "I want all of you to look carefully. Russia gives proof, da?" His other hand touched the uneven, moving organ, feeling it closely before finally being satisfied. He grabbed a little, tiny part of the red heart between two nails, a microscopic piece, and twisted it.
The building groaned like a monster in pain, and these people were inside its stomach. The cracks Ivan had formerly created in the wood suddenly spread, the walls were leaning first one way, then the other. The earth made a sudden jump and one of the benches was torn apart by an invisible force, the people upon it getting attacked by splinters and stakes, some even getting pierced in the stomach and limbs. After seeing this, seeing the blood, the screams began.
In the midst of the moving, groaning building and the people helplessly seeking for cover, Ivan stood with his broad smile and that little glint in his eyes. The signs of pain were obvious, a little twitching around the eyes, quivering lips, the occasional shudder travelling through his body, but he still continued the movement.
He was first twisting the little part of the heart one way, then another, never so much that the tissue fell apart but just enough to do a little damage. Russia was not afraid of the physical pain. He had experienced a lot of it, and unlike how other people might react these experiences had not made him fear to experience more. These experiences of physical hurt had helped driving him past the brink of insanity, but he did not fear to feel more.
He had learned so long ago that there were more dangerous, more damaging things to fear.
More heartbreaking things you could feel.
The roof had begun to fall down by the time he stopped the personal assault, and the wall on one side of the hall about to tumble to the ground. His smile continued… just continued… as he put the heart inside his chest again and closed the coat. Splinters, blood, bodies of wounded or… or dead laid everywhere; and that for hurting such a small – important, yes, but small – part of his body. Whimpers and moans resounded throughout the place.
The violet orbs watched the destruction around him, not even fazed, and the insanity, the coldness, the frozen bits in those pools, had become more evident. "I do not like to be doubted," he told them calmly, the too childish voice a little more strict as anger edged through it. "And I expect you do it no more. There are some things I will have to have done before the first act of war can begin. All immigrants who are not Russian civilians will have to be caught and confined. The same accounts for people, Russian by birth or no, which have lived in another country for more than a year and has come back for less than three years ago.
Also tourists and journalists from other countries will have to be caught. The journalists are the main targets and will have to be caught before any other. I will not have anyone spread the words of our preparation outside the borders. All this must be done without anyone knowing anything. Any things, like those weird internet-thingies and phones, have to be restricted and kept under control. No word of the beginning of a war must get outside."
The unwounded politicians stared at him with awe as he continued, but no-one dared to say anything.
"Anything else will be done by me and the military. These things are all I am going to ask you, and if anyone of you makes an attempt of stopping me it will be the death of thousands of Russians." The anger that had been rising in his eyes had settled, but the eyes were now brimming of an endless insanity. A dangerous insanity. "Now I will leave you to meet with the generals. You!" He pointed at a random man, causing him to jump in surprise and fear. "Call an ambulance and clean up this mess. Nyet, we cannot let anyone die."
Then he whipped out of the room, striding with long steps and a smile so bright that it could leave a whole room in darkness. He was pleased with his accomplishment, even if he was still confused about that democracy-thing. He was uncertain if he had done it the right way, though…
"Putin…" a man groaned in the midst of the rubble and wood, none of them able to move because of the shock. The man made an acknowledging sound. "What… what was that…?"
"The incarnation of our country, as I told you. All countries have one of their own. Unfortunately theirs are quite stable as sane while Russia… Ivan… He is violent. Had he been human he would be locked up long ago… He is a monster. An abomination. I am proud of my country… but I am not proud of him."
"Have the politicians begun what we asked?" The sweet, nauseating odor of alcohol filled the room like an invisible fog. It was amiss, that vodka-bottle, in the room filled with uniforms and military men.
"Yes. Foreign journalists, tourists and unclarified citizens have been collected. The prime minister of Russia will be speaking of war tonight, and the internet has been limited under the claim of 'redirecting'." A small shuffling of clothes as the men moved. The sound of paper and scribbling, a small scraping of a chair. At one end of the table the air was comfortable and relaxed, but the far end was… tense.
"How many planes have been found? And how many have had to be taken by force?" The bottle of clear fluid was lifted, and the bottom came up when the top came down on a pair of lips.
"We have 1036 planes, inclusive some motor-driven sailplanes and some old models. We have promised a good sum of money, and if more was required we used 'more'. Some of the planes are owned by the government and military, some by civilians, and the last will be hijacked at airports. This autumn snowstorm has proven very useful. No planes are allowed in the air until it is over, so we can take every plane in every airport and use it in our plan."
"Do you have the schedules? About how best to reach the destinations with the range each plane has?" The clear fluid circled around in the bottle. Only a small splash was left at the very bottom, nothing but a single gulp.
There was a small twitch in the corners of a pale man's lips. It was a satisfied twitch, a proud twitch, and the General twirled his moustache, only barely holding off the smile. "Yes. Of course. All targets should be possible to reach at the same time with the amount of planes we have found, as long as we place the gliders on the right locations. The pilots will be told to say and do anything to reach them. As long as this is kept hidden your ambitions will be accomplished."
The already present smile on a pair of lips widened just slightly. The dead, frozen, insane, orbs above them glistened in violet, glistened with a burning contentment. "Da, that is good. Tell me when you are ready. Remember to supply with enough bombs. I will take care of the storm when everything is set." New shuffling as paper was collected. The meeting was done.
October 12th, somewhere around Strausberg, Berlin, Germany, 6:13 local time
"Ey, ey, Germanyiii~ Wake uuup, I need youuu… Sleepy…~"
The Italian was on the bed, jumping up and down and up, causing the blond man beneath the white covers to jump with him. There was an annoyed growl, but the bouncing did not stop. With a final growl the big man sat up, admitting defeat, and sighed tiredly when the smaller nation sat still in front of him. "What is it, Italien? And what time is it?" There was a hazy darkness outside, the darkness of October beginning to influence the morning. Winter was coming.
"It is nearly 6. You have been asleep too long and I need yooou!" The smaller one came up closer, pushing his body towards the blond to get a hug. "I-I had a nightmare…" The tone which had been happy just seconds before had became smothered and tainted with sadness and fear, a choked sob destroying the faint whispers. "I… I-I…"
The voice was so broken that Ludwig let his arms fold around the smaller form, feeling how it shook. His shirt became wet where the Italian held his head. The blue eyes became wide, not certain how to react to this kind of emotional outburst but knowing that he needed to help. "Ehm…" Slowly he began to rock the other back and forth soothingly, stroking the other's hair. "Shh… it is okay… You are awake now, ja?"
