[FIC FILL] TREMOR
Oct. 12th, 2009 02:15 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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hetaliasunshineTITLE: Tremor
RECIPIENT: Wepe
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Prussiacest. War of the Austrian Succession Prussia / WWII Prussia. Also some Fritz/Prussia and hints of Germany/Prussia in there too.
RATING: MA / NC-17
NOTES: There are a lot of psychological things at play here. The writing style is experimental, so here's to hoping it isn't too confusing. Translations and author's notes are at the end.
SUMMARY: Gilbert comes to know the strife of war on a massive scale, and he looks to himself for all of the comfort and all of the answers he needs.
Tremor.
He is saying hello to a dead man who isn’t even here in the first place.
Gilbert; Prussia – is saying hello, how are you, sorry your body got dragged off to a bunker somewhere. The bombs, you know, nobody wants to see you hurt.
Sorry you can’t be here. Must be lonely in there. Lonely and cold. Must suck, right?
Wish I could say hi to you in person.
Wish they could stick you in here after the war’s over.
Hope they do.
Hope this place is still standing. Be a fucking waste if it wasn’t.
I gotta go. Say hi to ya again soon, alright?
Months later, and Gilbert’s saying hi again, out in the vineyard again, curled up on the grass again, dozing. He doesn’t care if his uniform gets dirtied. It doesn’t feel like him. Not the clothes; not the insignia.
You wouldn’t believe all that’s been going on, Fritz. People getting burned; people getting gassed; people starving everywhere you go. The Jews and the – it’s fucked up, it’s just fucked up.
Can’t believe shit like this is happening. You wouldn’t have stood for it.
Gilbert rolls over and sees a plainclothes man walking in the distance. He rolls back. Doesn’t care if anyone comes near enough to listen.
I can’t stand being around the politicians anymore. None of ‘em want to do fucking anything.
Makes me sick.
Gilbert rolls over. He sees the man drawing nearer. His hair is white, which is strange, ‘cause he’s too straight-backed for an old guy. But with the distance, it’s difficult to tell.
He rolls back. He isn’t in a mood for conversation.
I think I’ll pick a regiment and get the fuck away from this place. Go fight with Russia for a while.
It’ll be fun. Like old times.
Gilbert hears footsteps crackling the grass. He doesn’t turn around. Just pretends to play dead, and hopes that maybe the stranger will go away.
“Does he make you feel alright?”
The words aren’t what startle him. The stranger’s voice does.
He should know.
He’s been listening to it for the past half-hour.
Gilbert glances back, hand on his gun holster, and says he’s fucking dreaming.
“No,” The not-stranger says.
I’m hallucinating.
“You aren’t.”
England’s rubbing off on me.
“I’m not a ghost.”
Then who are you?
“You tell me.”
Sitting in the train car, shoulder-to-shoulder, you could have thought they were twins. One in military dress; the other in a plain dress shirt and plainer slacks.
The uniformed one looks less than happy to see the other there again.
I don’t need you around to remind me that I’m alone in my own company.
“Shut it. I’m not following you ‘cause I want to – I’m following you ‘cause I don’t know this place.”
Gilbert sighs, rolls his eyes, and rests his head against the rattling windowpane. To his twin, it’s quieter. To him it’s louder.
This place is Germany.
“Yeah, I figured that much.”
And this place might not even be ours anymore in a couple of years.
“You’re at war.”
How d’you figure that? Gilbert snaps. He’s caught a glimpse of the uniform in the mirror of the wall opposite and quickly averts his eyes.
We’re being led by a fucking madman.
“Tell me. Tell me about him.”
Gilbert does.
Over hours, Gilbert does.
About what kind of guy his boss is.
About how this shitstorm started.
About how much the daily losses make his muscles ache.
About how there’s no end in sight.
Gilbert mentions his brother too, and when his companion asks about that, he scoffs.
He’s going to take over, Gilbert explains.
“Don’t talk like that.”
It’s fucking true. He’s stronger. He knows how to actually control himself. He’s almost as good with tactics as me. And I’m gonna get annexed by Russia anyways.
“Is that where you’re going?”
Yeah. If I’m gonna die, I wanna take him down with me.
There is no reply to give to that. So Gilbert decides to get drunk off of whatever shit they serve on this train. He isn’t a rowdy drunk anymore.
Prussia watches him slip down, down into slumber that the momentary peace has granted him. Watches, just watches.
He’s less than happy.
