Come Home Comrade [Prussia]

Germany, their best strategist, the brilliant mind behind their successful offensives, was locked away behind enemy lines. He was surely being starved, laughed at and tortured for information at this very moment. His ally, his little brother. It made Gilbert’s blood boil, made him want to call up the German army that he was in charge of in his brother’s absence and launch an attack on the man who had captured him, show Ludwig’s captor that Germans weren’t a people to be messed with.

Never one to think through decisions thoroughly, much less when he was driven by protective instinct, Gilbert had done just that.

He was confident that his brother wouldn’t tell Ivan anything. Ludwig had a high pain tolerance and wouldn’t crack easily, but knowing that didn’t diminish Gilberts anger, didn’t halt the brutal attack he was currently leading against Ivan. After all, it was not the risk of losing vital information to Russia that had him seeing red; it was the fact that Ivan had laid a hand on his brother.

Prussia had wanted nothing to do with this war when it started. He had wanted to focus on his people, had wanted to do his best and become stronger so his people could finally catch up to the West. His only reason for joining the United Allegiance was to protect his brother and his brother’s people that were just as much his own. So finding out that their worst enemy, the person who had provoked conflict and tension between him and Ludwig many years ago, had captured his little Bruder was like a punch to the gut. He felt like he had failed his brother and the only thing he could do to make up for it was to make Russia hurt.

He could see Ivan in the distance through the periscope, walking alongside his massive tanks like he was out on a casual stroll in the park. The sight of him was infuriating. Gilbert balled his hands into fists, knuckles going white with the force, and fired at Ivan again. His men did the same, the familiar sound of explosions and the soldiers’ panicked shouting filling the gunpowder-smelling air.

The enemy’s tanks stopped, but Ivan continued forward. Nations stuck out to other nations like a sore thumb and Prussia was not surprised when Ivan finally came to a stop next to his tank. He had wanted to be found anyway. Ivan’s mocking words brought his anger bubbling to the surface again, his heartbeat increasing and chest rising and falling with growing speed. Making a decision, he opened the hatch and climbed out of the large tank.

He hated the way Ivan spoke, the kind tone he always used. It didn’t make him more likable and it certainly didn’t fool anyone. Ivan was anything but kind.

“I can’t say the same about you,” Gilbert spat in response, red eyes saturated with the pure hatred he felt towards this man he had once been close to. The albino jumped down to the ground, leaving only 6 feet between them. He stood sharp and rigid before him, everything he was feeling showing on his expressive face. Prussia had always been bad at hiding his emotions. “Yes, thank you for the thoughtful gift,” Gilbert responded, voice strained with the effort to not attack him right then and there, “I would say I have an awesome gift for you in return, but I'm afraid what I plan to give you wouldn’t be considered a gift by many.”

They say giving makes you happy. That the knowledge of having contributed to someone’s happiness is so satisfying that you make yourself happy in the process. But there is also something called Schadenfreude and seeing Russia in pain wouldn’t just make him happy, it would make him fucking ecstatic.

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Tag: Russia - Ivan Braginsky

Ivan’s sickeningly sweet tone and gentle expression only served to irritate Gilbert further. The Russian’s calm, almost nonchalant composure in the face of his justified anger was incredibly antagonizing and if there was one thing Gilbert deeply disliked, it was not being taken seriously. Ivan knew him well enough to use it against him. Of course he would. It was a surefire way to get Gilbert angry and his anger seemed to be giving the tall Russian great amusement.

Gilbert fixed Ivan with a long, cold stare, fists tightening at his sides and his breathing speeding up with his rising fury. Ivan’s taunting words had struck a cord with him. The long, painful years he had been forced to spend with Ivan away from his brother and his friends changed him for the worse, but had not taken away his fighting spirit. Sure, the kingdom of Prussia was no more, but that didn’t automatically make him, Gilbert, useless. Why would he still be here if he didn’t still have a purpose in this world?