"N-no… 's not okay… Th-the w-world w-was burning… The-there was a pile of d-dead b-bodies… L-like the KZ's a-after we l-l-lost." A chill rolled down Germany's spine at the mention of his own madness. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell Feliciano not to talk about it, but the shaking, the hiccups, the sobs… the smaller was devastated and needed comfort, not the usual scolding. His own comfort did not matter right now.
So he continued the soothing movements and the rocking, suppressing the tremors of shame and remorse. "It will be okay, Feli, I will not let anything like that happen again… Shh, mein Freund, I will protect you, I always have." It was nothing but murmurs, and yet the German meant it all. Never again, that he had promised. Never again, no matter who was the source, would he let anything like that happen. Not after having been responsible for something like it…
"B-b-but Germaniiiy!" the Italian exclaimed, gripping his shirt tighter and rocking with the bigger man. "I-I… You… The world burned. The dead bodies were burning, burning so violentemente, and on the biggest pile of bodies Russia stood, laughing so delirante, but he was crying, and the rest of the world had guns and uniforms and tried to reach him, but he was on top of the pile and…" The Italian's speech got so fast it was nearly impossible to understand him. It was only because of the amount of time that they had known each other that Ludwig was able to understand anything.
"… and he was inside block of ice, and the world burned and it was caotico and the rest of the world was getting burned, too, and the ice melted and Russia began burning and screaming and you… and you… you…"
"And I…?" Germany asked helpfully, padding his back and stroking his hair as well as his giant hands could.
Feliciano sniffed a bit, but only managed to calm himself down for a second. "You…" That single word brought the crying came back tenfold. "Y-you burned. Y-you are the m-most importante in mia vita (my life) a-and you… e-even before the rest of the world came to st-stop Russia you…" His cries had become much wilder now that he had told.
Germany shook his head and pulled the other's body away from his own. The tears had drained him so much that even though Italy tried to hold on and cling closely to him he was too weak to even put up a fight. The blond nation gently made Feliciano's chin rest in his palm, pulling their faces closely together. "Breathe, Feli. Nice and slowly."
The smaller nation nodded still with tears on his cheeks and took a few deep inhales, slowly calming down.
"Good." Their faces were dangerously close as Ludwig held the smaller nation in place, trying to bring the calm in his eyes into the soul of the other. "You listen closely." It was said in a mix of an order and a plea. He was concerned, deeply concerned, but Germany was not very emotional and he was certainly no therapist. He was a soldier, in and out, and a soldier with authority. "It was a dream. I am here, right here, and I have been here all the time. Watch."
His free hand lifted itself from his thigh where it formerly had been, lifted itself and ended upon the Italian's face, gracing over his cheek in a very light touch to remove the tears. Then it fell again, holding on to the Italian's hand, giving it a small, concerned squeeze. When Feliciano nodded Ludwig let go of the other's chin and placed his big hand on the frail shoulder in front of him, a smile coming upon his face.
"The world is still here. Nothing has burned. No mass murder has been committed. There are not piles of dead bodies everywhere. Look outside." He turned his gaze to the window where the sun lit the trees, the first of the golden orb's shining head rising in the horizon. Its rays painted the outside autumn white and golden, the red and bronze leaves on the trees shining more brilliantly as though they were made of rubies and golden coins, the road and clouds were yellow and clear, the very air made of silver crystals.
It was beautiful, especially for an artist, and Ludwig got his wish when a smile spread on the face of his small friend and erased the former sadness and fear. Nothing could throw that idiot off balance for too long – had it been any different Ludwig would have died of emotional outbursts already, both the ones brimming over with happiness and the ones that were sad. This was a special case, though, as the sad ones normally concerned lost kittens or a hurt toe.
"You are right, Germanyii!" he said, as though the whole world had become sunflowers and warm- oh, wait, wrong character, rewinding! – as though the whole world had become bright and happy again. He jumped off the bed, making the blond bounce up and down on the mattress. Ludwig took his hand to his forehead and began to wonder what had made him comfort the other. Feliciano was so much quieter when he was sad, and it was still morning.
"Alright," he finally said, standing from the bed. "I am going to make breakfast. Want some Wurst?" The Italian nodded and bounced through the door, and when it took Germany more than a second to follow he bounced back, looking very impatient. "Ja, I am on my way," the German answered irritated, annoyed by the unspoken questions.
Feliciano felt no such thing, though, and just danced around him like he was some kind of early Christmas-tree. "No, I did not think that. Vee~, Germany, you are so tight." A slight blush flustered the face of the German but he ignored it, beginning to walk out the door with the bouncy Italian following. "But you also sleep late today. Why? You sick?"
The worry in the voice made som of the regret from comforting the Italian. "Nein. Gilbert and I were out drinking yesterday in Berlin. I have a bit of a hangover, so I would not mind you to keep your voice down a bit." The green eyes widened a bit, actually showing their color, and he slapped a hand over his mouth to tell the blond he had got the message. This caused another sigh to escape the lips of the German. The other would be talking again in less than a minute.
They went down the stairs of the small house and entered the living room. Ludwig was in front, the red color finally leaving his face. The couch of the living room sent out a penetrating snoring, and Ludwig sighed in annoyance for what felt like the hundredth time today. He moved closer to the piece of furniture and gripped the back of it, forcing it upwards and tilting it. A loud yell replaced the sound of sleeping as something – someone – fell to the floor.
"'Ey!" A shaggy bundle of clothes, white hair and red eyes fell from the comfortable safety of the plush. "Oy, oy, West!" Gilbert snapped, sounding like his little brother had just given him the biggest insult in the world. He eyes were raging, the sand of sleep still in their corners. "Why did you do that? Arschloch!" The former nation kicked out for his brother, but unfortunately for him there was a couch between them.
Ludwig moved around the couch and grabbed his kin, helping him to his feet despite the pouting and occasional outburst in both words and body. "Please watch the language, Ost. Do you want breakfast?" At the promise of food the more primitive nation brightened up, and Ludwig contained a sudden urge to roll his eyes. "What were you doing on the couch, anyway? It is just twelve steps up the stair up your bedroom."
And then the pouting was back. "Do you doubt my intelligence?" he asked snappily.
Ludwig contained a sudden chuckle and smiled at the smaller big brother. "Of course I am not." How he loved that idiot, despite how troublesome he always was. His eyes turned to the Italian behind him, and he found himself wonder how he ended up with the noisy, stupid ones. "I would never believe the awesome you would do anything without a reason." He knew why his brother had not come any further. The albino had gotten more beers than he had.