Prussia pokes his head 'round a barn-post of some old abandoned farm somewhere. No idea where he is; no idea whose country this belongs to. Borders change so much through the centuries.
Battles won, battles lost, land seized and forfeited.
Gilbert looks like he’s lost one.
He’s wincing as he walks, and when walking, his posture’s wrong.
Prussia helps him into the farmhouse and the bed with its violet sheets.
Gilbert lets him.
So too does Gilbert let himself be stripped down and his wounds be tended to. He did have the sense to steal some bandages and painkillers from one of the medical kits before coming.
While they wait for the drugs to begin their work, Prussia flips his counterpart over and offers to give him a massage.
Gilbert obliges.
Prussia takes care, great care not to agitate the slices on his forearms, nor the bruising on his ribs. One of his men had bowled him over into a barbed wire fence in a moment of panic, he explains. Clumsy asshole.
Prussia simply laughs and tells him, “It could have been a horse that trampled you.” Gilbert doesn’t talk while Prussia continues with his ministrations, so he asks him, “Does that feel good?”
That gets a groan out of him. The massage has made him inarticulate.
There, laying there, stretched out there, being forced to nuzzle the pillow with every rocking movement, Gilbert has ceased to feel human. What he feels like is a wolf back from the hunt, resting and weary. A wolf that’s gone hungry.
Prussia must see some flash of the hunger in him, because he’s rolled him back over and goes reaching for his cock.
Gilbert doesn’t stop him.
He’s too, too weak to even make his hips rise up to meet the hand, but Prussia understands this – goes to working him with firm strokes; long strokes. Gilbert mewls into the pillow he’s smothering his face with. It looks white. The pillowcase is violet, but his eyelashes make it white.
Gilbert bites down on the pillowcase as he comes, and he isn’t surprised that the orgasm passes him right by. He barely even feels it.
His eyes open fully as he lets go. Gilbert blinks three times, and glances once down at his body.
He gags.
The violet and the white make him sick.
Off the field and back in his homeland; back in good health, Gilbert listens to Prussia apologize over a beer.
It’s fine, forget about it.
Prussia won’t forget about it. All he wants to do is smack Gilbert until he finds some sense.
Drinking isn’t fun anymore.
Fighting isn’t fun anymore.
Sex isn’t fun anymore.
What was he turning into?
Prussia doesn’t want to be the man in front of him. Doesn’t want to turn into that.
He says it outright. “Where’s your backbone?”
Gilbert’s hand clenches tight around his drink.
What.
“Your backbone. Holds up your head, where your ego’s supposed to go.”
I still have an ego.
“I’m not seeing it. Where?”
The glass to his lips, Gilbert drinks it down, down with difficulty. There’s a lump in his throat that won’t go away.
Prussia leans in, closer. “You’re letting bad beer and bad sex and a couple scratches get you down.”
It’s not the same. These aren’t just scratches.
“Scratches and burns. Doesn’t make a difference.”
Gilbert wants to mumble yeah, yeah it does, and also something like you don’t have a boss who’s shoving thousands of your people into ovens. But he doesn’t.
He does, instead, ask to know what the hell Prussia wants to do about this.
“I can help with the sex,” he replies, jovial as anything.
Mid-sip, Gilbert coughs and sputters. In an unseen farmhouse, fine. Here, surrounded by his fellow officers, is not the place to be discussing this.
No, he says. It’s not allowed.
“Under whose orders?”
My boss.
Prussia grins a grin with some of that old world fucking flare. Gilbert didn’t know how much he missed that ‘til he sees it.
“Fuck your boss. Or I will. Honest to God or the devil or whatever, I will. Wonder if he’d scream.”
With a mental image that priceless, there is no denial in the face of laughter. Prussia joins in and they’re both laughing, the amusement multiplied under the alcohol haze.
Wonder what he’d think if he knew half the nations out there were gay.
“Oh, but you wouldn’t he fucking another nation.”
True.
“You want to?”
The answer is thoughtless and immediate.
Yeah.
Smile-in-smile, they depart.
Out of uniform, sunk down into a decaying armchair, Gilbert is carrying some of the residual discomfort that had plagued him last time. As he comes over with a pillow to set at his feet, Prussia laughs.
“Calm down,” he orders him as he takes a seat side-saddle. “I know what ya like, and I’m going to give it to you. All of it.”
I – I don’t... it’s been a while.
“Too long.”
Yeah. Too long.
