I miss you impossibly

- Is that what you’re wearing to the prom? Seriously, Russland? — Prussia snorts, looking Braginsky over from head to toe with a squinted gaze, folding his arms across his chest. He looks a little out of place in his dark, shabby caftan — where did he get that old thing? — strange pants, thankfully not wrinkled, and absolutely ridiculous boots; a disheveled mess on his head, and a mixture of embarrassment and discontent on his face. - Is that a soldier talking to me? Gilbert, do you ever go out of military uniform? — Ivan repeats the pose and look of Beilschmidt, pressing his lips together. Prussia was once again showing off in a beautifully colored camisole, a neckerchief — probably silk — and a hat even more silly than the whole situation. But, unfortunately for Russia, it suited him well, to the point of chest pain and rapid breathing. Ivan himself was not used to looking like this — European pathos and pretentiousness, shining clothes and plenty of fake compliments. And what did Gilbert see in him? - You’re a five-minute Empire! Won’t your Peter give you more smacks for looking like that? — Gilbert throws his hands up to him as if intending to pray to his God, but in the end he only pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling something in German through clenched teeth, and then comes closer, pulling Ivan by his caftan, — Take off this ugly thing. — Prussia does not wait for a reaction and begins to take off Russia’s clothes himself. The latter only stubbornly does not help, but also does not resist. — Russland.       Gilbert looks at him gravely, arching his eyebrows and yanking his collar too sharply. There’s disapproval and impatience in his bloodshot eyes. - Franz will be there, browbeaten, Hall, for fuck’s sake! If not for me, then at least for friend dress up. — Beilschmidt barely sprays venom without looking into Ivan’s eyes. The man wrinkles his nose and catches Prussia’s hands, removing the caftan himself. Gilbert smirks, but there’s no mirth in it, only mockery and malice. Prussia’s hands clench, noticing how quickly Russia is changing her appearance to an acceptable one. - Not for his sake, Bert, — Ivan says quietly as he walks past Beilschmidt, tossing the handkerchief aside somewhere. Prussia follows him silently, swallowing the caustic comment. ***       Ivan laughs gleefully, ignoring Roderich’s displeased looks. He’s already leaving anyway — he’s taken what he needs and good riddance. Prussia purses his lips in a grin, but it’s more like a smile than all his duty masks put together. Gilbert pours the wine into glasses, gallantly hands it to Braginsky, and with his other hand grabs it, bringing the other man’s cold fingers to his lips, leaving a kiss on them: almost weightless, but so scalding that Russia falls silent and Austria glares disapprovingly through the lenses of his glasses, slamming the door loudly. - You were enchanting, meine Liben. — Gilbert manages to touch his wrist with his lips a few more times before Ivan snorts, taking his hand back, looking at the Prussian from under half-dropped lashes. - Neither do you. I think we’ve really succeeded this time, don’t you? — The candles on the table flutter shyly, feeling like extra witnesses to this conversation, sparking shyly, shimmering red-orange. The men don’t care a bit about it, just like the map of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, all divided and re-divided, thrown somewhere under the table. - I was happy to share this moment with you. - And not only the moment, — Prussia grins, shaking his head and taking his first sip of wine. — Sour, — he says and looks at Gilbert, slowly shifting his gaze from his eyes to his thin lips. Prussia shakes his head and reaches across the table, kissing him at last: greedily, biting to the blood, mercilessly and assertively.       An accidentally touched glass falls and spills scarlet liquid onto the map.

***

- Non-aggression, then? — Russia looks skeptical, examining the stranger’s face. Gilbert shrugs and reaches his hand toward the stranger’s, intending to touch the cold skin with his black gloves, but Ivan yanks him back, stepping away. Beilschmidt clenches his jaws, still producing the intended — much tighter and stiffer than before. - This is the plan. Why do we need war, meine Shatz? You are already my, — the kiss on his fingers is rough and ragged. Braginsky wrinkles his nose and pulls his hand away, hitting Prussia in one fell swoop. A palm print blooms on her pale cheek. - I’m not yours, — Russia declares grimly, ignoring the alien, almost bestial, growl and his own chest pain, as if his heart is about to fall out of his chest again.       Prussia presses her lips together, rubbing her face, and then grins, and there is no love or joy in it again — confidence and knowledge of something Ivan does not yet know. - Not for long.