Very few people were able to make Ludwig use sarcasm, but Gilbert was one of those few. To the rest of the world's nations the German was a strict and determined man who, weirdly enough, was always accompanied by one of the Italians. Ludwig suppressed another smile and continued to the kitchen, ignoring the annoyed growls coming from his brother's lips. Gilbert was stupid to a certain point and did not understand some things, but he was also a user of sarcasm.
Ludwig moved to the fridge and found some eggs and sausages – or Wurst in his own language. Then he found a frying pan made of steel and poured the necessary oils and fats into it. Hearing his noise and smelling his cooking the seven four-legged residents of the house entered the kitchen, crowding around the stove. The six-year-old German Shepherd decided to go to the Italian, though, and get her ear scratched by the small nation on the chair.
"Can we have tomatoes, too?" Feliciano asked and then began to laugh when the ten-year-old Great Dane took its head onto the kitchen table, hunting a single, tiny sausage which had fled both the pan and the bag. Gilbert, who had just entered the kitchen with a yawn and a stretch, laughed too when he saw the slobber threatening to fall on the wood.
It was in the last second Germany got the dog away, saving its snout from getting burned on the pan as well as the kitchen table from the drool. But he had only just got the giant monster of mouth water away when the wooden surface got attacked by the giant monster of butts. "What did I tell you about sitting on the tables?" he scolded his big brother and glared when the answer he got from the assaulter was a smirk. He sighed. This was apparently the great day of sighs.
"Tooomaaatoooes!" Feliciano complained, and Germany muffled another sigh of annoyance.
"Ja, ja, tomatoes, you will get your tomatoes," he muttered and went for the kitchen once more, letting the pan sizzle on its own. One and a half steps away from the stove he nearly fell to the floor, jumping to the side so he would not trip on the smallest dog in the house, the Dachshund. "Scheiss Tier, (shitty animal)" he muttered, regaining his balance by gripping on to the side of the table Italy was sitting by. More laughter sounded. "Gilbert… Mind to feed the dogs?"
The laughter disappeared from Gilbert's face when he lifted himself off the kitchen table and placed his feet on the ground once more. "Alright, alright. Why do you have so many dogs anyway?" he growled angrily, finding seven bowls on the shelves and filled each with its own kind of dog food. Germany did not care to answer as he began chopping the newly found tomatoes and got them ready for the pan. "Is a fetish or something? I only have one bird."
"And no kindness at all!" Feliciano exclaimed, his whole face sincere and grinning. The grinning had to stop at the sight of the acid in Gilbert's glare and the Italian hid behind the German Shepherd he had been smothering love all over as if he feared the albino would throw the whole kitchen at him while he shrieked "save me, Eika!"
Germany did not even look up at the sound of the two. His brother would often lose his temper when Feliciano mindlessly opened his mouth, and he hoped the scolding he would throw at the former nation afterwards was enough for him to keep his head. "Ready?" he asked instead, and the albino hummed in agreement. "Reihe!(Row)" It was the voice of the general – a military order, refusing to be crossed. And yet he simply concentrated on the pan, turning the sausages.
All the dogs lifted their heads, their ears rising. Then they moved to the wall and sat down in a line, facing the kitchen table and holding their head high and proudly. Like soldiers they sat with their snouts pointing forward, ready to follow the next order. Watching Germany commanding his dogs around was always a fabulous scene, and Italy was not even sad the dog 'Eika' left his side as he followed the scene with his eyes.
The dogs had placed themselves in order, the eldest at the far right and the youngest at the left. First the Great Dane, ten years on its graying back, then a Boxer of seven, Italy's favorite Shepherd of six years, then the five-years-old Shepherd and then yet another Boxer of three, the Dachshund of 2 and finally the nine-month-old child of Eika. Not a tail twitched and only the ears of the puppy turned at the sounds in the house.
They were like robots and did not even keep an eye on Gilbert when he put the bowls down in front of them. At the clatter of the food pills Gilbird flew in to the room, chirping happily. It sat itself on Gilberts head, waiting for the next order. The routine of the house had yet to be broken. "Ready," Gilbert announced, petting the bird fondly.
The blond German nodded but had yet to go to the next stage. The dogs still sat motionlessly, the bird trembled in anticipation and Italy began bouncing in his chair in boredom. It was first when the puppy began to sniff due to the impatience of the youth and Gilbird began to scold Ludwig in chirpish that he gave the order. "Essen!(Eat / to eat)"
It was like watching a group of synchronized swimmers. The dogs dived into the food, eating with a varied amount of speed. The little, yellow ball of chirping fluff fluttered in happiness before it made a controlled fall to the floor and jumped over beside the Great Dane, plucking into the food like it was part of the pack. And it certainly was.
Germany scooped the food off the pan and over to three pairs of plates. He handed one over to Feliciano and placed the other by the two unoccupied chairs of the table. Scrambled eggs and sausages with a tomato on the side, perfectly spiced with salt and pepper. It did not take long before all of them sat ready.
Eating, on the other hand, took a long time. It had to when you ate with Prussia and Italy. They were talking, Italy said something stupid, Prussia felt insulted and had to threaten back, Italy hid behind the dogs (who had gotten done eating and were sitting and waiting to be taken on their walks) begging them to save him from the angry albino, and when it got too heated Germany said a few raging words and they sat back down and relaxed only to let the scenery start all over again.
The blond finally lost patience in their stupid acts and left the table under the claim that he had to walk the dogs – which was a truthful claim. They had to be walked and were watching him with suppressed excitement, waiting for the daily routine to continue and for the German to find the leashes and be done with the breakfast.
The talk suddenly quieted since the person Italy had talked to all the while had been Ludwig. The blond and his order was now gone. The Italian feared the blond's older brother and was only in the German house if the younger resident was present. Ludwig had some weird power over the wild and troublemaking albino so that the older was less violent. Now Ludwig was gone, and Gilbert sat on the other side of the table with a smirk on his face.
When there was no dog-food to eat Gilbird had come back to his owner and found a place on his shoulder, happily voicing its latest adventure with the Great Dane. The blood-red eyes watched Feliciano, the Italian already shivering in fear. "You know what time it is?" he asked, standing slowly from the chair, a mischievous aura swirling around him.
Feliciano stood, too, but unlike the former nation he was ungraceful and rushed. The chair banged to the floor, pushed away by the back of his knees. He was nearly crying already and the man in front of him had yet to even make a move. "N-no, Mr. Prussia, I-I-I do n-not…" The voice was choked and forced and the Italian, who normally had no ability to read the mood, was wishing he had never said it. He knew, somehow he knew those words opened the door to torment.