“Relax,” and Prussia smacks Gilbert on the thigh. Neither of them are pleased with the flinch, but Gilbert is the first to frown.
The frown is gone as soon as Prussia puts his tongue on him. Then it’s a gasp; a sharp inhale that can only intensify as he watches Prussia pull on a weathered leather glove and touch him with that too.
Lied, lied, you lied. This is too light. You said you were gonna give it to me.
Prussia laughs again - laughs against him, and that feels just delightful. More licks come, slow torturous things that may have been unendingly frustrating if not for the kisses to his cockhead. Deep ones, with plenty of tongue. French kisses.
“Didn’t say I was gonna give it to you right away.” The texture of the glove cradling his balls is dry, dry – so unlike that tongue or those smiling lips blowing across his slickened skin. When one of the breaths turns into a whistle and a note, Prussia follows it up with a few more in cheery melody. “This remind you of anyone?”
It does. That whistling is a flute, and he knows that tune. He knows that song. Most of all, he knows that musician.
F-Frederick...
Prussia stares up to admire his older self; his self that’s forgotten about this man who lead – is leading – him to greatness. The Kingdom of Prussia, he used to be. The Kingdom of Prussia, he is.
More of the licks, soft suckles, choked noises that aren’t him and the melodic humming that is, and Prussia finds an idea. Casts around in his mind for the words, foreign on his busy tongue, and lets them flow free.
“Mon Prusse,” he murmurs in a higher register and a loss of some of his typical staccato pacing. “Mon beau Prusse glorieux.”
Gilbert whines, desperate-whines. French. Not France’s – Fritz’s. France purrs. Fritz, he hums.
His hips seem desperate too, arching up; forward; deeper into Prussia’s welcoming mouth. The hum and the BF 109-quick bloodflow combined make his body resonate; thrum with power-line vibrations.
No. No, that’s wrong. Electricity didn’t exist back then. Gilbert vows to stop thinking about anything but the French and the touch.
“Mon Prusse, le vainqueur.” Prussia takes him in, swallowing and pumping with his gloved fist, speaking quiet praises in between. “Mon Prusse, le victorieux.” Slides down Gilbert in a deep suck, and slides his voice down breathy and doting.
“Grandis fort pour moi, mon grand nation.”
Je... Je suis fort, mon roi.
At that moment, Gilbert sounds and looks anything but strong. He’s undone, hips and stomach and breath and cock twitching in spasms. His eyes are static and glazed over and focused not on Prussia but on the wall; the white wall splashed with radiant silver and gold from the curtains and the sunset.
It’s fucking beautiful.
Prussia thinks the same about Gilbert after he’s swallowed him down and lapped the rest up, easy, easy. Listens and looks at Gilbert’s shaky breaths begin to stabilize. There is beading moisture gathering across his taut stomach. Prussia laps it from the fine, fine line of hair travelling right below his navel.
That’s beautiful too.
Gilbert goes to visit his brother. He’s been dodging paperwork in clear favor of front-line action. So now they talk men; talk weapons; talk tactics. Together.
Prussia said that he would stop by on their meeting later to greet Ludwig.
Gilbert is in a rare good mood, and Ludwig is gravely concerned about the figures and the maps he’s poring over.
The optimism balances things out.
When Prussia shows, Ludwig doesn’t notice.
Hey, Ludwig? This is... well, it’s me. From Fritz’s time, you remember? You were just a kid, but you should remember.
Gilbert points to the doorway, and Ludwig follows the point.
“Yes, I remember.” Prussia waves to him. It takes Ludwig a long time to wave back. Prussia says hello and Ludwig says nothing.
He goes back to the fan of papers on the map-table, his jaw muscles clenching and unclenching in irregular rhythm.
Gilbert decides he doesn’t like that. Decides he doesn’t like that at all.
“I know what you want,” Prussia says, on his back and looking up at Gilbert; up at Gilbert’s ceiling.
Gilbert, above him, looks down at the expanse of all-but-naked flesh.
I want you.
“No.” Prussia goes to sit up and Gilbert sits up with him. He touches the black sleeve, feeling coarseness under his fingertips. The French were right. The German uniforms really were made from horrible fabric.
“You want control. You want what I have.”
The affirmation in the tiny incline of his head means that Gilbert may be spared speaking.
“Take it.”
Gilbert’s shock meets Prussia’s desire, and the shock gives in first.
He takes through biting and scratching and throwing him to the floor; Gilbert takes by pressing a gun to Prussia’s temple and hissing every insult he’s heard his officers say to the soon-to-be-dead. Prussia doesn’t know them, most of them, but he knows them for what they are.
