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Chapter Text

Imagine if mankind reached for the stars instead of desperately trying to annihilate each other?— Besame mucho, George deValier.

March 16th, 1938 — Berlin, Nazi Germany

The hallway was silent, save for the muffled sound of lone footsteps on carpet. Austria walked down the dark hallway, holding his head up high as he passed a few guards in black Nazi uniforms.

The nation had gotten used to seeing them in the past few days, yet they still carried the same sense of silent dread that they had when they had marched in Vienna. Their dark uniforms didn't fit the bustling streets of his capital, but in these halls, they fit in perfectly.

The halls of the Reichstag seemed to stretch forever, as if meant to let dread build with every step, as if allowing a person's dread to build while they walked down the long corridors.

Austria had gotten a summons from the man himself, Adolf Hitler, to meet in his office at 15:30. With the Führer’s popularity growing daily, Austria was a little shocked to see how few guards were standing in the halls, the ones who were casting him dark looks, their hands tightening on their guns as if they knew what he was. A ‘Jude,’ as the Germans called him.

Still, they were a little more than a nuisance in the back of his mind while he approached the tall, dark wood doors of Hitler's office. He showed the two guards posted outside the door his official summons; they quickly let him through. The sound of the doors closing echoed through the otherwise quiet office; no one else was in the room except two other men.

It was a nice room, Austria supposed, though the curtains were drawn closed, even though it was the perfect day to have them open. He took in the room quickly, eyeing the dark carpeting that matched the drapes, but his main focus was on the large desk and the man who sat behind it.

Hitler himself was not the most intimidating person to look at; his mustache was ridiculous in the Austrian’s opinion. His blue eyes were like lakes, not as blue and not as deep as the ocean, nor as vast and bright as the sky; instead, they were shallow and murky. The man was sitting in a relaxed position, leaning back in his chair, looking pleased— though with what, Austria didn't know.

The man near Hitler, however, was more intimidating, but in a slimy, odd way that sent a chill up Austria’s spine. He had a pair of glasses set on his odd little nose; behind them, dark blue eyes were locked on Austria, like a cat staring down a mouse.

“You must be the nation of Austria,” Hitler greeted, gesturing to the leather seat on the opposite side of the desk. “Please, sit.”

“Thank you,” Austria responded politely, taking the seat directly across from Hitler, trying to avoid the cold blue eyes he could feel staring at him.

“I understand that you are the personification of Austria, correct?” Hitler asked, straightening a pencil that had gone askew on the desk.

“That is correct.” Austria nodded.

“Well! It is good to finally meet you!” Hitler said with enthusiasm. Something about the humorous tone in his voice made the air feel thicker, as if laced with something.

“This is one of my associates, Heinrich Himmler.” Hitler continued, gesturing to the man next to him, not noticing how tense Austria was becoming.

Austria forced himself to make eye contact with the blue eyes that had been staring him down. “It is nice to meet you.”

Austria greeted, stretching a gloved hand out across the desk. Himmler didn’t respond; he only stared at the hand, the thick air turning sour. Austria retracted his hand after an awkward silence, sinking back into his chair just a bit more.

“Well, onto business!” Hitler said, once again, his voice seemed to be dripping with fake sweetness, like cough syrup. “I will need to work very closely with you now that you have become a part of this great country! I think we both want what is best for our people, yes?”

“That is correct.” Austria nodded. “Though, in the past, most of the time, personifications work with the other personification of the said country they are working with. I could work in contact with Germany-”

“That won’t be necessary.” Himmler cut off, his voice slicing through the air. Unlike Hitler, his voice held no sweetness, whether genuine or not. It was more like a dagger, going straight through Austria’s ear and into his brain.

“We wish to work very closely with you personally,” Hitler told him. “We have realized that there are several that need to be dealt with in your nation, and we would like to help.” The fake sweetness in his voice was so thick that Austria was choking on it.

“That would be nice.” Austria agreed.

“Yes. There are a number of problems within your small state!” Hitler said, smiling. The smile was just as cold as Himmler’s glare, sending a wave of goose bumps up Austria’s arms, yet making him sweat at the same time.

“What problems were you thinking we should tackle first?” Austria asked, struggling to maintain his prim posture.

“There are several. Homelessness, poverty, famine…” Hitler said, waving his hands absentmindedly in the air. The oddly cold smile he had kept on his face disappeared as he looked at Austria. “Jews.”

“W-What?” Austria stuttered.

“Jews,” Himmler answered. Standing up from his chair, he started to make his way around the desk. Austria had to force himself to stay seated instead of bolting up from his chair and running as fast as he could.

“Jews,” Himmler continued. “You know them. The filthy pigs, letting their beards grow long and their dirty blood tainting the pure. I believe there are lots of them causing problems in our place, no?” Himmler asked, placing his hands on Austria’s chair.

The Austrian couldn’t say anything. He was a fish surrounded by two hungry sharks, just waiting to snap their jaws. Himmler leaned down, his face near Austria’s ear.

“Tsk, tsk. Don’t you know it’s rude not to respond?” Himmler asked in a soft whisper. “Or do you Jews just not know manners?”

Austria went as white as a sheet, his heart pounding in his chest. The room was too quiet; he could hear his heartbeat echoing against the walls, bouncing back and ringing in his ears.

“Come now, Himmler! That isn’t how we treat our guests!” Hitler said, his fake voice back on. Somehow, the sweet voice seemed a million times worse than a harsh one. Himmler backed away, coming to stand next to Hitler again.

“Now! Let us treat him like a guest!” Hitler continued. “Let’s show him to his room! We have one especially prepared for you.” The German purred. “Himmler, send for your SS guards to escort Mr. Austria here.”

The SS, the Schutzstaffel. That was when Austria lost his grip on his posture. He stood up quickly, his chair scraping against the wood. Himmler was already walking to the door, his pace calm as he retrieved the guards that had been on watch in front of the door.

The two tall men strode into the room, the footfalls of their boots like hammers hitting metal. Their faces held no smile, only a glint of humor in their eyes as they came marching closer to the Austrian.

“W-What is the meaning of this!” Austria shrieked as the two guards came and tightly grabbed his arms, cutting off the flow of blood to his hands. “Unhand me!”

“Do you not see?” Hitler said, as if the answer was obvious. He got out of his chair and leaned over the desk. “I already told you that I am going to help your state. And to do that, I’m going to need your full cooperation.” The Austrian could smell Hitler’s breath from across the desk, and it smelled just like his voice. Sickly sweet mint, covering up and mixing with something rotten.

“This—this is preposterous!” Austria cried, his arms starting to go numb. “Put me down and let us solve this like the gentleman we are!”

Hitler shook his head, waving a finger like he was scolding a child. “Nein. That is where we differ. I am a gentleman. You,” He said, leaning in a bit closer, his face turning into more of a snarl. “Are a Jew.”

Austria stuttered, trying to find a retort but choking on air instead. Hitler turned around and waved his hand in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Himmler nod and gesture for the guards to follow him.

“Wait! Where are you taking me! I demand to know!” He shouted, struggling in the guard's firm grips. “I am the country of Austria and I-”

Himmler turned around and slapped the Austrian. The sharp burn spread across his face, the red handprint standing out from how pale his skin had become. Himmler grabbed Austria’s chin and leaned in close.

“We do not take orders from Jews,” Himmler told him, his words spreading ice throughout Austria’s bones. He looked at the guards. “Take him to the cell. If he struggles, don’t be afraid to teach him a lesson about German superiority." Himmler gave Austria one last look, triumph dancing in his otherwise dead eyes. The shark had the fish between its jaws.