Prussia's smirk widened a bit more and as the bird felt the mood the yellow fluff began watching the Italian with a pair of evil, black, tiny eyes. "It is 'kick-a-crybaby'-time." He lunged forward, onto the table and beyond, and Italy shrieked and cried like the crybaby he was claimed to be, running into the living room. Gilbird was chirping wildly, and since it was not slowed by the need of avoiding furniture or touching the ground it flew in front and attacked.
"Hiiiiy," Italy shrieked and protected his head with his arms as he ran, trying and failing to avoid the yellow bird's sharp claws and beak. Gilbert was right behind him, laughing like a maniac and having the fun of his month. The chase continued for nearly twenty minutes before Feliciano managed to get around the albino and out the front door, the only unlocked exit. Now that there were no obstacles he ran as only an Italian is able to, fleeing at the speed of light.
Prussia watched the other nation for a moment, his lovely bird flying around him and chirping with its high-pitched voice and telling its owner that it had a lot of fun. The albino, though, kept looking in the direction the Italian had ran, back towards his warmer, safer country, a twinge of sadness pressed onto his wild self. Prussia did not know if it was because his toy had left… or because of how he had treated the toy…
He sighed and shook his head, forcing the feelings away. He was who he was and had been so through his whole life, from his birth somewhere near the 7th century to the present. Why should he want to change now? Just because the world had changed did not mean he had to. Besides, this supposed 'democratic' and 'modern' world was going to fall sometime, anyway. The Ancient Greek had, the Roman Empire had, Grandpa had – nothing in this world lasted forever, and the nations were even divided into separate countries and not a single state, a single person. The more people, the more trouble.
When this current world fell he would get his comeback. And he would have Ludwig with him.
He shook his head once more, forcing these idiotic thoughts out. When had he become such a prissy thinky-thingy? He had not been around Austria enough for him to rub off. Damn civilization and its theoretical supremacy.
He went back inside and into the living room, throwing himself onto the couch he had formerly slept on and turned on the TV. Another device the world should be without, damn America and his lazy ass. People should be out kicking ass with their swords, not sit on their butts and play erudite in front of desks and grow fat by working on unnecessary stuff.
His eyes turned to the clock and he frowned. First of all; how had the time reached 10:30? Second of all; why was he awake at this time? Unawesome Italian and stupid Ludwig taking away his awesome sleep. He should be sleeping. Now he would go back to sleep and stop watching that stupid, unawesome American TV-show.
He turned off the device, cuddled up closer to the yellow bird and closed his eyes, sighing and waiting for the thoughts to leave him. He did not get to do that when a sudden noise from the outside made the walls clatter. He sat up straight, the old reactions to war canons and battle-cries flaring. He threw his head around, searching for the assaulter, and found it out of the window. A plane, flames flaring on its one wing. It headed for Berlin, and it was going down fast.
His eyes went wide at the sight. The pilot held the plane upright, going closer and closer to the capital. The flames on the wing brightened the gray autumn sky, a Hell-bird of metal going towards its nest. In pure frustration Gilbert threw the remote at the plane, making the plastic bounce off the window and leaving a recess in the glass. "Was zum Teufel machst du da, du Hurensohn? (What the Hell are you doing, you son of a bitch?)" he screamed, utterly terrified. Pilots were supposed to lead the plane away from cities, right? Why was the plane continuing?
The flaming machine came out of sight, still going for the capital of the country, and it did not take long before Gilbert doubled over, a sudden pain in his stomach feeling as if he had been hit by a fist of iron. He forced himself upright, his balance failing due to the nauseating pain. The albino spat at the window and hit it right where the remote had made a hole. He was angry… no, angry was not even the right word. „Ficke Abschaum! (Fucking scum!)"
He was about to curse on when the most horrific thought he had ever had in his entire, half-immortal life reached his mind, and his body went cold in shock. The words on his tongue fell back through his throat and ended in his stomach, and there they began to grow in both shape and weight. If I am feeling this bad, then how…? He could not even end the thought. Despite the pain still spreading in his stomach he wobbled to the door and threw it open.
He straightened his legs, forced his knees to support his weight. Still clenching the frame of the door for support he turned his head from one side to the other, his eyes wide and even welling up with tears. Last time Prussia had cried he had been about fifty years old and Grandpa Germania had taken away his sword for killing a kitten. This situation…
This situation was very, very different.
He pushed the frame away from him and ran through the small garden and out to the road, but he did not know which way he should go… Then he heard what he had feared. The sound of dogs frightened out of their wits, whining and howling and barking. Even though his whole body was still shaking in shock and pain his legs carried him towards the sound, running at a speed he had never done before. His insides were twisting around, and the pain was not the cause.
There! A crowd of people had already assembled, but one had at least taken out a phone and was calling an ambulance. He tackled a man to get through and sent an elbow in a woman's ribs to make her move away. He could hear the distinguished sound of Adelgisa's growls, the weird hiccups of the old, half-blind dog normally making him laugh and tease his younger brother. Now every choked snarl cut into his soul knowing that the Great Dane was not playing this time.
Gilbert flew past a man only to be stopped by a hand gripping his elbow. "Halten!(Wait!)" the man he just had pushed to the side said, a light panic in his voice. "Die Hunde beißen!(The dogs bite!)" He had only just shut his mouth when his cheek was backhanded.
"Fick dich!(Fuck you!)" Gilbert all but screamed, and had it not been for his face the man and all of the other people around would have hated him or at least be angered. But they could not. Helplessness was written in his face, tears fell from his eyes like rain and his mouth shivered in desperation. And his eyes none of them were able to look at. They showed his age, for once they showed the thousand years he had lived, showed the hundreds of years he had been fighting and experienced the pain, the torture and the psychological strain of being a country.
For Gilbert knew. Oh, he knew so well. For if he could feel an assault of the German country like that… if he could feel the pain so hard and react on it so physical… Then Ludwig had to be on the verge of death.
Turning around to see his little brother was incredibly easy. You would think the fear he felt made him hesitate, but a nation knew fear and knew what happened if you gave in to it. And this knowing made him turn around. What it did not, though, was make him ready for the sight that met him.
His little brother, always the unwavering soldier, was lying on his hands and knees, one hand clenching his stomach painfully. His normally pale skin was an eerie grey with sweat making his so neat hair stick to his face and colored it a shade several times too dark to be his wheaten strands. He was shivering and… and blood was everywhere.