He hated Ivan for thinking him weak, but most of all, he hated how familiar this felt. It was almost like he was back in the Soviet Union, arguing with Ivan about the degrading jobs he forced him to do and for treating him like a prisoner. It felt almost comforting in its familiarity, and he quickly pushed the thought to the back of his mind, locking it away with the few pleasant memories he had from that time. As painful as it had been to be under Russia’s rule, he couldn’t deny – at least to himself – that it hadn’t all been awful. Sometimes, when he felt lonely in the serene quiet of his basement, he even found himself tumbling into Ostalgie. But shame always followed afterwards, leaving a strong bitterness in his mouth that tasted like cheap vodka and solyanka.

As Gilbert stood there, looking into the violet eyes of the person who had kidnapped his brother, he didn’t feel ostalgic. All he felt was contempt. “Don’t mock me, Flower Boy,” Gilbert snarled, tossing strands of white hair out of his pale face with a shake of his head. “Have you never heard the expression ‘even a blind pig may occasionally find an acorn’? Not that it applies to me. I can hurt you and you know it.” Gilbert needed Ivan to take him seriously. What kind of distraction would this be if Ivan decided he wasn’t a real threat and simply returned home? “In fact, I fully intend to,” Gilbert added with a smirk, and with that, he whipped out his gun and aimed it at Ivan’s broad chest, the steady finger on the trigger daring Ivan to take another step closer.

Since Gilbert was reunited with his brother and became part of Germany again, he had not seen real loss. His brother was an excellent strategist and ran their beautiful country with utmost care and devotion, he was strong and a big asset to the Allegiance in the ongoing war. Unless Germany lost, Prussia would not lose, so instead of rising to Ivan’s bait, the albino simply snorted. He could still lose individual battles of course, but a loss that truly mattered and made a large impact on the eastern part of Germany would not come easily, because his little brother had his back. Much like Gilbert always had Ludwig’s back. He was an awesome big brother like that.

It was for Ludwig that he was here today, gun pointed at Ivan as he challenged the tall, enigmatic man to come closer so he could observe every twitch and shift of his face as he put a bullet in his big, cold chest. But Gilbert couldn’t scare him as easily as when they were little. Ivan was no longer that chubby little crybaby whose only wish was to have friends; he was a big and powerful nation that instilled fear in most. But Gilbert wasn’t that afraid of him anymore. And even if he were, he would still be standing here, pointing his gun at Ivan despite being at a disadvantage. For his little brother.

He didn’t need to hear it from Ivan to know that the taller man could harm him more than Gilbert could. He was already perfectly aware of this fact. Ivan had survived being blow up. Had the same damage been inflicted on Prussia, he would not have been able to recover nearly as quickly, but he didn’t care. He had come here with the intention of hurting Ivan for what the man did to his brother and that was exactly what he was going to do, consequences be damned. He was no stranger to pain, and certainly no stranger to the kind delivered by Ivan. Hell, it would be a trip down memory lane.

“You’re right,” Gilbert answered with a brusque nod and took a step back, putting more space between himself and the man whose house he had once called a home, as forced as it might have been. He hadn’t stood this close to Russia since the fall of the Wall and it felt… strange. That was the only way he could describe it. Strange and conflicting. A part of him wanted to get as far away from Ivan as humanly possible, but there was another part of him, a part he tried to suppress with varying degrees of success, that wanted to come closer and wrap itself in the familiarity of Ivan’s smile. He even missed Ivan’s constant blabbering about his stupid flowers sometimes.

The conflicting feelings Gilbert felt towards Ivan were making him frustrated with himself, a frustration that was only adding to his anger. “I know you can probably hurt me more than I can hurt you, but you know what, Ivan? It’s fucking worth it,” he snapped, moving his gun to the side so that he was no longer pointing it at Ivan, instead aiming at a group of Russian soldiers standing by one of Ivan’s tanks. He did not take his eyes off Ivan as he shot them down one by one. His lips were curved into a menacing smile as he did so, not because he particularly enjoyed taking lives (he didn’t) but because he hoped it would irritate the tall Russian.

“How did that feel, Vanya?” he chuckled sardonically, raising a pale brow. “Did it tickle?” If he was going down, he was intent on taking a piece of Ivan with him.