Adrenaline-giddy from the play, Prussia chuckles. “I’ve never heard a man speak like this man before.”
Gilbert stops only once he’s satisfied enough to remove the jacket. Prussia, bruised and grinning, helps him the rest of the way.
He falters when he reaches the Iron Cross.
Gilbert takes the chain off his neck and loops it around Prussia’s.
Prussia lies down and touches the chain; fingers the cross as Gilbert starts fingering him too. Opens him right up, and he opens so, so easily. Prussia’s started sighing as he lazily taps the edges and the corners.
You look good.
“Mm,” Prussia purrs. “Say it.”
You look good.
“Louder.”
You look too good. It’s making me want you so badly.
Prussia nuzzles the pillow as Gilbert strokes his ego; strokes him from inside. He spreads his legs in ready invitation.
With some help from a jar of petroleum jelly, Gilbert readily accepts.
He holds up one of Prussia’s legs as Prussia holds him, clenching his grip as Prussia clenches. It’s been so long since this, the heat’s enough to make him burn. With the slightest of movements, Gilbert feels that spark drop down from his stomach to the soles of his feet.
Gilbert’s had enough of cruelty to fuck Prussia like he usually would. He doesn’t know why; can’t explain it, but he wants this to be smooth. Smooth enough to make it simmer. When he can feel the heat rise and start to boil over, Gilbert turns it down.
Prussia doesn’t mind that. He, who has self-control much better than his other self, keeps the movement going with his hand on his cock whenever things go still.
One of these times, Gilbert is awed by how beautiful the cross and only the cross looks on him.
Prussia sees – Prussia sees and strokes himself off to make it even better.
With Prussia writhing on those pleasure-waves, Gilbert takes a hold of his hips and dives in deep.
On Gilbert, the only waves are the ripples of his diaphragm, but these ripples feel so much more powerful than that. These aren’t a pebble in a pond.
These are the earth’s contortions in an earthquake. They bend him and snap him and make immobile his human lungs and human heart.
Prussia pulls him down, and kisses him to see his pulse back.
This is the first kiss that they’ve shared.
At the end of April, Gilbert’s thanking a dead man for being that way, because this is the best moment of his entire fucking life.
There’s the smell of burnt almonds and blood clinging to his clothes, and Gilbert’s cheering in the streets.
His boss was dead.
The Führer was dead.
Ludwig thinks that this should be a cause for mourning, but he hasn’t lived as long as Gilbert has. Gilbert has seen this happen before, happen with his kings, and he’s been praying for the day that it might happen again.
Cheer up, Ludwig, this is a good thing! Gilbert hugs his brother ‘round the waist, happy as he’s ever been or ever will be.
I have to tell the other Prussia!
Ludwig’s arms around him are tentative. His words are more so.
“Gilbert… that other Prussia, he doesn’t exist.”
Gilbert’s heart stills again.
“He was in your mind.”
But I…
Fucked him. Kissed him. He touched me, I could feel it.
Ludwig’s voice falters. “Are you… going to be alright?”
He had been right. The entire time, he had been – Prussia was a hallucination.
But the memories are real, real – real enough to revive his weary pulse.
Gilbert clutches at Ludwig’s back, holding on as tight as he can.
Yeah. Things are going to get better now.
Translations:
(If I messed up on any of these, please let me know. Yes, I know that the words for "Prussia" and "nation" are feminine. I changed them to be more accurate in describing Gilbert.)
“Mon Prusse, mon beau Prusse glorieux.” - My Prussia, my beautiful glorious Prussia.
“Mon Prusse, le vainqueur. Mon Prusse, le victorieux.” - My Prussia, the conqueror. My Prussia, the victorious.
“Grandis fort pour moi, mon grand nation.” - Grow strong for me, my great nation.
“Je suis fort, mon roi.” - I am strong, my king.
Notes:
- There is no set timeline given for this, seeing as it spans at least a year or two. How much time has passed in between each scene is entirely up to the reader's judgement.
- This piece is inspired by the song Goliath, by the Mars Volta. I wanted something surreal to borrow from in little places.
- Ludwig's facial tic was supposedly a habit of Hitler's. I thought it may be an interesting idea for nations to begin taking habits from their bosses after a while.
- There will be an art fill to accompany this story, to be posted once I get it finished in a few days.