The albino made a move towards him, but an angry growl from the two Boxers made him halt for the tiniest bit. The dogs had formed the Schutzring, the protective circle around something precious. But it was simply fear he felt, so he just walked forward again, determination in his teary face, and when the two dogs got ready to jump he lifted his hands at them like Germany would have. "Nein, Clovis, Harris. Legen(Lay)!" And the dogs lay down as ordered. This was a great feat. The dogs felt the same about him as Italy did.
Having felt the authority around the albino the other dogs relaxed slightly and Gilbert strode past them and over to his brother, falling to his knees and laying a hand on his shoulder. And then wished he never had. The temperature of Ludwig's skin was flaring in heat only to fall down to what felt like below freezing and then go up again. The shivers suddenly became even worse before his body began cramping violently and he retched. There was nothing but blood coming out of him mouth.
New, fresh, red blood.
So it was there the giant pool of blood came from. Not very reassuring.
"Wer sind Sie?(Who are you?)" the man he had just hit asked.
"Sein große Bruder.(His big brother)" He nearly choked on the words but kept control. How was it you dealt with accidents now? An ambulance, yes, you called an ambulance… He looked up and found a woman talking into one of those stupid plastic-thingies, telling something inside it the name of the street and which corner they were on, using a voice filled with forced calm. Ambulance. Ambulance on the way. Help on the way.
At the sound of his voice Ludwig's head raised and he formerly unfocused eyes forced themselves to find him. "O-Ost, bist du da?(East, are you there?)" His voice was so weak it felt as though the acid in his stomach had seared the soldier out of it. That voice was made to order, to lead and control, not to plead for someone to control him.
Gilbert had not time to answer him, though, when new cramps attacked his brother's body and forced a new liter of blood out of his mouth. Without any hesitation or any remorse he wiped the blood off the corners of Ludwig's mouth with the back of his hand and then wiped that blood away in his trousers. The action caused a strained smile to appear on Ludwig's face as if simple touches was all he needed to know it was his brother. "Italien…"
"Auf dem Heimweg.(On his way home.)" The smile became a little less strained at that news. Of course he worried if the Italian knew. Had Feliciano still been present and known this he would be wailing. Sad, fearing for the blond's life, like Gilbert was doing. But the Italian would panic, and Germany never wanted the idiot to be sad or worried. "Du bist zu gütig.(You are too kind.)" Too kind for the Italian. Too kind for the world…
Too kind for Gilbert.
"Hilfe ist auf dem Weg,(help is on its way)" he promised, petting the bigger man's hair like he was a child again, just a little, innocent boy. "Mach dir keine Sorgen.(Do not worry)" He got a simple nod in answer. The shivering form leaned over towards him and he folded his arms around him, trying to give him the comfort he needed.
"G-Gilbert… Bruder?" The albino hummed, stroking his back kindly. "Würdest du… würdest du herausfinden… was passiert? Und nicht nur hier?(Will you find out… what happened? And not just here?)"
"Nicht nur hier?" Gilbert asked in wonder. The sirens of an ambulance were blaring around the corner while the albino frowned more and more. Not just here? Not just here…?
"Ja…" the blond man said, his voice slowly fading into nothing. "Ja… … Nicht nur hier…"
October 12th, Military Base, somewhere in Colorado, U.S.A. 3:54 local time
It was a normal and quiet early morning at the US military base. It was about 4 am. The base was quiet and nearly deserted, most soldiers were sleeping, and a few were doing important things like certain repairs and watching over screens, keeping the base safe from possible – but unlikely – invaders. Paul leaned back in his chair, still recovering from his too large, too early breakfast. His job was currently doing the watching. A monitor showing the airspace surrounding the base sat in his front, turning and turning and turning.
A beep suddenly disrupted the peace. He started from his waken slumber, turning his gaze to the screen. He frowned and turned away, looking at one of his fellow soldiers. "There is a plane. Are any planes scheduled to pass over today?" he mumbled, nearly unheard.
"What?" he colleague said, and Paul repeated a bit louder. The other frowned and pulled out the drawers of his desk, finding a folder with papers. Looking it over, he rolled his chair over to a computer, tapping in codes and numbers on the keyboard. He pursed his lips and narrowed when he finally found the result of his search and turned back towards his friend. "No. Not before 06:23." A small tinge of panic was in the voice. "Where does it come from?"
"The west. And it is heading right for us."
"The first plane should pass over from south east, and it should keep a distance of four miles." It was odd. "What plane is it? What signal does it send out?"
Now it was Paul's turn to work the machines and a number flashed over the screen of his own computer. "It is a public plane, a normal charter." Knowing this did not make them feel any better, but there was no reason to panic. "I will try to establish radio contact. Call Captain Jeoffrey and get him over here." The man nodded, but Paul did not even see it. He put on his headgear and called. "Plane NP 32, confirm destination and place of departure, please."
He was met by silence, and that crawling feeling running up his back got worse. Beside him the colleague was speaking into a walkie-talkie, but he had also heard the silence. It was a public plane, and if they shut down a public plane it would become a scandal… but uncontrolled planes were dangerous. The experiences of 9/11 had proven that.
"Plane NP 32, confirm destination and place of departure, please," he repeated when the tension got too much for him. The silence was nearly unbearable, and Paul jumped in his seat when the Captain arrived with a noise from the door.
"What is the problem?" the tall new-comer asked, getting a worried expression on his face at the awkward unease plastered on both men's faces. Then his eyes turned to the monitor showing how the strange plane was getting closer and closer. "What is that?"
"A plane," Paul stated the obvious, but did try not to sound disrespectful. "It is not on the schedule, and has yet to respond to our calls. But the real problem is that… it is public. A charter airplane and it is probably filled with tourists. But if they will not answer… it could be that their radio is broken, or…" Or something worse.
The uneasiness spread to the Captain's face, too. How should you react on such a situation? Risk the reputation of the Army by shooting down a plane filled with civilians? No matter how much they claimed the captain was at fault, it was them who shot the missiles. So… how to fix this? "Continue trying to establish radio-contact," he finally said.
Paul nodded and pushed the button once again, leaning over to the microphone once more. "Plane NP 32, confirm destination and place of departure. Answer quickly." Silence once more. God, this was unnerving. The plane continued to move closer and closer. The two privates turned their gazes to their Officer, but Captain Jeoffrey was also at a loss. They… they could not just attack a plane like that.
A phone rang. All of them jumped and turned towards the sound before the other private lifted the receiver just after the second ring. "Hello. Yes, that is confirmed…" The man's eyes flickered in a moment of unease before he handed the phone over towards Jeoffrey. "It is for you, Captain."