Himmler turned away again, walking back into Hitler’s office. The door closed with a click, ringing through the quiet hallway. The guards tugged on Austria, but his legs couldn’t move.

He wanted to scream for help. Pride aside.

But still echoing through his mind was the sound of a hand hitting his cheek — so he remained silent.

The guards started moving forward, but Austria didn’t walk —He couldn’t walk. “Move, Jew!” The guard on his left growled, kicking Austria in the shins. The nation fell forward, tripping as he tried to stand.

There were no other sounds as they started walking through the corridors. The Austrian could only hear four things:

One, the sound of the guard's boots, hitting the floor at an even pace. Like a metronome that just kept clicking. Never stopping. Beating slowly as they walked down dark corridors that were only lit with the dim glow of flickering light bulbs.

Two, was his own breathing. It wasn’t like a metronome. It was like a musician who knew no beat, coming rapidly in short bursts.

The third was the sound of his heart beating wildly in his chest. It echoed through his body all the way up to his ears, drowning out any sensible thought he had.

Austria was afraid his heart would give out altogether, the shock finally overcoming his senses. But he continued walking.

What little part of his brain that was still functioning was focused on the fourth sound. Screams. He had been having nightmares lately. The sounds of his citizens being dragged off the streets, beaten up by Nazis. The sounds of men groaning in pain as they were beaten, women crying as they held their children close, only to be dragged away.

The screaming in his mind rose higher as the guards stopped in front of a plain-looking wall. The guard on his left kicked a little spot in the corner of the wall, and the wall popped open, revealing a narrow staircase winding down into darkness. Austria stood shell-shocked, knowing that where he was going, no one would be able to hear him scream. “Move.” One of the guards growled.

They pushed him into the stairwell first, the wooden steps creaking as he was forced down them. Then, a cold, round object was pressed against his back. A gun. Austria’s legs wobbled as he started walking down the stairs, each one sending a creak into the silent darkness.

Halfway down the stairs, a pungent odor rose to meet the Austrian’s nose. He doubled over, almost vomiting at the scent that now wafted through the air, growing stronger with every step down. It was the smell of human suffering, of uncleaned floors with the hint of metal that human blood carried.

They reached the end of the stairs, only to be greeted by a long, dark hallway. There was a row of cells on one wall, and whimpering coming from a few of them. He passed one of the cells, and he knew that there were other Austrians down there, his people.

He dared a peek towards the cells and immediately regretted it. A pair of muted, soulless eyes gazed back at him, bony fingers wrapped around the bars of the cell, cheekbones hollowed out, barely more than breathing skeletons with a thin layer of skin. He could feel those fingers, dragging their way up his spine, reaching around his neck, a breath on his ear whispering a rattling plea for help. Or death.

Austria kept his eyes down, looking at the dirty concrete ground. He only looked up when the guards stopped at a metal door. They took out a dinghy key, and the door opened with a groan. The guards shoved him in, the metal door slamming behind him.

There was no one in this hallway. Rows of empty cells lined each side of the wall, and at the end, another metal door. The guard led the Austrian down to the last cell, shoving him in.

“Sweet dreams, Jew.” One of the guards spat on him, sneering as he walked away with the only source of light.

The darkness engulfed Austria.

Chapter Text

“If we don’t end war, war will end us.” —H.G. Wells.

March 26th, 1939 —Prague, Czechia

Czechia was a little shocked to receive the summons to Hitler’s office. She hadn’t even realized that he was still in her country. His takeover had happened almost two weeks ago; she hadn’t expected him to stay.

She scoffed when the letter had addressed her Prague Castle as his private office. The castle would never belong to anyone other than the people of her nation.

Still, this would be the perfect time for her to speak with the ‘Führer’ and discuss the problems going on within the country. Mainly address how citizens were being dragged out of their homes and beaten.

Anger bubbled in her stomach as she approached the castle, covered in Nazi flags. The sounds of the usually vibrant city had been quieted, replaced with quick whispers and the sounds of soldiers marching. The whispers seemed to follow her everywhere— even in her own home with her personal staff.

Around every corner, at all of her favorite cafes and shops, were the Nazis. They seemed to make even the brightest colors and people dull, sucking out their beautiful life like vampires.

But the presence that was missing stood out the most. Czechia half expected Slovakia to appear by her side, still able to talk about silly hyphens when the world was starting to fracture again. But she hadn’t seen him in almost two weeks.

At first, she enjoyed having her own space. Her home was no longer a mess, and she could do whatever she wanted. But the novelty had started wearing off quickly. There was no one she could talk to who understood her, no one to argue with; she was alone.

The other nation hadn’t visited her yet, hadn't even sent a letter. She knew his country had not willingly declared independence under the protection of Germany, but it still hurt that he hadn’t stopped by. Deep down, it was starting to worry her. Slovakia liked talking, adding more worry to her mind. While she was at the castle, she would ask Hitler if she had heard from the other.

She lifted her head high as she approached her castle, wanting to rip all of the red flags from the walls and gates that decorated the street. She tried to tone down the anger, smoothing out her dress as she approached the entrance, guarded by a group of Nazis in black.

The group had been looking bored, leaning onto the gate, eyes lazily skimming. When they saw the Czechia approaching them, they elbowed each other, giving her long, leering gazes.

“Are you lost, little lady?” One of the guards asked, leaning in close to her face. “If you are trying to find your way home, I would be more than happy to accompany you.” He slid an arm around Czechia, hand creeping lower than she tolerated.

Czechia scoffed in disgust, hands scrunching together in an attempt not to punch the man, choosing instead to take a few steps away from him. “I have a summons for the Führer.” She handed the guard the letter, who seemed shocked as he verified it, but still let her through, now giving her an odd look. The guards there gave her cold glances, but she supposed they were better than the lustful glare the other guards had given her.

She took the letter back, her head high as she walked up the steps to the door. Inside, she was trying not to shake. She could still feel the man’s hands and gaze, making bile rise in her throat.

They let her through the doors after verifying her letter. They followed her inside, the doors shut loudly behind them, echoing down the large hall. They whispered something in German to two of the other guards in the hall, too quietly for Czechia.

The two guards who had let her into the castle gestured for her to follow. She knew the palace like the back of her hand, but the atmosphere was entirely different. On any given day, there would usually be lots of people. Tourists milling about, tour guides telling them facts, workers cleaning the floor or dusting ledges.

The only thing that stayed the same was the guards, but even then, these guards were completely different. They stood tall, eyes unblinking and tracking every step she took.

She ignored their stares and focused instead on what she was going to say to Hitler. She didn’t truly understand what the summons was for, only that this was her opportunity to see Slovakia again.

The walk to the ‘office’ seemed to take ages, and every step forward made her want to run twenty steps away. A set of doors approached, two more Nazis in the dark guarding Hitler.

The taller of the two knocked. Minutes seemed to pass before a muffled ‘come in’ was heard through the door. Czechia released a sigh of relief, glad that the room and the man weren't intimidating in the least.

Adolf Hitler sat in a comfy chair, upholstered in an oddly cheerful yellow. Next to him in a similar chair was a man with little round glasses perched on his nose, in front of a set of dead eyes. They sat at a small round table, one chair left empty.

Hitler frowned. “Who is this? I do not recall having a scheduled appointment with a girl.”

“You did, sir.” Czechia corrected, handing the letter to the confused man. “I am Czechia, you summoned me for a meeting in your office at 14:45.” She kept her distance from the man as she read the letter, her hand fidgeting with her sleeves.