RECIPIENT: Wepe
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Prussiacest. War of the Austrian Succession Prussia / WWII Prussia. Also some Fritz/Prussia and hints of Germany/Prussia in there too.
RATING: MA / NC-17
NOTES: There are a lot of psychological things at play here. The writing style is experimental, so here's to hoping it isn't too confusing. Translations and author's notes are at the end.
SUMMARY: Gilbert comes to know the strife of war on a massive scale, and he looks to himself for all of the comfort and all of the answers he needs.
Tremor.
He is saying hello to a dead man who isn’t even here in the first place.
Gilbert; Prussia – is saying hello, how are you, sorry your body got dragged off to a bunker somewhere. The bombs, you know, nobody wants to see you hurt.
Sorry you can’t be here. Must be lonely in there. Lonely and cold. Must suck, right?
Wish I could say hi to you in person.
Wish they could stick you in here after the war’s over.
Hope they do.
Hope this place is still standing. Be a fucking waste if it wasn’t.
I gotta go. Say hi to ya again soon, alright?
~ ~ ~
Months later, and Gilbert’s saying hi again, out in the vineyard again, curled up on the grass again, dozing. He doesn’t care if his uniform gets dirtied. It doesn’t feel like him. Not the clothes; not the insignia.
You wouldn’t believe all that’s been going on, Fritz. People getting burned; people getting gassed; people starving everywhere you go. The Jews and the – it’s fucked up, it’s just fucked up.
Can’t believe shit like this is happening. You wouldn’t have stood for it.
Gilbert rolls over and sees a plainclothes man walking in the distance. He rolls back. Doesn’t care if anyone comes near enough to listen.
I can’t stand being around the politicians anymore. None of ‘em want to do fucking anything.
Makes me sick.
Gilbert rolls over. He sees the man drawing nearer. His hair is white, which is strange, ‘cause he’s too straight-backed for an old guy. But with the distance, it’s difficult to tell.
He rolls back. He isn’t in a mood for conversation.
I think I’ll pick a regiment and get the fuck away from this place. Go fight with Russia for a while.
It’ll be fun. Like old times.
Gilbert hears footsteps crackling the grass. He doesn’t turn around. Just pretends to play dead, and hopes that maybe the stranger will go away.
“Does he make you feel alright?”
The words aren’t what startle him. The stranger’s voice does.
He should know.
He’s been listening to it for the past half-hour.
Gilbert glances back, hand on his gun holster, and says he’s fucking dreaming.
“No,” The not-stranger says.
I’m hallucinating.
“You aren’t.”
England’s rubbing off on me.
“I’m not a ghost.”
Then who are you?
“You tell me.”
~ ~ ~
Sitting in the train car, shoulder-to-shoulder, you could have thought they were twins. One in military dress; the other in a plain dress shirt and plainer slacks.
The uniformed one looks less than happy to see the other there again.
I don’t need you around to remind me that I’m alone in my own company.
“Shut it. I’m not following you ‘cause I want to – I’m following you ‘cause I don’t know this place.”
Gilbert sighs, rolls his eyes, and rests his head against the rattling windowpane. To his twin, it’s quieter. To him it’s louder.
This place is Germany.
“Yeah, I figured that much.”
And this place might not even be ours anymore in a couple of years.
“You’re at war.”
How d’you figure that? Gilbert snaps. He’s caught a glimpse of the uniform in the mirror of the wall opposite and quickly averts his eyes.
We’re being led by a fucking madman.
“Tell me. Tell me about him.”
Gilbert does.
Over hours, Gilbert does.
About what kind of guy his boss is.
About how this shitstorm started.
About how much the daily losses make his muscles ache.
About how there’s no end in sight.
Gilbert mentions his brother too, and when his companion asks about that, he scoffs.
He’s going to take over, Gilbert explains.
“Don’t talk like that.”
It’s fucking true. He’s stronger. He knows how to actually control himself. He’s almost as good with tactics as me. And I’m gonna get annexed by Russia anyways.
“Is that where you’re going?”
Yeah. If I’m gonna die, I wanna take him down with me.
There is no reply to give to that. So Gilbert decides to get drunk off of whatever shit they serve on this train. He isn’t a rowdy drunk anymore.
Prussia watches him slip down, down into slumber that the momentary peace has granted him. Watches, just watches.
He’s less than happy.
~ ~ ~
Prussia pokes his head 'round a barn-post of some old abandoned farm somewhere. No idea where he is; no idea whose country this belongs to. Borders change so much through the centuries.