As soon as the man had the device he his ears the other end started talking. "Captain Jeoffrey Cane… Do you mean like…? A moment," he said and gave the other private a silent order to turn on the speakers. He let the handset fall from his ear. "We have just recorded a stray plane," he informed the device. "Is this the kind of odd situation you are speaking of?" Paul glanced up at his captain before turning to the microphone and retried establishing connection.
"… Yes, exactly," a female voice answered, a slight panic rising in her voice. "We are experiencing the same. What kind of plane is it?" Like themselves, she was trying to keep calm, but two military bases the same situation at the same time – and a possibly dangerous situation, too – was very frightening.
"An airline charter. From the…" he glanced at the monitor. "From the west, and it has yet to respond. And what is the one you are met with?" Speaking with someone… actually feeling like you were doing something… helped the Captain's unease, and his body was slowly beginning to untense.
"NP 32, do you copy?" Paul attempted once more. No answer.
"The same. An Airbus charter, from the west, and it has not answered any of our calls. We better get ready to fire, just in case." Someone actually saying this made Jeoffrey nod, accept it might be necessary.
He found his walkie and took it to his mouth. "Alexander, command the guns ready to fire at the west. We have an unknown intruder plane. Await further orders." He let the walkie-talkie fall under his coat and turned back to the phone. "Is it possible that this is a drill made from the government?" he asked the speaker.
There was a short silence. "… It might be," the woman agreed. Before she could say anymore Jeoffrey had turned to the other soldier, whom until now had done nothing but to watch the exchange with uneasiness.
"Contact the government and be quick about it. I do not know how long we have before the plane is within range. We may not have enough time." He then turned to Paul, and the reason we he was a rising Officer began to shine through the slight fear. "Try once more. Warn them that we will shoot if they do not turn away."
Paul nodded slightly, sending a prayer to the Lord that it would end without blood. "NP 32, if you do not answer or diverse your course we will shoot for you. Do you understand?"
"We have contact," the woman on the phone suddenly said, a small trait of relief in her voice. "They have promised to swerve around our base. The plane is moving away now." Jeoffrey untensed a bit more before answering.
"Good. We will attempt the same thing. If they do not move or answer, though, we will shoot."
"I understand," was all the answer he got before a crackling of some bigger speakers resounded in the room.
A whoosh of relief came over them, the exact same feeling that had been in the voice of the woman at the other base. "NP 32, do you copy?"
Crackling… "Yes… on't shoot…" More crackling. As Paul had hoped the entire time it seemed the problem was the radio, not the man controlling the plane. "… Desdenation is Chi…-go. Dje'par'ture from-…" They did not catch the last part, but the relief made it not mattering. They did not have to shoot someone, especially not a public plane.
"You have to turn around. We cannot let you pass over the base," Paul informed, and the speakers crackled in response. It crackled a few times, crackled some more, but it did not answer with words.
"We have contact too," Jeoffrey announced to the woman, a small hope flaring up in his chest. "Stay on the line. We may need you again." He found the walkie again and got ready to either order them to shoot or not, but his eyes were on the monitor, waiting for the next answer. They nearly felt safe again already.
Another crackle and then the line became clear. "… an't do dat." Now that there was no noise a very heavy accent showed in the voice on the other end. None of them were able to recognize it, too dazed in the relief of having contact. "I 'have nod enoff fuel to reach, so I straied from dje paff to fin' another port. We 'ill crash if we don't fin' a place safe to landd." A new wave of panic came over them. "I've some Am'merican dourists o'board."
And then the panic got worse. Paul's eyes flashed over to Jeoffrey's before going back, finding what he feared in the man's eyes. As the Captain told last man in the room that they would not need the government anyway Paul explained. "We are sorry but you cannot land here. You have to turn away." The plane was getting closer and closer, but this was a military facility with machinery and weapons. They could not let any outsiders come in… even if it was crashing.
"… A'right… Kan I passh ovar you, djen? To spare dje fuel? Djen I may get ovar to dje nekst 'port." There was a small silence, and then Jeoffrey sighed, not finding a problem with it. It was an urgent situation with people's lives on the line, and so even if they were unable to help they could at least give permission to that.
"Yes, I, Captain Jeoffrey Cane, give you permission to fly over our base," the Captain personally came over to say before he moved over to the phone again. He pressed the button on the walkie and took it to his mouth, feeling how even breathing got easier. "Call it off, Alexander. False alarm." The answer he received from the walkie was not kind.
About another minute or two passed with occasional exchange of words when noise began to form on the other end of the phone. Panicking voices came out of the speakers and a new wave of unease settled in the pits of their stomachs. "It swerved back! When did it swerve back?" It was the female, sounding like she was far away from the microphone.
"I do not know… Oh god, when did it get this close? Get the cannons back up again!"
"Captain Jeoffrey!" the voice of the woman said. It was closer this time, very close. Fear filled the voice… So much fear. "Get it down, get it down now-!"
A scream stopped her words, as well as a loud noise. There was a blast nearly ripping the speakers apart, the sound of things flying into walls or smashing into pieces, the last few noises of humans before their lives ended. And then… Beeping as the phone lost connection. A silence so ear-piercing that the small beeps became a relief, but also a silence so heartbreaking when you knew what it meant. When you knew that lives had ended…
The soldiers at this base, though, had no time to feel devastated. The Captain grabbed the walkie-talkie once more, screaming new orders into it to get the cannons back and ready and shoot them down, Paul contacted the plane once more and demanded in a voice filled with strained calm that the plane had to turn around and the last man in the room ran for the door, damning the rest to Hell as long as he could survive.
"Alexander, get the cannons ready, canons ready."
"I demand you to turn away, and do it now-"
"No, this is not a false alarm-"
A plane got in sight in the window turning towards the west, its white hull promising destruction and death.
"'Pre'sent from Rossija," the radio said just as something dark fell out from the side of the white monster, falling towards the ground just 40 feet from the tower where they sat, falling directly towards the tanks and cars residing on the grounds. And then the plane was gone, flying over their heads with enormous speed, the sound a roar of massive, working engines.
"Russia?" Paul mumbled to himself just before the bomb hit the ground and the windows blasted, small splinters of glass raining over them and cutting into their skin and clothes and faces. The shockwave and fire made the tower tumble down and the machinery outside explode, everything turned around, the monitors and computers sparking when they were forced from their sockets and straining their wires, making them burst and creating even more fire.