“It seems you are,” Hitler said with a slight grimace, then waved the two guards out of the room. “I didn’t realize that personifications could be women as well.”

“Some of us are, but the majority are men.” She told him simply, still standing awkwardly in front of the table.

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you! Please take a seat!” Hitler said cheerfully, gesturing to the last yellow chair. She obliged, angling herself more to face Hitler and not the dead-eyed man.

“Let me introduce you to my colleague!” Hitler said, gesturing to the man. “This is Heinrich Himmler, the Reichsführer-SS.” Czechia forced herself to face him, giving a small nod of her head in acknowledgement.

“Is- Is there a specific reason you wanted to talk to me?” Czechia asked, silent scolding herself for the slight stutter.

“We have been anxious to meet the personification of Czechoslovakia,” Hitler answered. “We also wanted to talk to you about how to improve the lives of your citizens.”

Czechia was a little shocked by how sincere he sounded. The politeness set her on edge; no person talked like this and meant their words. Still, she noticed his mistake. They thought she was the entire personification of the country. They didn’t know about Slovakia. And they didn’t need to know about him.

“Yes, and I as well.” She told him.

Himmler frowned, making his face look even more sour than it had already been. He didn’t say anything, just continued to give her a narrow-eyed look. Hitler, however, still had a big smile on his face, one that made him look more atrocious than he already was.

“You have a wonderful country! Your people are very hardworking,” Hitler complimented.

“Thank you…?” She hadn’t meant for it to sound like a question, but she was shocked that Hitler had complimented the Czechs. Hadn’t he taken over because he thought that the Czechs were being rude to ethnic Germans?

“It’s a nice place, I suppose,” Hitler commented, gesturing to the room. “It’s a nice castle. Not quite like the cathedrals back home, but still nice.”

“I suppose.” She agreed, not quite sure where the conversation was going.

“If only the people were as nice,” Himmler said, finally speaking, his voice calm and cold, like a winter’s day. His accusation was a bit of a shock, but Czech quickly recovered.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been hearing rumors,” Himmler answered, sitting up straighter in his chair. “That there is anti-German sentiment throughout your state. Labor unions, resistance, and whatnot."

“We are just concerned about where your loyalty stands,” Hitler added, messing with one of the cups on the table absentmindedly before looking up to meet the Czech’s gaze. “Tell me, where is your loyalty?”

Czechia stuttered a little. “My loyalty lies in improving this country for all who are in it. I have done nothing wrong, and neither have my people. That is actually one of the things I wished to talk to you about today.”

“Come now,” Hitler said, smiling. “It is not nice to lie. Especially to your Führer.”

“W-What have I lied about?” Czechia asked, starting to grip the edge of the seat to keep from bolting up. “I have barely even spoken.”

“Not speaking is still hiding the truth,” Himmler answered. There was conviction in his voice. He knew she was hiding something.

“I do not know who takes part in the unions and resistances,” She defended, beginning to grow sweaty. “I handle economic things more than the social aspects."

“We are not interested in that,” Hitler said, waving her off. “We know that there is something more.” His blue eyes fixed upon her. The cheerful light had disappeared from them, replaced by what he had been hiding the entire meeting; how powerful he was, and that he would do anything to keep it that way.

“I assure you, there is nothing. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” She bolted off the chair, making a brisk walk to the door.

A cold, gloved hand grabbed her wrist. “We will help you remember,” Himmler said, his voice like the stabs of icicles. He called for two of his SS guards, who walked into the room, their boots stomping against the hardwood floor.

They grabbed her wrists, and as she was dragged out of the room, Hitler had the gall to bid her a farewell. “It really was a pleasure meeting you! We’ll have to talk soon, very soon.” His voice wasn’t kind anymore; it was a mock.

Czechia would have charged over and punched him if she weren’t detained. Instead, she didn’t give the satisfaction of acting scared. She lifted her chin, eyes trained on the path she was being forced to walk.

Two more SS guards came to walk in front of her. The silent air of the cathedral didn’t change as she walked back out into her city. She had been hearing rumors. Rumors of families being dragged off at night, taken somewhere, never to be seen again. She reminded herself that she couldn’t die — and somehow, that made it worse.

They led her to a black car, Nazi flags flapping on the front. They shoved her into the backseat. Next, one of the guards put a gag in her mouth, cuffs on her wrists, and a sack over her head.

Her breath picked up as she heard the car doors slam shut, locking her in.

She felt the car start, accompanied by the sharp smell of gasoline, and they drove off. That’s when she started crying. She didn’t know where she was being taken. She didn’t know when she was going home.

She said a silent cry to her beloved capital, her heart, tears continuing to fall down her face. And yet, as she chose to close her eyes and think of anything else, her mind went to the other place her heart held. Slovakia.

As much of a nuisance he was, she still loved him. His stupid smile and ridiculous obsession with hyphens. And his pretty light brown hair that was like caramel when the sun hit it. His hazel eyes always seemed to glow with happiness, even in darker times. And his stupid smile. The one that had set her heart racing and made her smile, too.

But that smile wasn’t here. It was in a different place, and she was going to a place where happiness couldn’t ever reach.

Chapter Text

“The lesson of history is that no one learns.” - Steven Erikson, Deadhouse Gates

March 30th, 1939 —Berlin, Nazi Germany

It had been weeks since he had heard from his love, Czechia. It had been the longest he’d ever gone without seeing her. He asked some of the German staff if they had seen anyone like her, but none gave him a straightforward answer.

He decided that if they couldn’t give him the answer, then only one person could. The Führer himself. Adolf Hitler.

Slovakia was humming a happy tune as he made the trip to Berlin, carrying his official documentation. The ride over was pretty as he drove past small villages.

The ride turned grimmer as he drove through Prague. He was pretty sure Czechia was fuming over how many Nazi flags were all over her buildings. Soldiers were marching through the once crowded streets, black uniforms littering the city.

Slovakia drove past them all, driving to Berlin, which had even more Nazi flags. They were everywhere. Hanging on lampposts, store signs, walls, doors, in people's hands, on the cars, everywhere!

He had gotten more used to them in the past few weeks. German officials had been coming to the capital to help him! They were such nice people! He was pretty sure they thought he was annoying, but they weren’t mean to him.

The Slovak drove all the way to the New Reich Chancellery, a large, formidable building. Two guards in black immediately stopped him. Slovakia gave them a polite smile.

“Dobrý deň! Or I guess I mean ‘Hallo’ since we’re in Germany.” Slovakia said with a laugh. “Anyways, I’m here to see the Führer.”

The guards looked at each other and raised an eyebrow. “We can’t just let you in. The Führer loves his fans, but we can’t permit you inside.” One of them told him, talking slowly like he was a child.

“Oh, I’m not a fan! Well, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here on official Slovak business.” He pulled out his documents, showing them the papers.

The guards gave him another one over while looking at his documents, both still raising an eyebrow. “We can let the Führer know, but he could be busy.”

“That’s okay! I can wait! I only have a small question for him anyway.” Slovakia told them as they handed back his documents.

The guards waved for him to follow. He celebrated internally while trying to keep a more serious look on his face. The guards led him upstairs and down several halls before they stopped in front of a set of large doors.

The guards knocked on a door, then went inside after hearing a muffled ‘enter.’ Slovakia didn’t have to wait long before the guards came back out, gesturing for him to come in.