Battles won, battles lost, land seized and forfeited.
Gilbert looks like he’s lost one.
He’s wincing as he walks, and when walking, his posture’s wrong.
Prussia helps him into the farmhouse and the bed with its violet sheets.
Gilbert lets him.
So too does Gilbert let himself be stripped down and his wounds be tended to. He did have the sense to steal some bandages and painkillers from one of the medical kits before coming.
While they wait for the drugs to begin their work, Prussia flips his counterpart over and offers to give him a massage.
Gilbert obliges.
Prussia takes care, great care not to agitate the slices on his forearms, nor the bruising on his ribs. One of his men had bowled him over into a barbed wire fence in a moment of panic, he explains. Clumsy asshole.
Prussia simply laughs and tells him, “It could have been a horse that trampled you.” Gilbert doesn’t talk while Prussia continues with his ministrations, so he asks him, “Does that feel good?”
That gets a groan out of him. The massage has made him inarticulate.
There, laying there, stretched out there, being forced to nuzzle the pillow with every rocking movement, Gilbert has ceased to feel human. What he feels like is a wolf back from the hunt, resting and weary. A wolf that’s gone hungry.
Prussia must see some flash of the hunger in him, because he’s rolled him back over and goes reaching for his cock.
Gilbert doesn’t stop him.
He’s too, too weak to even make his hips rise up to meet the hand, but Prussia understands this – goes to working him with firm strokes; long strokes. Gilbert mewls into the pillow he’s smothering his face with. It looks white. The pillowcase is violet, but his eyelashes make it white.
Gilbert bites down on the pillowcase as he comes, and he isn’t surprised that the orgasm passes him right by. He barely even feels it.
His eyes open fully as he lets go. Gilbert blinks three times, and glances once down at his body.
He gags.
The violet and the white make him sick.
~ ~ ~
Off the field and back in his homeland; back in good health, Gilbert listens to Prussia apologize over a beer.
It’s fine, forget about it.
Prussia won’t forget about it. All he wants to do is smack Gilbert until he finds some sense.
Drinking isn’t fun anymore.
Fighting isn’t fun anymore.
Sex isn’t fun anymore.
What was he turning into?
Prussia doesn’t want to be the man in front of him. Doesn’t want to turn into that.
He says it outright. “Where’s your backbone?”
Gilbert’s hand clenches tight around his drink.
What.
“Your backbone. Holds up your head, where your ego’s supposed to go.”
I still have an ego.
“I’m not seeing it. Where?”
The glass to his lips, Gilbert drinks it down, down with difficulty. There’s a lump in his throat that won’t go away.
Prussia leans in, closer. “You’re letting bad beer and bad sex and a couple scratches get you down.”
It’s not the same. These aren’t just scratches.
“Scratches and burns. Doesn’t make a difference.”
Gilbert wants to mumble yeah, yeah it does, and also something like you don’t have a boss who’s shoving thousands of your people into ovens. But he doesn’t.
He does, instead, ask to know what the hell Prussia wants to do about this.
“I can help with the sex,” he replies, jovial as anything.
Mid-sip, Gilbert coughs and sputters. In an unseen farmhouse, fine. Here, surrounded by his fellow officers, is not the place to be discussing this.
No, he says. It’s not allowed.
“Under whose orders?”
My boss.
Prussia grins a grin with some of that old world fucking flare. Gilbert didn’t know how much he missed that ‘til he sees it.
“Fuck your boss. Or I will. Honest to God or the devil or whatever, I will. Wonder if he’d scream.”
With a mental image that priceless, there is no denial in the face of laughter. Prussia joins in and they’re both laughing, the amusement multiplied under the alcohol haze.
Wonder what he’d think if he knew half the nations out there were gay.
“Oh, but you wouldn’t he fucking another nation.”
True.
“You want to?”
The answer is thoughtless and immediate.
Yeah.
Smile-in-smile, they depart.
~ ~ ~
Out of uniform, sunk down into a decaying armchair, Gilbert is carrying some of the residual discomfort that had plagued him last time. As he comes over with a pillow to set at his feet, Prussia laughs.
“Calm down,” he orders him as he takes a seat side-saddle. “I know what ya like, and I’m going to give it to you. All of it.”
I – I don’t... it’s been a while.
“Too long.”
Yeah. Too long.
“Relax,” and Prussia smacks Gilbert on the thigh. Neither of them are pleased with the flinch, but Gilbert is the first to frown.