***

- I hate you, — the gun in his hands doesn’t waver, staring confidently into Beilschmidt’s chest. There’s no scarlet blood visible on the black uniform-neither someone else’s nor his own-but Ivan can feel it, clutching the weapon until his knuckles turn white, until a spasm of lightning runs up his arm.       Somewhere in the background echoes another explosion, the rumble of airplanes, and in his head, the screams and cries of his own people, their pain, their fear. Gilbert smiles, holding out his hand — you might as well grab the gun now. Ivan stares, barely flinching at the gesture. Beilschmidt comes closer, the muzzle resting in his chest, right up to his heart.       A black-gloved hand brushes back the overgrown bangs from the stranger’s eyes, strokes his face and squeezes his chin — it will leave bruises — pulling him closer. Gilbert smells of gunpowder, smoke, and blood. Ivan’s breathing is jerky, as if panting.       Prussia smiles. - Shoot.       A shot rings out.       Ivan missed. ***       Victory feels like the first rain, after a long drought, like a blossoming flower on a desert land.       It’s like a blow under the breath.       Ivan is exhausted, barely standing on his feet, looking attentive, listening to the terms of surrender and breathing through and through — only with his mouth — while his gaze keeps slipping to the Germans. Ludwig is unwavering, but you can see something akin to pain in his eyes. Poor boy, not used to this yet. Pride, wounded pride is in his gaze.       Germany is of no interest to Braginsky.       Prussia holds up better — many wars behind his back, accustomed to many things, but his gaze on Russia does not linger longer than a second, each time looking at a little, afraid to see the whole picture. There are bruises under his eyes, his skin has turned from alabaster to pale, dusty, with pronounced scratches. He stands straight, shoulders squared, but Ivan knows he can do better, that Gilbert is standing only to avoid shaking his brother’s confidence even more — he doesn’t care about his pride anymore — there is no deadly beautiful form, no cocky smile, no attempts to touch Russia.       They listen in silence, sign the same in silence, only the blood in their own ears beats like a drum, and the squeaking of pen against paper — it’s likely to tear.       Ivan looks up and sees something in the red eyes that makes his heart sink. Gilbert lets the mask slip briefly, even more deathly weariness and humility visible.       He knows something again. *** - Prussia is disbanded, — his superior throws as if casually as he walks past.       His heart drops to the floor with a thud. ***       Ivan is pale, standing alone in a shabby old coat that lets in any whiff of wind, looking at the cleaned up grave; his hands are trembling finely, laying a bouquet of white flowers on the cold ground. - There are gone, — barely audible, as if it hadn’t been said at all. — All of them.       Furrowed hair flies into his eyes, the rain settles in small drops on the top of his head and the thin fabric, rolling down the nameless tombstone. Braginsky drops to his knees, soiling his pants in grass and mud, clutching his chest — his coughing rages, blooming red spots on his black glove.       A gust of cold wind mixed with rain brings the smell of gunpowder and blood, settling softly on his fingers, penetrating to the bone. Russia squints, lips touching the corner of the concrete slab. - I miss you impossibly… — The wind blows the hair from the stranger’s eyes, circling his face, — I’m very sick, I’m almost dying… — Russia smiles, touching the flowers with her fingers. There is a tugging in his chest, a tugging to the point of madness, to a guttural howl. Coughing comes with renewed force, blood staining the snow-white buds. — Reminds me of your kisses…       Ivan laughs softly, clutching the stove and his chest — if the heart falls out now, it will never come back, but Braginsky is no longer sure if he needs it so much.       The gusting wind touches the stranger’s lips softly. The tears find no outlet, remaining a lump in his throat and a knot somewhere under his ribs; remaining a reflection of the grave with white flowers sprinkled with blood in his glazed eyes.