Gilbert knew he had made Ivan angry. It had been his plan all along, in a way. If Ivan was here, dealing with him, he wouldn't be in Russia torturing Ludwig for answers, or for whatever sadistic reason he had abducted him. People often claimed Gilbert lacked common sense, social skills, tact, but no one could accuse him of being a bad brother. He would walk through fire for Ludwig, had taken the punishment of dissolvement for Ludwig, and he stood here now, straight and tall despite the pain that surely awaited him at Ivan's hands – for Ludwig.

Nothing Ivan could do to him was worse than the worry he felt for his little brother. He had helped raise him, and even though Ludwig had grown into a strong and capable country over the years – even stronger than Gilbert himself – he felt responsible for him. After all, his sole reason for joining this war was to aid his brother. Gilbert had failed to protect him, but he could still exact revenge on the person who had caused him harm, and hopefully in the process buy Ludwig some time to escape or be rescued. Gilbert didn't know if the Allegiance had a rescue plan. He hadn't talked to the Allegiance members, instead going after after Ivan the minute he found out Ludwig was gone, but if no rescue mission was in the works, he would march over to Russia and save Ludwig himself, somehow.

Of course, that would be easier to accomplish if he could finish Russia here and now, but the odds were not in his favor.

Speaking was difficult with Ivan's iron grip around his throat, but Gilbert tried anyway, "If you make it home, you fat fucker!" He kicked out with his legs, face growing redder as he struggled to breathe, hands coming up to his own neck to try to pry Ivan's hands off but the man’s grip was too tight. Ivan's taunting words were infuriating, and Gilbert cursed himself for having dropped his gun in surprise when Ivan lifted him off the ground. However, it pleased him to hear that Ludwig had not been cooperating. Ludwig shouldn't give Ivan the satisfaction. Much like he would refuse to give Ivan the satisfaction of hearing him beg. He would rather pass out from lack of oxygen.

"You think... you are... so scary, Ivan," he gasped painfully, "But I'm... not scared... of you." Gilbert lowered his hands and ceased his struggling to prove his point. But it was not completely true. Part of him would always feel a bit intimidated by Ivan, the unpleasant memories from his time as prisoner in Russia's bleak home sneaking up on him more often than the good, but in that moment, there was no fear in Gilbert's eyes. He was uncharacteristically still, except for the fire dancing in his irises, a silent challenge. "Do it. You know... I'd die for him... in a heartbeat."

If he could just reach his gun...

His throat was burning, droplets of sweat rolling down the side of his face, but he forced the words out, needing to provoke the other man into action. If Ivan pushed him to the ground, he could grab for his gun. "Do you... have someone... who'd be willing to... die for you, flower boy?" A smug smirk inched its way across Gilbert’s lips. He already knew the answer.

Gilbert was no stranger to loneliness. He had felt it often growing up, watching Austria and Hungary’s easy friendship from afar, wishing he could be included, and later observing Ludwig’s growing closeness with Feliciano and Kiku with envy. Gilbert often included himself, barging in like a tornado demanding attention from the other nations, pestering them until they had no choice but to give him the time of day. But he wished they would involve him because they genuinely wanted him there and not just because he was too loud to ignore.

The half century spent in Ivan’s home was the loneliest time in Gilbert’s life. Being dissolved, separated from his brother and forced to live in a home so devoid of sincere love that it consumed your soul was tough, and the time that came after wasn’t much easier. Of course, he was no longer being punished one day and getting his hair stroked lovingly the next, or forced to wear degrading outfits and work low-paying jobs as had been the standard in Ivan’s home, but things were far from perfect. His country was gone but he was still here, like an enclave without much say in anything that actually mattered. He was like a sidekick to Ludwig, backing him up when needed but disregarded for the most part.

Yes, Gilbert was very familiar with loneliness and how painful it could be, which is why he knew to use it against Ivan. The man had voiced his insecurities to him in the past, his fear of abandonment, his concerns that no one truly loved him. Ivan’s confessions that had been whispered into his ear on an uncharacteristically quiet night in Russia were ammunition to Gilbert now, and he would take full advantage of them. Had the situation been different, he might have felt a bit bad for playing on Ivan’s insecurities, but there was no remorse in Gilbert’s eyes when Ivan’s heart fell out of his chest and onto the ground, leaving behind a gaping hole. Gilbert wasn’t sorry, because Ivan had hurt Ludwig. “Hah… he does actually… have a heart. Who knew,” Gilbert whispered, his voice raspy and weak from the increasing pressure against his windpipe. A small gasp escaped his lips when he was pushed hard against the tank behind him, the only sign that it had hurt. He was growing dizzy form the lack of oxygen to his brain, but he remained still, refusing to show it.