The frown is gone as soon as Prussia puts his tongue on him. Then it’s a gasp; a sharp inhale that can only intensify as he watches Prussia pull on a weathered leather glove and touch him with that too.
Lied, lied, you lied. This is too light. You said you were gonna give it to me.
Prussia laughs again - laughs against him, and that feels just delightful. More licks come, slow torturous things that may have been unendingly frustrating if not for the kisses to his cockhead. Deep ones, with plenty of tongue. French kisses.
“Didn’t say I was gonna give it to you right away.” The texture of the glove cradling his balls is dry, dry – so unlike that tongue or those smiling lips blowing across his slickened skin. When one of the breaths turns into a whistle and a note, Prussia follows it up with a few more in cheery melody. “This remind you of anyone?”
It does. That whistling is a flute, and he knows that tune. He knows that song. Most of all, he knows that musician.
F-Frederick...
Prussia stares up to admire his older self; his self that’s forgotten about this man who lead – is leading – him to greatness. The Kingdom of Prussia, he used to be. The Kingdom of Prussia, he is.
More of the licks, soft suckles, choked noises that aren’t him and the melodic humming that is, and Prussia finds an idea. Casts around in his mind for the words, foreign on his busy tongue, and lets them flow free.
“Mon Prusse,” he murmurs in a higher register and a loss of some of his typical staccato pacing. “Mon beau Prusse glorieux.”
Gilbert whines, desperate-whines. French. Not France’s – Fritz’s. France purrs. Fritz, he hums.
His hips seem desperate too, arching up; forward; deeper into Prussia’s welcoming mouth. The hum and the BF 109-quick bloodflow combined make his body resonate; thrum with power-line vibrations.
No. No, that’s wrong. Electricity didn’t exist back then. Gilbert vows to stop thinking about anything but the French and the touch.
“Mon Prusse, le vainqueur.” Prussia takes him in, swallowing and pumping with his gloved fist, speaking quiet praises in between. “Mon Prusse, le victorieux.” Slides down Gilbert in a deep suck, and slides his voice down breathy and doting.
“Grandis fort pour moi, mon grand nation.”
Je... Je suis fort, mon roi.
At that moment, Gilbert sounds and looks anything but strong. He’s undone, hips and stomach and breath and cock twitching in spasms. His eyes are static and glazed over and focused not on Prussia but on the wall; the white wall splashed with radiant silver and gold from the curtains and the sunset.
It’s fucking beautiful.
Prussia thinks the same about Gilbert after he’s swallowed him down and lapped the rest up, easy, easy. Listens and looks at Gilbert’s shaky breaths begin to stabilize. There is beading moisture gathering across his taut stomach. Prussia laps it from the fine, fine line of hair travelling right below his navel.
That’s beautiful too.
~ ~ ~
Gilbert goes to visit his brother. He’s been dodging paperwork in clear favor of front-line action. So now they talk men; talk weapons; talk tactics. Together.
Prussia said that he would stop by on their meeting later to greet Ludwig.
Gilbert is in a rare good mood, and Ludwig is gravely concerned about the figures and the maps he’s poring over.
The optimism balances things out.
When Prussia shows, Ludwig doesn’t notice.
Hey, Ludwig? This is... well, it’s me. From Fritz’s time, you remember? You were just a kid, but you should remember.
Gilbert points to the doorway, and Ludwig follows the point.
“Yes, I remember.” Prussia waves to him. It takes Ludwig a long time to wave back. Prussia says hello and Ludwig says nothing.
He goes back to the fan of papers on the map-table, his jaw muscles clenching and unclenching in irregular rhythm.
Gilbert decides he doesn’t like that. Decides he doesn’t like that at all.
~ ~ ~
“I know what you want,” Prussia says, on his back and looking up at Gilbert; up at Gilbert’s ceiling.
Gilbert, above him, looks down at the expanse of all-but-naked flesh.
I want you.
“No.” Prussia goes to sit up and Gilbert sits up with him. He touches the black sleeve, feeling coarseness under his fingertips. The French were right. The German uniforms really were made from horrible fabric.
“You want control. You want what I have.”
The affirmation in the tiny incline of his head means that Gilbert may be spared speaking.
“Take it.”
Gilbert’s shock meets Prussia’s desire, and the shock gives in first.
He takes through biting and scratching and throwing him to the floor; Gilbert takes by pressing a gun to Prussia’s temple and hissing every insult he’s heard his officers say to the soon-to-be-dead. Prussia doesn’t know them, most of them, but he knows them for what they are.