The Slovak walked quickly into the room, giving the guards a smile as he went past. He approached the dark desk where three men sat. One was a bit of a funny-looking man, whom he knew was Hitler because of the tiny mustache. The other two had a bit of a darker presence, but still odd.

One of the men had receding hair and small blue eyes behind a pair of glasses. The other man had blond hair, and his skin looked tightly stretched over his face, as if he were wearing a tight mask.

“Hello!” Slovakia greeted him as he sat down at the desk.

“You are from the Slovak government?” Hitler asked, skipping the niceties.

“Yes, I am. I am-”

Slovakia started, but was quickly cut off by the blond-haired man. “State your name and question. We do not wish for this meeting to go on longer than it needs to.”

Slovakia frowned a bit. “Alright. My name is Slovakia, I am the personification of my country.”

He started to continue, but Hitler interrupted. “You are from Slovakia? You must be new then! After all, we only helped declare you an official country a few weeks ago. What do you need? We Germans are here to help after all!” Hitler said with a smile, while the two other men exchanged raised brows.

“Actually, sir, I’m several hundred years old. But that is beside the point. I came here to ask if you knew where my friend, Czechia, was. She’s about yay high, short dark hair, usually wears it in a bun, purple eyes,” Slovakia said, gesturing with his hands.

Hitler didn’t respond immediately and sat there blinking. “Yes, I do believe we have seen her recently. She’s been helping Mr. Heydrich here,” he gestured to the blond man, “with some matters.”

“Oh, that's great! Do you think I could see her?” He asked, beaming.

Hitler paused again, glancing at his two fellow Nazis. “Yes. But first, we need you to… answer a few questions for us.”

“That’s no problem!” Slovakia replied, leaning closer to the desk.

The man with small blue eyes started asking the questions. “Has there been any trouble in your country?”

“Trouble? Well, of course! There’s always trouble within countries.” Slovakia replied, confused why they would ask a question.

The blue-eyed man seemed to grimace. “What I mean is, have there been any trouble with your citizens and the German soldiers? Any resistance movements perhaps?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.” Slovakia shrugged. “There is always some type of uprising against something within countries. Most countries just stay in their capital city, more involved in the economic and political aspects.”

The blue-eyed man gave a raised eyebrow to his companions. Hitler leaned towards Heydrich and whispered something in his ear. The man nodded, then left the room.

With a sigh, Hitler leaned towards Slovakia. “You seem like a nice guy. You’re either hiding something, or you're too stupid to see something.”

Slovakia frowned; that hadn’t been what he was expecting. He was going to retort when four SS soldiers charged into Hitler's office, darting towards the chair the Slovak was sitting in.

Slovakia stood up, his hands up as a sign of peace, but that had to change when a soldier threw a punch towards him. He ducked, then went on the attack. For most people, it would be impossible to take on four SS guards at once, but he was a nation.

But even nations can’t do it all. One of the soldiers took their gun and slammed it into the side of his head, causing spots to form. The soldiers took their opportunity, grabbing his arms and kicking him in the legs so he was on his knees.

Blood cascaded from Slovakia’s forehead, the red starting to drip into his eyes. It trickled onto the floor, the sounds of little dripping filling the room. He felt dizzy, but he was also shaking. Shaking with absolute rage and fear. Czechia had been with them, and he hadn’t seen her for weeks.

The images flooded his mind as the blood burst out of it, and he couldn’t get them to stop. Czechia, her clothes torn up, blood surrounding her as her dead eyes stared up at the ceiling. Slovakia’s breath caught in his throat; he refused to cry.

“What are you doing? We haven’t done anything!” Slovakia screamed at the men who had impassive looks on their faces. They didn’t look disturbed by the scene before them; if anything, they looked a bit bored.

“You may not have done anything, but you will,” Hitler answered. “People, by most accounts, are unpredictable. Nations, I would say, are even more so. We don’t know what you will do, but we are going to take the proper… precautions." He gestured in the air, as if trying to find the right words.

“Where did you take her!” Slovakia yelled, his tears mixing with blood.

“You will see soon,” Heydrich said, smiling thinly. “Take him.” His cold eyes gleamed, and out of his pocket, he pulled a piece of blue cloth. Slovakia’s heart stopped beating.

That was Czechia’s.

Slovakia let out a shout of rage and struggled more in the guard's grip. “You son of a bitch! If you touch her, you’re going to be dead!”

Heydrich just scoffed and put the blue string back in his pocket. He walked a bit closer to him. “You aren’t in a position to make demands. I think I will do whatever I like with her.”

“You absolute di-” Slovakia didn’t finish his sentence before his face met Heydrich’s knee.

The blond man just frowned, upset that he had ruined his pants. “Take him away.”

The guards started dragging Slovakia towards the door, and he struggled as much as he could to get to the man he despised. Behind Heydrich, Hitler just sat there at his desk, already writing down something on a piece of paper, the Slovak already gone from his mind.

Slovakia couldn’t focus on where he was being led. His head was pounding, his vision growing dark every second. One of his eyes was starting to swell, along with his nose, which he was sure was broken. The only thing he could smell was blood. The irony, salty smell filled his nose, starting to creep into his mouth and seep down his throat.

The smell of unwashed people accompanied the other scents as they reached a dark hallway. The nation was silently glad that his vision was blurring as he passed cell after cell of whimpering and starving people.

They pushed him down another hallway, where he could hear someone humming. One of the guards left him and went to bang on another cell. “Shut it! Unless you would like to go back to the room?” The humming stopped, and a little whimper replaced it.

The guards tossed him into a cell, throwing him onto the dirty floor. The hallway was dim, and he knew he was going to black out any second. The guards' stomping disappeared, the sound of a metal door slamming accompanying it.

The cell he was thrown into smelled just as bad as the hall outside. The stench of human waste and iron filled the dark air. The room was devoid of all noise until the humming began again.

There was no clear tune to the song, no beat or rhythm either. The notes would fall from high to low notes with no rhyme or reason. It echoed through the darkness, ringing against the brick and iron of the cages.

Slovakia crawled closer to the bars of the cell, trying to see who it was. A person slowly came into focus, with pale skin, an open blue coat showing off rows of ribs. His dark hair had been cut sloppily and was now hanging on in patches. Angry red lines stretched all across the man’s body.

But the worst part was that Slovakia knew who it was. “A-Austria?”

The once pristine nation’s purple eyes darted over to him. The Slovak started trembling; there was nothing left in the Austrian’s eyes. There wasn’t a hint of recognition nor a hint of humanity left in him.

“Do you hear it?” Austria asked. His voice was hollow, childlike — wrong. He began humming again, completely out of tune.

“H-Hear what?” Slovakia asked, his voice quivering slightly.

Then Austria giggled and started swaying a bit. “The music.”

Slovakia stared at the other nation, who brought his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth. He looked like a broken porcelain doll, limbs cracked and dirty, coupled with large, dead eyes.

There was another sound, someone's body scraping against the stone floors. “Sl-Slova-akia?” A broken female voice asked in the darkness.

Slovakia’s head shot up to the cell across from him, his head spinning from moving too fast. “Czechia?” In the other cell, she made her way out of the darkness.

It can't be. He couldn't let it be. Czechia's safe and at home…

Slovakia’s heart plummeted when he saw her. The Czech’s clothing was ripped, her undershirt was gone, and her pants were torn. Her face was covered in bruises, and her neck was covered in angry red marks. Her eyes were dark, with even darker circles surrounding them.

Rage tore through Slovakia like he had never known before. But there was nothing he could do. It couldn’t even hold her close and tell her everything would be okay. He had never felt more helpless. He was shaking in his cell, blood flowing down his face with fresh tears.