Then Ivan started talking…

August 2, 1945. It was a date Gilbert wished he could erase from his memory, the mere mention of it feeling like a punch to the gut. He worked hard to try to forget it, being allied with Britain and America an impossibility with the memory that they had dissolved him and handed him over to Ivan in the forefront of his mind. Gilbert had not forgiven them, would never forgive them for it, but he tried to forget that on that painful day, he was separated from his brother. The threat of a second separation caused his heart to beat fast in alarm.

Gilbert swallowed, attempting to look strong, assuring himself that Ivan couldn’t do this to them again. America, France, Britain and their other allies wouldn't allow it. Ludwig was vital to the United Allegiance. They wouldn’t just let Ivan have him. He wouldn’t let Ivan have him, if it so was the last thing he did before ceasing to exist. “The Allegiance… won’t let you… have him,” he wheezed, “You kept us…. apart… but not… forever.” Because unlike Ivan’s siblings who always tried to get away from him, he and Ludwig would always try to get back to each other.

When he was finally released, he fell to his knees on the ground, coughing and sucking precious air into his thirsty lungs. His hand came up to his pale throat, sore and bruised from Ivan’s grip, massaging the finger-sized bruises. “And you wonder why people don’t like you,” he spat, meeting Ivan’s purple eyes that were so beautiful when they weren’t filled with hate. “You know why people leave you, Ivan? Because you scare them away. They leave because you claim to love them, yet you always end up hurting them.” There was a hoarse quality to his voice, but it did not waver. He was speaking from experience, and it showed in his eyes. “You’re poison.” With that, Gilbert pulled himself to his full height, taking the few steps to where he had dropped his gun and picked it up, but he did not aim it at Ivan. Unless Ivan lunged at him again, he might not need to.

He could do much more damage with words.

Yes, the Allies had let Ivan have him, Gilbert, before. "Me, not Ludwig. They let you have me," Gilbert pointed out, trying but failing to keep the hint of bitterness out of his strained voice. "They do care about Ludwig." He wasn't like the other nations the Allies had chosen to ignore. Ludwig wasn't like Belarus, or Ukraine, or the Baltics, or even him. The Allies had seen a potential in Ludwig that had made him worth saving, and they would want to save him even more now that he had lived up to it. Ludwig's strong economy and position in the war made him too important to lose. If it came down to it, the Allegiance would come to Ludwig's rescue, Gilbert was sure of it. They wouldn't come for him, just like in the past, but for Ludwig they would. That was all that mattered to Gilbert.

His grip on his gun tightened as Ivan spoke, jaw clenching at the irritatingly soft tone that had returned to Ivan's voice. He heard the words but saw no logic in them. "Explain it to me then!" Gilbert snapped, the hand not holding the gun balling into a fist. "Explain to me how locking people in your house and treating them like Scheiße is supposed to make you into a fucking saint instead of a villain, Ivan? How is that supposed to make the world better?" Ivan didn't know what real love was. Gilbert didn't claim to be an expert on the topic, but he knew that you shouldn't hurt the people you love. If you truly love them, you wouldn't want to cause them pain. All Ivan did was inflict pain on others.

"If you think the way you treated us, the things you did to us were acts of love then you're touched in the head," he spat, watching Ivan as he looked upon his wretched heart. Gilbert wished he could just take it in his hand and squeeze it like a lemon. There had been moments, of course, days during his time in Ivan's home that had made him believe, if only briefly, that Ivan truly cared about them. Dinners that were filled with light chatter instead of grave, suffocating silence; autumn afternoons spent reading in the garden; building snowmen together in the winter and cuddling up in front of the fireplace with some hot cocoa afterwards; and those quiet nights, spent in each other's arms...

Yes, Gilbert had seen that Ivan was capable of kindness, but the darkness inside him that compelled him to be cruel was too big a part of him to ignore. It was what made him the villain, and until he learned how one should treat family and friends, he would always be the villain.