Adrenaline-giddy from the play, Prussia chuckles. “I’ve never heard a man speak like this man before.”
Gilbert stops only once he’s satisfied enough to remove the jacket. Prussia, bruised and grinning, helps him the rest of the way.
He falters when he reaches the Iron Cross.
Gilbert takes the chain off his neck and loops it around Prussia’s.
Prussia lies down and touches the chain; fingers the cross as Gilbert starts fingering him too. Opens him right up, and he opens so, so easily. Prussia’s started sighing as he lazily taps the edges and the corners.
You look good.
“Mm,” Prussia purrs. “Say it.”
You look good.
“Louder.”
You look too good. It’s making me want you so badly.
Prussia nuzzles the pillow as Gilbert strokes his ego; strokes him from inside. He spreads his legs in ready invitation.
With some help from a jar of petroleum jelly, Gilbert readily accepts.
He holds up one of Prussia’s legs as Prussia holds him, clenching his grip as Prussia clenches. It’s been so long since this, the heat’s enough to make him burn. With the slightest of movements, Gilbert feels that spark drop down from his stomach to the soles of his feet.
Gilbert’s had enough of cruelty to fuck Prussia like he usually would. He doesn’t know why; can’t explain it, but he wants this to be smooth. Smooth enough to make it simmer. When he can feel the heat rise and start to boil over, Gilbert turns it down.
Prussia doesn’t mind that. He, who has self-control much better than his other self, keeps the movement going with his hand on his cock whenever things go still.
One of these times, Gilbert is awed by how beautiful the cross and only the cross looks on him.
Prussia sees – Prussia sees and strokes himself off to make it even better.
With Prussia writhing on those pleasure-waves, Gilbert takes a hold of his hips and dives in deep.
On Gilbert, the only waves are the ripples of his diaphragm, but these ripples feel so much more powerful than that. These aren’t a pebble in a pond.
These are the earth’s contortions in an earthquake. They bend him and snap him and make immobile his human lungs and human heart.
Prussia pulls him down, and kisses him to see his pulse back.
This is the first kiss that they’ve shared.
~ ~ ~
At the end of April, Gilbert’s thanking a dead man for being that way, because this is the best moment of his entire fucking life.
There’s the smell of burnt almonds and blood clinging to his clothes, and Gilbert’s cheering in the streets.
His boss was dead.
The Führer was dead.
Ludwig thinks that this should be a cause for mourning, but he hasn’t lived as long as Gilbert has. Gilbert has seen this happen before, happen with his kings, and he’s been praying for the day that it might happen again.
Cheer up, Ludwig, this is a good thing! Gilbert hugs his brother ‘round the waist, happy as he’s ever been or ever will be.
I have to tell the other Prussia!
Ludwig’s arms around him are tentative. His words are more so.
“Gilbert… that other Prussia, he doesn’t exist.”
Gilbert’s heart stills again.
“He was in your mind.”
But I…
Fucked him. Kissed him. He touched me, I could feel it.
Ludwig’s voice falters. “Are you… going to be alright?”
He had been right. The entire time, he had been – Prussia was a hallucination.
But the memories are real, real – real enough to revive his weary pulse.
Gilbert clutches at Ludwig’s back, holding on as tight as he can.
Yeah. Things are going to get better now.
~ ~ ~
Translations:
(If I messed up on any of these, please let me know. Yes, I know that the words for "Prussia" and "nation" are feminine. I changed them to be more accurate in describing Gilbert.)
“Mon Prusse, mon beau Prusse glorieux.” - My Prussia, my beautiful glorious Prussia.
“Mon Prusse, le vainqueur. Mon Prusse, le victorieux.” - My Prussia, the conqueror. My Prussia, the victorious.
“Grandis fort pour moi, mon grand nation.” - Grow strong for me, my great nation.
“Je suis fort, mon roi.” - I am strong, my king.
Notes:
- There is no set timeline given for this, seeing as it spans at least a year or two. How much time has passed in between each scene is entirely up to the reader's judgement.
- This piece is inspired by the song Goliath, by the Mars Volta. I wanted something surreal to borrow from in little places.
- Ludwig's facial tic was supposedly a habit of Hitler's. I thought it may be an interesting idea for nations to begin taking habits from their bosses after a while.
- There will be an art fill to accompany this story, to be posted once I get it finished in a few days.
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