Paul screamed as he flew through the air along with the machinery, chairs, walls. He screamed and screamed, feeling as though his lungs were bursting as he screamed, but he could not stop. He screamed… but he could not hear the scream. Blood poured out of his ears, fell over his face, but he could not hear his scream. He only knew he screamed.
Then the roof finally fell down upon him and the world was black.
October 12th, somewhere in the wild, Zürich See, Switzerland, 10:24 local time
The weather was surprisingly good.
It was October and yet the sun was shining and there were not a single cloud in the sky. The water of the lake was calm and beautiful, glittering slightly in the sun like small pearls. Liechtenstein could remember when she had been by the lake at this very spot for some 70 or 80 years ago on a day just like this. The pearls had glittered then, too and she and Vash were still just about to get close. She had asked him if he would make a necklace of those pearls.
He had never answered, but it was one of the few times he had smiled. She knew he had been amused. She knew he had been fascinated by her thoughts. She knew he loved her fantasy. She knew he loved her beauty. She knew he loved how she smiled, how she walked, how she talked. How she would laugh when he was funny even if no-one else would.
She knew she was the most precious thing in his life.
It was a very great responsibility to be everything in someone else's life, but her brother meant a lot to her too, so she wanted to do it for him. She had never met a more lonely soul than her brother. She had learned to get to him, found out how each feeling looked on his impassive face. How he was when he was happy. How the smile was in the corner but not let past. How he even let the good feelings get concealed or destroyed when they tried to break his cover.
She liked when he was happy, and she liked when he actually let the happiness flow into smiles and the occasional chuckle. What she hated, on the other hand, was when he was sad. When the hurtful feelings he was filled with forced themselves past his defenses and into his heart, into the place where they could actually touch him. His face froze and he became a statue of cold, gray stone. He was more silent than normally, and since he never talked that was bad. His eyebrows, the most expressive things on his face, no longer twitched to tell her he was listening, to tell her he was seeing… to tell her he was living.
Yes, how she hated it.
The time when he was most expressive was when he was angered. His whole face would move, his mouth would be pressed tightly together in the few seconds that went before his started yelling and his eyes would change from relaxed to a fierce change between tensely narrowed and dangerously widened. His brows would press together and cause a crevasse in his smooth forehead. It was not bad when he was angry, though. He was never angry with her, and he would calm down the very second she said his name. When she was there the anger was short-lived.
It had taken years for her to understand the sparse body language he used, but it took even longer to gain his trust. And even without trusting her he had protected her against everything. He saved her after WWI and treated her more kindly and with greater care than anyone else she had known. All she really wanted was to see him live, as Hungary lived, as America lived. To see him enjoy life and not seclude himself and only agreeing to do anything with the other countries if his people voted for it.
She wanted to know what had caused him to be like this. The only thing keeping her from doing this was the fact that she feared the answer. All the nations had their baggage, and many of them a baggage so heavy that they had moments of wavering. Liechtenstein was only a small and young country of 300 years, with about 200 of those being an actual nation and life had yet to be that hard on her, but she was not stupid. Not in the least.
It required a lot from her to try and ask him. She had managed to get her courage up a few times, but whenever she took that deep breath and built up everything she needed an alarm in Bern blew off and Vash was needed or an Italian came running through the country with no pants on. It was like one of those bad movies where someone tried to tell their beloved one how much they loved them but a lot of stupid incidents came in between the words.
Except that she did not love her brother in that way, and what they would not begin some kind of perfect tale with a happy ending but rather risk their friendship.
The subject of her thoughts was currently lying on his back and enjoying the lake with her. On her request, of course, but the small softening around his eyes when she asked had showed her he was truly happy about her attempt of contact. He loved to be out in nature, but his work in the government made the time he had in the wild very sparse. She had heard that he had, in the olden days, lived all alone in the middle of the forest and only came to the leaders of The Old Swiss Confederacy or the later alliances between the Swiss cantons when he felt danger approaching.
But this was about all she knew of his past – under what circumstances he lived. Now he had moved close to Bern so he could arrive at the Federal Palace within an hour. But the Zürich See had always been her, and therefore also Vash', favorite place to relax. When he had finally agreed to go on a trip and take a break from his constant working she had said they would go there. It was a lakeside filled with memories, just as the water was filled with pearls.
This was how they had ended up lying here, her staring down at the water, him watching the abnormally clear sky. It was so warm and comfortable despite the autumn month. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he laid there, the evergreen uniform dampened straight and his white hat lying beside him like a small flower of snow white petals. He was so soft, he felt so real, when he was here. It was him, her caring, slightly awkward brother, not the defensive person he was whenever people were around.
She smiled and took his hand in hers by instinct. As expected his body tensed for a moment, but when he turned his gaze to her the awkwardness disappeared from his mind. She was smiling at him. Small softening around his eyes, slight rising of the corners of his mouth. This was what you could call a smile in his case. "Du schuldest mir noch die Halsschmuck,(you still owe me that necklace)" she said, and when the confusion passed his mind and he remembered their conversation from many year past the playful twinkle hidden only for her reached his eyes.
"Ich habe Ihnen bereits so viele gegeben, aber wenn du wirklich willst, kann ich dir in den See werfen. Dann kannst du es selbst finden. (I have given you a lot already, but if you truly want that one I can throw you in the lake. Then you can find it yourself)" He jumped to his feet faster than she was able to feel the 'danger' and took his arms around her waist. He then lifted her off the ground and carried her towards the lake, making her scream in mock-fright and ringing laughter.
She tried to fight him off and even if he held her gently the grip was too strong for her to get loose. They neared the edge of the lake dangerously fast. Her shrill laughter had quieted the animals around them and she was still shaking with chuckles when he set her down in knee-deep, cold water, only fulfilling his threat half-way. The lowest part of her rose colored dress swished over the water when she turned to him, still smiling, and her happiness only increased at the sight of his awkward but small smile.
When she pulled him into a hug she made sure he did not notice how she unpocketed her mobile and threw it in the green grass a few meters away. The hug ended after a few seconds when Vash pushed her backwards gently, the smile slowly fleeing his face, but Lichtenstein certainly was not going to let that happen. She danced a few steps around him, coming closer to shore but in a way that looked innocent to him, and then shoved him with all her might.
His eyes widened and his eyebrows cringed in surprise as he fought to keep his balance. "Merda!(Shit!)" he cursed in Italian when he began to fall, and even Lily took a few steps forward when her push met less resistance than expected. Two small steps of hers later a loud splash was heard and she laughed hard and out loud once more, the bells hiding in her chest ringing too serenely for her vicious act of pushing her brother into the water.