He reached his hand through the bars, trying to get as close as he could. Czechia reached out her own arm, revealing more handprint-like bruises. They were still an inch apart. Slovakia tried to reach closer, but she was just out of reach.

Czechia retracted her hand, holding it close to her, then turned away. But Slovakia’s arm still hung in the air, because she was right there. He had to stop when his headache grew unbearable.

He curled up into a ball, listening to Czechia’s sobs fade beneath Austria’s tune — a song no one else could hear.

Chapter Text

“People do a lot of terrible things in the world. Things I will never forget, and never understand. And that’s why we have to hold on to the beautiful things.” —Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart, George DeValier

May 23rd, 1939 —Berlin, Nazi Germany

The last time Germany had seen the Italian was in 1921, before Mussolini rose to power. He had received a few letters from his... friend? He wasn't really sure what Italy was to him; he wasn't necessarily a friend, but he wasn't just an ally.

Either way, they would have to be friends now. His boss, Hitler, had made it clear that he should befriend the bubbly nation. Only his boss could get the hardworking German to clear his entire schedule to hang out with someone.

Still, the nation had a schedule to keep. He told Italy to meet him in his office at the Reich Chancellery at 9:00 A.M. on the dot. That's where he was waiting. A tray of coffee and snacks was set out waiting for the Italian to arrive.

Germany drummed his fingers against his legs. 9:13. The nation scoffed. How was Italy supposed to become his close ally and friend if he couldn't even show up to a casual conversation on time? What if Italy didn't show up at all?

What would Hitler say if this didn't go well? What would he do? Germany shivered a little; he didn’t want to know. He had seen the Führer mad; it wasn’t something he wanted to face.

It was another ten minutes before a familiar short, red-headed Italian burst through the door, running into the doorframe, and tripping on the carpeting.

"Ciao! Sorry, I'm late! I slept through my alarm because I was having a really good dream about cute girls and pasta! Then I had to get dressed and eat breakfast and-"

Italy continued to ramble on, his eyes squinted. Germany was used to this nonsense for the most part, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating. The short nation seemed not to have changed a bit.

Yet there was something that just seemed... off. The nation's skin was not naturally tan, yet it was paler and skinnier than normal. His eyes, though never fully open, seemed to be squinting even more — Germany couldn't even see his eyes.

As Italy continued talking about his morning, about how he had run into a cute girl and a dog on the way over. Listening to Italy talk got annoying, quick.

“I don’t care! Just sit down!” The German yelled at the much shorter nation.

There was a noticeable flinch from the Italian, who closed his mouth immediately, looking down at the floor. He mumbled a quick ‘sorry’ before taking the chair near Germany. He tripped over the edge of the rug, knocked into the coffee table, and tripped into his chair.

The taller blond frowned. It usually took ages to get Italy to shut up. He wanted to make sure that his soon-to-be friend was okay, but he also didn’t feel like opening that can of worms. He didn’t know what to do when Italy started crying — it made him feel useless trying to help.

Italy sat in silence, which made Germany just as uncomfortable. The Italian was the exact opposite of silent, always talking about his latest pasta dish or something he saw in the paper. But the short nation just sat in his chair, sitting still, which was also a shock to the German.

The blond awkwardly cleared his throat. "So... Erm, would you like some coffee?"

The other nation stared at the tray for a second before hesitantly picking up the cup. His hand trembled as he did so, spilling a few droplets onto his clothes.

"So..." Italy started, taking a sip of his coffee. "Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

He took one of the treats from the table, taking a small bite at first. His eyes widened a fraction before he started devouring the treat, and a couple more along with it.

Germany's eyes widened as Italy continued shoving down snacks like he had never eaten before. "Ja," he answered, "My boss thinks that it would be a good idea if we became friends."

Italy stopped eating to frown and look at him, tilting his head sideways. “I thought we were already friends?”

“W-We are?” Germany asked, promptly confused. He didn’t like admitting his faults, but he knew he wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. He felt like a burden he didn’t even know he had was lifted. I have a friend. The thought brought a slight smile to his face.

“Sì,” Italy replied happily. “Did you not think we were?”

“Well — No.” Germany blinked. “Well, this meeting has gone much more efficiently than I thought it would.” The meeting had happened in record time; now the German nation would have plenty of time to work on the other assignments Hitler had given him. He would rather not face the wrong end of the gun — again. He got up and started to gather his things.

What he didn’t expect was Italy’s reaction.

“Wait! Please don’t make me leave!” Italy cried, grabbing onto his arm, tugging Germany close to him. “I don’t want to go back to Mussolini! Please just let me stay with you!”

Germany stiffened at the touch. No one besides his brother had treated him with kindness in recent years. He was like a different species to the humans that Hitler had introduced him to. They all stared at him like he was their science experiment they couldn't wait to dissect. He wasn’t used to being this close to anyone. He’d learned to command soldiers, not comfort them.

But Italy's touch was different. He seemed desperate.

Desperate not to be alone.

Desperate for some form of companionship.

Desperate for someone to care.

Pain struck through Germany, a pain almost as bad as a bullet. He understood how the crying Italian felt.

The little redhead was sobbing. His tears stained Germany's jacket, which Italy clung to as if it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

He was shaking like a leaf. This wasn't something that Germany would ignore. He couldn't yell at him to shut up and be tougher. Not when Italy looked up at him with big, tear-filled, caramel eyes.

They were already becoming red and puffy, terror laced with tears. His eyes looked severely dim, with white clouding his irises and a few white lines on his eyelids.

“Please,” Italy whispered, clutching tighter to Germany.

The German couldn’t turn the Italian away. He didn’t want to. He didn’t know how to stop wars, or fear, or pain. But he could do this — he could hold the person who made him smile. Italy continued to sob, leaning into Germany’s shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around the taller man’s neck. Germany held his friend closely, rubbing the Italian’s back in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

Italy’s sobbing turned to small hiccupping after a few more minutes. “S-Sor-rry for -hic—ruining y-your shirt.” He mumbled, still leaning into Germany.

“It’s okay,” Germany whispered back, trying to speak as softly as he could so he didn’t upset the trembling Italian more. “It’s what friends are for.”

Italy let out a weak chuckle and pulled back just a little bit to look up at Germany. Immediately, all of the air left his lungs. There were still some tears left on Italy’s face. He moved one of his hands up, hating the way the redhead flinched again when he did.

He wiped the tears off with his thumb. “Are you okay, Italy?”

“I can’t go back,” Italy whispered quickly, starting to tremble again.

“Tell me what’s wrong then. Let me help you.” Germany didn’t like this, not one bit. Italy looked like he was on the verge of passing out and was absolutely terrified.

“I-I can’t,” Italy whispered. “I’ll get in trouble. He’ll hurt him—my fratello. Then me.”

“Who? Mussolini?” Germany asked.

Italy pressed his face into Germany again and whimpered. In Germany’s own mind, the sounds of a gun safety sliding and a gunshot echoed.

They were sounds he had gotten acquainted with in recent years. It hadn’t crossed his mind that Italy was, too.

The smaller nation still hadn’t responded and just leaned into Germany. The taller nation couldn’t let him stay like that.

“How about we go to the kitchens and see if they have any pasta?” Germany suggested loosening his grip on the Italian.

Italy nodded his head. Germany started moving away from him, but the redhead caught his hand and held it tightly.

“Please don’t let go.” Italy pleaded, his eyes squinting again.

