Disclaimer: In no way do I own Hetalia-Axis Power.

Herein Lies

Ch2: Faraway Dream

1949, Gilbert woke with a start.

Lying in a crystal casket of a cold basement–probably a mortuary–stripped bare and couldn't move a finger. Being in a coma for two years did that to a body as his internal organs needed time to restart and muscles to regain functioning shape, but the first breath that fogged the clear glass lid was enough to send the alarm, causing armed guards to rush about trying to get the message of a country's revival to their leaders in the shortest notice.

He was moved into a hospital ward after that. Hooked to machines and the likes, with people gibbering what would be nonsense to him a few years ago but now the language were defined as Russian. What his people knew he would know and how his people in general feel he would also feel, just like that. And he managed to clench his fist–the first actual movement since his rebirth–and raged. Because there was boiling anger underneath his people's hopeless faces.

Anger and hate.

At the country of Russia and his people. At the Soviet Union.

But hatred was a privilege of those in power and he was for now a hapless pile. There was nothing he could do apart from clenching his fist again though still, Gilbert refused to submit. It was all he needed to heal and slowly, that's what he did.

And on the forth day he could sit up without any outside help.

Also, on the forth day, Gilbert throttled his doctor with a wire attaching him to the electrocardiograph. Which earned himself visitor-s the following day.

"You harmed my people."

Ivan accused, though not really angered, as he closed and locked the door behind him after his boss left to take care of the paper works considering this newly revived–and overly irascible–country. It was dangerous of any men to coop up the personification of a country as the emotions between countries and their people flow two-ways, and a riot was threatening to break loose as more and more Germans gathered outside the Russian hospital, demanding the return of what should be their title.

"You harmed my people." Gilbert retaliated.

"And I will do so again if you don't calm yourself and call back your populace." The familiar odd glint flashed in those violet orbs, a turn of his head and a slight indicating nod to the side, Gilbert followed the younger man's gaze and saw armed Russian guards drawing guns from his third floor window.

"You have no right to–"

"But I do." Ivan countered, just short of pouting, as he pressed his gloved palm none too gently onto the albino's pale heaving chest. "Königsberg no longer pumps life into your veins, instead herein lies Калининград, which pulsate the existence of Deutsche Demokratische Republik."

"A bunch of crap." Gilbert snarled.

Ivan bit his lower lips. "Why are you so mean to me?" He asked when his hand was ferociously wrenched off by slim fingers that lied about the force they conceal. "I try to play nice like what my boss told me to but still you keep pushing me away."

A thought crossed the white German's mind then, the very same thought in fact as when they faced each other on the field.

So naïve.

But the idea was short lived as suddenly, the bigger man seized him by the upper forelimb and Gilbert winced as rough fabrics dug mercilessly into his naked shoulder. There was a long pause as they stared at each other, with faces so close that the albino could taste the bitter scent of vodka in the blond man's breath, but Gilbert didn't back down even though he knew struggling was in vain with the strong arm that's holding him captive and his sight never wavered as insane fiery glared at him through the viola haze.

"Why?" Ivan demanded. "I just wanted to make friends, but you, of all people, keep ignoring my plead."

So childlike.

"And this is how you repay me." The blond man lowered his tone, obviously implying the murdered doctor of his. "Why?"

So menacing.

Yet Gilbert only smirked, purposely igniting the blond man's ire, which then resulted in a fist ramming into the side of his face and almost dislocating his jaws as leather nicked his cheek. Then Ivan was on him, pinning him onto the bed and suffocating him as the bigger man grabbed his shoulder and neck, slamming the small of his back hard against the headboard and making the white German see stars.

But a shot of gunfire sounded from the outside like an echo of Ivan's wrath was what pulled Gilbert from his daze. The provocation of his people alone drilled enough fury into Prussia as he hooked his fingers onto the dangling plastic tube that's providing him the sugar he needed for survival and pulled, bringing the metal I.V. stand crashing hard upon the nation's head. In the moment of stupor, Gilbert managed to crawl from under the heavy weigh and–wincing from the wail of the ripped skin on his left wrist and the sticky felt of his own blood that's saturating the torn bandages that had used to secure the intravenous needle in place–collapsed on the cold tiled floor.

He was far from being freed though as the next instant the younger man had seized him by his metallic-colored threads, forcing him onto his still weakened limbs. Then there's the sound of cracking–Gilbert hoped it wasn't of his skull–as he was slammed headfirst into the window panel.

"S-stop!" Gilbert coughed, blood streamed from a wound from above his brows and down his cheek, bathing his visions in an eerie scarlet hue and leaving a taste of copper upon his lips.

"Why?" Ivan whispered, voice ghosting over the other man's ear as he pulled back the shorter German's silver hair and exposed the pale necklines. "You still refuse to be my friend."

The glass was shattered on the second go and cuts sank deep across Gilbert's chest and tender belly skin as he were crashed half-way out the window and found himself facing a dangerous drop. The loose garments of the hospital wear were torn and hanging in patches on his hips, and Gilbert could feel the stinging claws of Moscow's low temperature eating at his flesh.

Shouts and screams, from Germans and Russians alike, spread like infection as the people bellow pointed. Many frowning and angered at how their country was treated by the other.

And that's when Gilbert, ignoring the slippery sensation of his own blood, closed his fingers on a small shard of pointy glass before turning and burying it into the blond Russian's garbed forearm.

"You can mock me and you can mock my people...but you cannot do so to my dignity." Gilbert stated assertively. "I'm too awesome for that."

And that's when he was–to many's horror–shoved out the window and hurled onto the solid concrete yards below.

Ivan was shocked as he leaned out the window like a kid caught with broken china in hand, his scarf dangling in the chilly wind in a somewhat helpless meaner.

What have I done?

The former nation of Prussia lay coughing blood–probably with half or more of his bones broken–and splattering the sheet of chaste white a contrasting red. But at least the man was still alive, and it was more than enough for a smile to graze the blond nation's lips.

But still Prussia refused to bend so low.

And as he made his decision, the thought sent ripples round and round, and soon he was answered by a resolute call, which then followed by another and another. And then the gathered Germans made forward, not backing down at gunpoint, not backing down even after the shots were fired and people started to drop.


There were always casualties when countries fought.

And now Ivan was scared.

Not so much for the spill of his people's blood as there were always many, more than many. And he couldn't care less for those whose eyes slowly went dark and fingertips went cold, those that belonged to the man who now didn't even have a proper name.

But because he feared of losing something that was properly his.

And Ivan felt the wound on his arm throbbed in a even more distinguish manner as a young German lady managed to break free from his Russian guard's besiegement and gently heaved the fallen former nation onto her shoulder.

Before disappearing behind a cranky car door, Gilbert turned and gave him the finger with a slight smirk painted on his face. And the albino left under the protection of his men, with the destination of somewhere outside Moscow in mind, somewhere away from Russia. Probably in Berlin.

But Ivan's wide innocent eyes never left as the car drove away.

Because it carried someone that rightfully belonged to him.