The laughter was soon caught short when something, most likely Vash' armored foot, found the back of her one knee. It pushed her to sideward and made her fall in the water. She felt the soft, muddy earth beneath her shoulder and legs and took a breath of water in surprise, causing her to begin to coughs. Pushing upwards again to breathe she choked in a mix of laughter and coughs, her whole body shaking in pure happiness and bliss.
Beside her the Swiss resurfaced, laughing his rare, rough, barking laugh, too, and then tumbled her over, wrestling her in the few centimeters of water at the lakeside. When he could hear she had coughed enough and was able to breathe properly he began tickling her like was she a child. Her body twisted under his hands, her fingers trying to grab his wrists and stop him from doing it, but all attempts were in vain.
He tried to force upon a face of strictness, but the smile on his face was irremovable. "Wage… Wage es nicht wieder zu machen! (Do… do not dare to do that again!)" he demanded, but the seriousness of his order was destroyed by the chuckles he was fighting to contain. "Verstanden? (Understood?)" It was first when she began nodding fiercely that his hands moved from her body, and despite the laughter hurting in her stomach Lichtenstein was still unable to stop.
He rose and took her up bridal style, taking her out of the cold water. He was finally able to control his face, and the lack of expression replaced his smile. Hers was still broad, though, the goal of the day accomplished. To make her brother feel good for at least a few seconds. No matter how much it saddened her to see him going back to the statue he was to the rest of the world she knew he was more. Inside he was so much more than that.
"Habt ihr zusätzliche Kleidung?(Do you have extra clothes?" he asked while moving up onto their things again and set her on the feet. There it was again, the unselfish care he had shown her ever since they met. Water was dribbling down his evergreen clothes, the uniform nearly colored a total black by the heavy water. His eyes were on the bag she had been sitting beside a few minutes before, then turned to her and tried to make her wet hair look right once more.
She crouched down beside it, her now dark red dress clinging closely to her form and curling around her legs. She was beginning to shiver, so the sense in his words was obvious. A frown reached her face. "Nein, ich habe keine. (No, I do not have any.)" The frown spread to his face, too, the way his eyes narrowed showing worry. She knew him so well. So well. Knew how he loved her, how he wished she would never leave him, how he feared she would disappear.
She was his precious little sister.
The worry about him returned and with it were those questions. What had made him so? What had caused him to be so different when he was with others, when he so clearly was kind and caring and loving? What in his past had caused him to lose his trust in the other countries? "B-bruder?" She was afraid of the answer, but also afraid what would happen if she never got it.
"Ja?" he answered, picking up his rifle and other equipments so they could get to his jeep back to his home. She had to get new, dry clothes, no matter the condition he was in.
"Warum ist-?(Why are-?)" A loud noise came from the skies, stopping her just when she had found the courage. Like all the other times she sought for the answer something got in the way. Their gazes turned upwards, into the blue endlessness, and they found the small form of a plane. It was nothing but a fly in the sky sending out smoke in the atmosphere. The Swiss raised his military binocular, adjusting it to follow the route of the white machine.
His eyebrows twitched in a way that meant bad and then settled themselves in a slightly pained position; out of the normal; possible danger; bad things. He followed the plane with the binoculars a little further and his brows moved anew, going slightly upwards and parting just slightly; thinking, trying to figure something out. "Zut, (damn,)" he cursed, this time using French. His tongue always slipped when he got stressed, and if he was truly angered he sometimes mixed all of his four languages in every sentence when he yelled, making himself impossible to understand.
This mostly happened when France flirtatiously approached Lichtenstein and Switzerland chased him with his gun or when Italy abnormally often forgot his pants on his way from and to Germany. In all cases she found it very funny to listen to, even if she knew he was raged out of his mind.
He let the binoculars fall back around his neck and turned to his little sister. "Mobil?" he asked, most of his face calm but his eyebrows and the corners of his eyes distressed and showing the concern. She nodded and first looked in her pocket. She was surprised to realize it was not there and sat down to look in her bag, only then remembering she had thrown it in the grass to save it from the water. She jumped for it and found it after a little fumbling, then ran up to him and handed it over. "Merci."
She forced the smile away from her face as he pushed in a number and began to speak rapid French into the phone. She caught the name of a Swiss politician, but in the midst of the impossible language she had no idea how to speak she was not even sure she got that right. Whenever he needed to call someone he had to borrow her phone, stubbornly denying that he needed one. He motioned for her to follow and she picked up her bag, following him to the jeep.
He was reacting very harshly on this situation, but when it had to do with the other nations he would often overreact. Now she just hoped this was such a case. That he was just overreacting again.
This is the second chapter. I can speak Danish and English, know the basic rules of German but lacks the vocabulary and I am learning Spanish. This means I will (of course) use the English language when they speak English, but since I am pretty comfortable with written German I will also take the risk of using it. I will use some words wrong, but it should be understandable. As a Scandinavian (I am from Denmark) I may also play with Norwegian and Swedish since they are so similar to my own language.
If I use any other language they speak I will most likely keep it to simple sentences or single words, like my Italian inputs in Italy's rapid speech or the curses I made Switzerland use. I also decided that some of the words were too obvious to translate.
I have not intentionally implied any pairing between any country. The display of love is meant as simply love of siblings (Vash and Lil, Gilbert and Ludwig) and love of a parent (Ludwig to Feli). I do not mind the pairings Geritaly and you not care for Germancest, but I will beg of you not to mention Swiss/Licht - I HATE that pairing due to the purity I see in their relation as siblings.
IMPORTANT NOTICE: Another thing is that the thing in Germany was the first thing happening – then it was actually the scene in Switzerland. The scene in USA happened about twenty minutes after Vash' call. IMPORTANT NOTICE DONE.
And concerning the seven dogs, I have the names, gender and age of all of them here:
Great Dane, female, 10 years, is called Adelgisa (meaning noble pledge)
Boxer, male, 7 years, called Harris (meaning home ruler)
German Shepherd, female, 6 years, called Eika (meaning noble kind)
German Shepherd, male, 5 years, called Medwin (meaning powerful friend)
Boxer, female, 3 years, Clovis (meaning famed warrior)
Dachshund, male, 2 years, called Eberhard (meaning strong boar)
German Shepherd, male, 9 months, called Fredrick (meaning peaceful ruler) (and in daily life Pfoetchen (meaning small paw)).
All names and all of the breeds are German, though the breed Great Dane is called German/Danish (therefore the name, as people from Denmark are called Danes).
Damn I wrote a lot… Now I'll just wish you to enjoy in joy ^^ More Russia in the next