“Italy,” Germany said, “Hitler won’t like the way it looks.” He pulled out of Italy’s grip easily, walking towards the door. The redhead started following him, but tripped over the side table.

“Please,” Italy begged again, still on the floor. “Germany I-I,” Italy started choking on his tears again.

Another wave of sympathy swept through Germany as he went to help Italy. The Italian flinched again as a hand was held out to him. He got up from the floor, tears still on his face.

Germany frowned and reached to brush more of the tears. Italy leaned into his hands, his eyes closing fully. Germany’s brow furrowed even more as he tilted Italy’s head up to him. Across Italy’s eyelids danced the tell-tale white lines of jagged scars.

“Italy, what happened?” He asked softly.

“I-I think I’m going blind.”

Germany's heart seemed to explode.

But whether it was from fear or rage, he couldn't tell.

Chapter Text

“Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.” —Albert Einstein. 

June 15th, 1939 —Berlin, Nazi Germany 

Prussia couldn't think of anything more boring than sitting in a room full of stuffy aristocrats. They were old men who more often than not had no sense of humor. All they did was talk about boring things and mumble on about the good old days.

But this was somehow ten times worse. He was in a meeting room with some of the most boring, most soulless, most cold people he had ever met.    

Göring sat near the head of the long, wooden table, near Hitler, along with a few other men: Wilhelm Keitel, Rudolf Hess, Joseph Goebbels, Alfred Jodl, and the coldest of them all: Heinrich Himmler, who had eyes like a shark's.

Göring, the head of the new German Luftwaffe, sounded a little tense as he relayed his flying report back to Hitler. He narrowed his eyes at the other men in the room as he spoke, then beamed and looked smug as Hitler praised him for his good reports.

The rest at the table kept their faces neutral, showing little emotion, except fierce glares towards each other and fake smiles to reassure Hitler. Prussia found himself glared at by everyone in the room whenever he tried to contribute, except for Göring, who was the prime minister of Prussia.

Even though he wasn’t a nation anymore, Hitler kept him around — a ghost of Germany’s past that refused to die. He was sure that if he weren't such a large state within Germany, Hitler would have had him removed and forgotten a long time ago.

The group continued their awful talk, speaking plainly about how they would take over Europe. They moved Nazi flags around the map of Europe, the French, British, Russian, and Polish flags off to the side, not needed yet. 

Prussia felt a pang in his heart looking at the French flags. He didn't want to face the facts, knowing that soon, he would have to betray one of his best friends. And his others.

They had lines drawn out over the map, the routes Göring’s Luftwaffe would take, and where they would drop the bombs to destroy Poland. Keitel laid out all the tanks and troops that would be used to destroy any opposing Polish forces.  

They didn't think much about the people who lived on those lines, only the land they would gain in their conquest to achieve world domination. They were power hungry and wanted the world to kneel before them.

But Prussia didn't want that. He almost wished he were a calmer country, like Canada, where he didn't have to worry about his bosses wanting to take over the world. As much as he enjoyed battling and fighting, what the German leaders were doing felt…

Wrong.

The Prussian didn’t want to think about how much this would hurt Poland or Francis. He had been in many battles and wars, none of them pleasant in the least. But he hadn’t been in many wars like this. This war was going to involve things that had only been minuscule in the First World War. Things like giant tanks, a more advanced air force, lots of bombs. 

This was going to destroy Poland. But there wasn’t anything Prussia could do about it. Disobeying direct orders from Hitler would mean death. Or more likely, death over and over again, until he was slowly bleeding out, begging to be relieved of his duties as a nation. And now that he wasn’t even an official country anymore… 

“Prussia! Are you paying attention!” Keitel yelled at him. “You bragged about many battles you’ve been in, yet you have added nothing to this conversation.” 

Prussia shrugged, trying to ignore his growing unease. The six sets of cold eyes locked on him didn’t help. They all talked with such ease, their tone bright, even as their eyes were dark and talked of genocide. 

“You’re all doing great,” Prussia told them with forced cheer. “Send the tanks in before the men on the ground to cause more chaos and destruction to make a path. Bomb more isolated areas, and then send soldiers on foot to crush the rest of the opposition.” He recited, taking in all of the main points of the meeting. 

“Ja. But did you have an idea of what you’re going to say to the Russians?” Ribbentrop — one of the lesser men invited to the meeting — spoke up. 

Prussia widened his eyes. “What? I wasn't told anything about seeing the Russians.”  

This started a chorus of grumbling throughout the meeting room. Hitler clicked his tongue, and the room went dead silent. “Do not blame him,” Hitler told them in an airy tone. “He is an albino after all. You know how weak and forgetful he can be.” 

Prussia’s blood went cold. His breath sped up just a fraction, but not enough for anyone in the room to notice. He hated being seen as weak and insignificant. He was the awesome Prussia! He couldn’t be weak! 

But as the cold glances stared at him, he shrank. Himmler’s blue eyes locked on him for a particularly long time, watching his every movement from behind thin-framed glasses. He knew the wiry man would love nothing more than to strap him to a table in one of his concentration camps and run ‘experiments’ on him. 

“Send my brother to the Soviets, not me,” Prussia asked. “You don’t want to send me. The personification of their nation hates me; I don't think being there would encourage a good treaty.” 

Ribbentrop sighed. “I suppose that could work too.”

Hitler shook his head. "So your brother Germany does all the work once again. Becoming friends with the Italians, doing more paperwork than you, and meeting the Russians?" 

Prussia just frowned. He hadn't been doing much because Hitler hadn't been giving him much to do. This meeting was the most involved they had let him be in months.  

“So we have everything in order then?” Goebbels asked, lining his papers up and sending a glare in the Prussian’s direction. Prussia knew the man hated him; he couldn’t think of any reason other than the fact that he was an albino and that Prussia was way more awesome than him. 

“Indeed, we do! You’re all dismissed.” Hitler said, staying seated while everyone else got out of their seats. Prussia sighed with relief as he started to gather the papers that had his notes on them.     

“Except for you, Prussia.”

The nation froze, then turned around quickly with fake ease and confusion. What had he done now?

“I’m worried about your despondence. You didn’t contribute to the meeting and were staring off into space.” Hitler said with that annoying sweet voice, like artificial sugar.  

“Sir?” Prussia asked, raising a silver eyebrow.  

“What I mean is,” Hitler answered, leaning forward, his hands clasped on the desk, “I don’t think you want to go through with this.” 

Prussia laughed loudly, hoping he sounded at ease instead of nervous. “Are you saying I’m scared? I’m the awesome Prussia! Nothing scares me.”

“There’s a difference between being scared and not wanting to do something. You are not scared to invade Poland, you know it will be easy. You do not want to invade Poland.” Hitler told him, fiddling with a pen on the desk. 

“No, sir, that’s-” Prussia tried to say.

“Do not interrupt me! I wasn’t done!” Hitler yelled at him, losing the fake sweetness to sharpness. “You are either a German or you are an enemy of your people! Which are you?” Hitler yelled at him. 

“I’m Prussian.” He whispered. 

Hitler stood up. “Prussian and German are not the same thing. You are a German or you are a Prussian. So what are you?” Prussia could see the gun gleaming in Hitler’s coat, no doubt loaded. 

"I’m…" He swallowed, the word catching in his throat. "German."

At that moment, he was sure his heart was cracked. It was almost as if he could hear the chipping echoing through the quiet room. The words swallowed his whole self — his whole identity. Uttering that sentence felt like erasing everything he’d ever been.