Gilbert was about to voice his thoughts when Ivan started walking away, the silent dismissal reigniting Gilbert's anger. "Don't you dare walk away from me, Bignosky! I'm not done with you yet!" he shouted at his retreating back. He finally aimed his gun at Ivan's large, imposing body, but did not pull the trigger despite the finger-sized bruises Ivan had left on his pale neck. Gilbert wasn't a stickler to the rules, but he wouldn't shoot a man in the back. It was cowardly and unawesome, and Gilbert was neither of those things.

Then Ivan stopped and turned his head, the sad smile on his face only agitating Gilbert further. Ivan wasn't the victim here, Ludwig was! "I'm not your fucking 'comrade'!" he growled, the hand that was holding the gun shaking slightly, "Don't call me that when you have my brother locked in some fucking torture dungeon!" Gilbert would have asked him how he would feel if he had kidnapped his sisters and tortured them, but knowing Ivan, he probably wouldn't have cared. After all, Ivan was pretty good at hurting them himself.

Gilbert wanted to shoot him. He wanted to empty the whole clip into Ivan's hulking figure and watch with satisfaction as he fell to the ground, lifeless. Void of life like the home he had forced Gilbert to be a part of.

He suddenly found himself thinking back to when he was a little boy, chasing a young Ivan across the snow-covered fields and cackling loudly at the Russian's distress. The roles had long since reversed. His own behavior back then reminded him of Ivan now, only, with Ivan there was less childish teasing and a lot more physical pain involved. Ivan was sadistic and manipulative, his cruelty masked by seemingly innocent smiles and shy giggles.

Gilbert wanted to shoot him so badly.

Ivan made it easy for him, moving forward until the barrel of the gun was pressed against his massive chest. Gilbert's hand shook slightly, the movement too small to be visible, but Ivan would have felt it, pressed against the gun as he was.

Shooting Ivan would make him feel better, but something was holding him back.

"Nothing," he said absently, red eyes meeting gentle violet. "I don't want you to say a damn thing." It wouldn't matter, because Gilbert wouldn't believe a word coming out of that mouth. Actions spoke louder than words, anyway.

Difficult, Ivan called him. To Gilbert it was a compliment. He had fought for his survival for as long as he could remember, standing up for himself where others might have rolled over, spoken up where others might have been quiet, given twice as he got and grown stronger in the process, if not in body then in mind. Gilbert Beilschmidt prided himself in being difficult.

He was about to state as much when he felt Ivan's touch, gentle like a lover's caress against his cheek. Gilbert leaned into it, a subconscious action. He closed his eyes, feeling the texture of Ivan's gloves against his pale skin, soft and familiar. But his distraction was brief, only lasting for a second. He snapped out of his momentary trance, stepping away from the hand that struck one second and caressed the next.

A blush was creeping across Gilbert's cheeks, his embarrassment to his body's reaction obvious. He was angry, had been for days, and now he was also angry with himself for his momentary weakness. The hand that wasn't gripping the gun came up to his own neck, still marked by Ivan's rough handling earlier. He didn't heal as quickly as the other nations. He pressed down on the forming bruises, the pain serving as a reminder that the man standing before him was the enemy. This was the real Ivan, a man who punched, and strangled, and threatened, and yelled. Gilbert couldn't afford to forget that.

His hand fell to his side, his focus shifting to what Ivan had said.

"I should understand you the most?" Gilbert echoed, laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of that statement, the sound loud and sarcastic. "No, I shouldn't. Because we are nothing alike." Gilbert understood Ivan's ambition. He had been ambitious too, once. He had done many things in his quest for power that he wasn't very proud of, things he had come to learn were wrong or ineffective. But that right there was what set him apart from Ivan. Ivan never learned.

"How about fucking starting by changing yourself?" Gilbert spat, his grip on the gun steadying as he flexed his fingers around it. His voice dripped with contempt, anger, and betrayal when he said, "I hope you lose everything."

Then he pulled the trigger. Once, twice, watching with a smile on his face as the bullets embedded themselves in Ivan's chest. It wasn't as effective as gunning down his countrymen, Gilbert knew, but it was incredibly satisfying.

He fired off a third shot, just because he could.

It didn't make him feel better.