He had never lived in a time when someone told him that being German was above being Prussian. He was nothing. If he were what he truly was, he was a traitor to his people. And he literally was the representation of his people!

But he couldn’t scream or yell or fight back to fill the silence and muffle the sound of his cracking heart. He just had to stare at the man in front of him, a simple smile still left on his face.

“Good to know! So you won’t mind leading some of the operations on the ground?” Hitler asked. 

Prussia swallowed. “Yes.”

“Yes…?” 

“Yes, sir.” The Prussian gritted out. Hitler smiled, and Prussia could feel it staring into him as he marched out the door. The fury unheard by all, left to echo in his head and through his heart. 

Chapter Text

“Russia is a riddle wrapped inside a mystery inside an enigma.” —Winston Churchill.

August 23rd, 1939 —Moscow, Soviet Union

Every dream taunted him, dangling peace like meat before a starving dog. That was what he had become.

The dream began the same way: walking off a ship, Russian delegates following behind. Russia loved visiting the United States. The air felt warm and fresh, an innocence hanging within it.

But that wasn't even close to his favorite reason for visiting.

"Ivan!" A familiar, loud, American voice called out.

The blond came running across the dock, crashing into the taller nation. America's hug was always warm, thawing what ice remained in his heart.

"Privyet, Alfred," Ivan said back, holding the American tightly.

The Russian leaned back to look down into the American's face. His blue eyes and glowing smile were so unlike anything Ivan had ever seen.

The American grabbed his hand and started pulling into town towards their carriage, repeatedly saying how glad he was to see the other nation and how he couldn't wait to show him around.

Ivan just listened to him talk, rambling on about how much his country had been improving. He could listen forever to the hope in Alfred's tone and the shine in his sky-blue eyes.

Too bad it was just a dream.

Russia opened his eyes to the same white ceiling. The air had a slight chill to it, but nothing that the large nation wasn't used to.

He was locked away inside the Kremlin, he had been for the better part of the past two decades, and shot more times than he could count.

And had been forced to shoot others more times than he could remember. Even if he had begged Stalin not to make him do it. Stalin had his heart in his firm grip, a silver knife ready to stab.

It had not been very good at first. He had been there when the Romanovs had been murdered; he, too, had been killed. Sometimes at night, when he wasn't lucky enough to have good dreams, he had nightmares about them being killed.

The Soviet leaders were baffled when he turned up just a week later in the Kremlin, very clearly not dead. He had gone to them to get revenge, but it had backfired immediately.

They had killed him again, only for him to revive about a day later. They didn’t really know what to do with him, so they decided to lock him in a room and see if starving him would work.

Obviously, it didn’t —he could still remember it well. The dark room, the way the thirst crept down in his throat till he swore he could feel it everywhere, mixing with the pain of hunger that had limited his movement.

He had hallucinated, thinking that he was in a room with his sisters or with his friend. He had begged them for water, for company, for someone to be there. But they were just ghosts.

Even sometimes, he swore he could still see the ghosts of his past following him everywhere. He sometimes just lay awake at night, his past haunting him.

Things had gotten better, but not by much. Russia was expected to be up by 4:00 every morning and check on the ‘prisoners’ down in the secret jail. Of course, these were not ordinary prisoners; these were other nations, including his sisters.

He had tried slipping them some extra things throughout the years, but each time he got punished. Most of the time, it was with a gun; other times, his leaders got a bit more… creative. And, damn, was Stalin creative.

Unfortunately, Russia had always been stubborn.

Even after he kept getting punished, he still needed to do something— sneak a bit of extra food to them, or just talk to them for a bit. But he especially tried to help his sister, Ukraine.

The Soviet leaders disliked all the other nations, but they hated Ukraine. Russia had watched its sister grow skinnier and skinnier, day by day, as the Russian government starved the Ukrainians, down to the bone.

And it was his fault. Sometimes he wondered if he had just been a bit stronger—somehow stopped the revolution from happening— if he could have stopped all of these series of unfortunate events from happening.

They had let Latvia, Estonia, and Lithuania be his personal servants, but only after they had strapped them to a table and cut out every bit of resistance from them. They tended to stay in the shadows as much as they could, so that they weren't targets of Russia's wrath.

Belarus, his younger sister, had also been released from her cell. As clingy and creepy as she was, Russia felt better knowing that his little sister was no longer in the hands of Stalin and Lavrentiy Beria. He had heard Belarus's screams through the walls before she pledged her undying allegiance.

Russia’s first thought of Stalin, in the early 20s, before Lenin died, was that the little man was a worm. Russia’s theory was quickly proved when Stalin rose to power seemingly out of nowhere after Lenin died.

But the day when his sisters and fellow nations were kidnapped, he learned the truth —Stalin was a snake. Not just any type of snake, either; he was a deadly, quick-striking viper. That meant that Russia couldn’t be anything more than a rat caught in the snake’s mouth.

Today was going to be an interesting day for Russia, though. He made his way through the cells, not giving the trapped nations more than a passing glance.

He could hear their whimpers echo through the small place, but they had fallen on ears that were too used to the sound of pain and fear.

Russia didn’t make eye contact with a single one of them, because if he didn’t, it would be easier to convince himself that they weren’t here.

The tall man made his way to the building where the kitchen was, where they would already be working on lunches and dinners for the German guests and the big meeting later in the evening.

The kitchen was short-staffed, with only a few trusted cooks, because Stalin was paranoid about poison. Russia itself had begun worrying, considering he was the one who had to test all the food for poison.

There had been more than one hushed-up occasion when he had been poisoned. He had choked on his own spit while every one of his organs was either collapsing or on fire.

The poisoning attempts were few and far between, especially since everyone in the kitchen staff had been punished each time it happened. A special torture from their own nation.

As Russia walked into the kitchen, all of the chefs dropped their gazes and quiet conversations, leaving a depressed air mixed with the smell of cooking meat. Russia tried to give them a small smile to put them at ease, but for whatever reason, it seemed to scare them even more.

“Dobroye utro, friends! How are you all on this lovely morning?” Russia asked, genuinely wanting to know how they were.

None of them gave him a proper response, just a small shrug here and there. Russia’s smile turned downward, but didn’t say anything more.

If they wouldn't give him an answer, then they weren't worth his time. Russia quickly tested the food, knowing he needed to get to the main part of the Kremlin to set up for the Germans.

Nothing good could come from the Germans, in his opinion, especially not Prussia. Russia didn’t hope often, but he hoped that Prussia wouldn't join the Germans to discuss this important treaty.

The nation got the table ready, placing glasses filled with water and stacks of pens and paper at each seat. He made sure there wasn't a speck of blood or dust on the long wooden table.

The tall nation would have started working on another mundane task he had been previously assigned, but then he could get punished for not being prepared for their special guests.

So he waited. Sometimes waiting was the worst part. Waiting meant dwelling on the past or the future, neither of which was happy.

Trapped in the walls of a building that was supposed to promote peace, yet was only for declarations of war. There was so much blood dripping through the streets of Moscow that he swore he saw it dripping down the sides of his bedroom at night.

It was odd that an August day would also be the day two powerful countries would meet. A simple day that could turn into a disaster.

As the clock on the wall ticked to 3:00, there was a singular knock on the door. Russia rushed to the door, knowing that if it were his boss, he would not want to be kept waiting.

It wasn’t Stalin, but it was Ribbentrop, part of the German delegation. Russia let out a sigh of relief when it saw Germany standing near the diplomat and not Prussia.

He felt some of his worry disappear. Maybe this won't be such a bad meeting after all.

He greeted them politely, though he could see how his small smile set them on edge. Good. They should be on edge; this was his home, his capital building. They took their seats quickly, the sound of shuffling feet scraping against the wooden floors.

An awkward silence filled the room. The congregation of powerful German delegates sat waiting for the other powerful men to walk into the room.

The air was heavy, as if weighed down by the power that filled it.
Germany, the other nation in the room, was sitting tall, his eyes unfocused as he stared at the wall in front of him.

Russia felt his own gaze starting to wander as his mind drifted off. When this happened, which was often, he thought of happier times. The times when he and his sisters had gotten along, sitting by the fire and reading (a time when he actually got time to do what he wanted), visiting America in the 1800s, before communism had separated them.

His mind drifted to the things he didn’t have, the things that he had once so cherished that were now too far out of reach to grasp.

What he wanted was like wanting to touch the stars. Impossible.

Russia’s head snapped up when a knock at the door echoed through the room. He stood up quickly, still replaying fond memories in his head. On the other side of the door was Vyacheslav Molotov, the head of foreign affairs.

He was a kind-looking man (for a Soviet government worker). He had a fat, round face, already graying and thinning hair framing it, and a pair of thin, round glasses on his nose. Behind him were a few other lesser Soviets.

There was a bit of trouble with communication, as no one spoke the same language, which left Russia and Germany to translate.

“Privyet, comrades!” He greeted the room. Russia translated it back into English, for Germany to translate into German, for the others in the room.

“Where’s Stalin?” Asked Ribbentrop, already annoyed at the fact that he had been kept waiting. “I thought that he was to join this meeting.”

After translating that, Molotov replied with a chipper voice, “Comrade Stalin won’t be joining us until later this evening. Now, let us get this meeting started!” He sat down next to Russia, his head not even reaching the height of Russia’s shoulder.

Russia had to try his hardest not to zone out, failing multiple times, and needed to be hit on the knee by Molotov to come into focus again; he was probably going to be punished later.

All he wanted to do was fade back into the dream that he had been having this morning —one that was peaceful and had America in it, when it was still the 1800s. If only it still were.

The meeting seemed to be coming to a close when Stalin burst through the doors. He didn’t have a single item out of place on his frame; everything fit into place except for a cold smile.

“How has the meeting been going?” Stalin asked, leaning in close to whisper in Russia’s ear.

The nation hated it when he did that; it sent shivers so deep, they reached his bones. He had bad memories that accompanied the heavily accented voice—ones that made him want to run to Siberia and never look back.

“It is going well,” Russia answered in a clipped tone. “We have discussed the splitting up of Poland and peace from the Germans.”

“Peace? Why would peace be a part of this discussion?" Stalin exclaimed. “They are going to invade us anyway, peace treaties be damned!”

“We know that,” Russia said, rolling his eyes. “But we should go ahead and start fortifying while we can.”

Stalin leaned in a little closer. “Don’t roll your eyes at your leader. I have made you and this country magnificent, and you'd better be grateful. I can always bring in your sisters…”

“Don’t you dare,” Russia growled.

“Then learn to respect me. You will meet me outside for your punishment because of your disrespect.” Stalin took a seat, as if pretending the tall nation was no longer next to him.

Russia stared at the short man, contemplating whether it would just be better to break his neck. His eyes flickered to the guards lining the room.

He would be shot dead before he could complete his mission.

Chapter Text

“I would rather be punished for making the right decision than live with the guilt of making the wrong one for the rest of my life.” —Shannon Messenger.

August 23rd, 1939 —Moscow, Soviet Union 

He hated living there. Lithuania wasn’t even allowed to visit his own country. He was instead trapped in another, and it didn't seem like he was going to be released anytime soon. 

Every day, he had to pull himself out of a small bed, to eat a small meal, trying to be grateful that he even had a place to sleep and food to eat. 

But trying to be grateful for what he had was like trying to be thankful for rain while you were drowning in a flood.

Along with all of the despair, he was Russia's personal assistant. He was stuck performing mindless tasks most of the time — dusting, laundry, setting the table, etc. Sometimes he would get to something that required a bit more brain power, but it was only paperwork that Russia didn't want to deal with. 

Lithuania was sure the taller nation had finally cracked under Stalin’s rule. Sometimes he would find the Russian standing in the middle of his room, staring at nothing, as if trapped in his own head. Other times, Russia would start yelling at him for the smallest things, like dropping a pencil. 

Lithuania couldn’t take any more punishment. He was living with a temporary capital — Poland currently had his. He couldn’t even return home — and now, Nazi Germany had forced his leader to give up part of his land. It just seemed to be one bad blow after another. 

It was the end of another regular day, and the nation was double-checking that Russia’s room was in order before the tall nation got back. He needed to make sure there wasn’t a speck of dust on anything, that Russia’s cat was fed, that his bed was made, and that he was out of the room before Russia got back. 

Lithuania hadn’t eaten all day, too busy with other things. He was tired as he finished making Russia’s bed. Through a large yawn, he barely heard the click of a door open. 

Damn it! Lithuania thought, panicking. The last time he had stayed too long, he had his blankets taken away for three days— in the dead of winter. The nation ran into the closet near the bathroom, trying to quiet his quick breathing. 

Russia came stomping into his room, a frustrated sigh and the slam of a door following him. Lithuania heard a grunt of annoyance and the creaking of the bed. He dared a peek through the crack of the closet, holding his breath so the other nation couldn’t hear him. 

Russia was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his hand to his forehead. When he removed it, his glove was stained red, dripping down onto his usually long coat. 

Lithuania was accustomed to bloodshed by then; he had seen others and himself too many times to count. The coppery scent had become as familiar as the snow that always covered the land for most of the year. 

What was also familiar to the Lithuanian country was watching the Russian take his frustration out on the nearest thing to him. This time it was a pillow. Russia seized a pillow and punched it repeatedly, letting his frustration explode along with the feathers that were once in the pillow.

Lithuania was shaking. If he got caught, he was screwed. Almost ten minutes passed before the other nation had calmed down again, now sitting on the bed, staring at the wall in front of him. 

A chilling laugh filled the silent room. “Lithuania…” Russia’s voice slithered through the silence, “I know that you are still here.”

The brown haired nation felt his heart stop, only to restart quickly, fiercely pumping fear through his body. Still, Lithuania had no choice but to come out of his hiding place. He stared at his feet as he shuffled in front of the Russian. 

Russia patted the spot next to him on the bed. “Sit down. There is no point in standing there.”

Lithuania obeyed, his eyes still avoiding looking at the other. He waited to see what the Russian might do as punishment— an order, a hit, something taken away. But nothing came. 

They sat awkwardly in silence, the soft sound of Russia’s cat purring and a ticking clock filling the space. 

Lithuania decided that he liked it better if someone was talking, even if it was something creepy that Russia was going to say. 

“So...” he started awkwardly, fiddling with his hands, “H-How was your meeting?” He turned his head to look at the other, studying his face closely. 

Russia had a slightly tired, but mostly melancholy, expression. There was a bit of dried blood still on his forehead, even some in his platinum hair. 

This was usually when the other nation would smile like a creep, sending chills up everyone's spine. This time, the taller nation’s face remained still. 

“Boring,” Russia answered simply, “It was so boring I kept zoning out —daydreaming, I guess you could say—so Stalin decided to try and knock some sense into me. Literally.” 

“You daydream?” Lithuania asked. He, for some reason, couldn’t see the bigger man spending his time zoning out and daydreaming. 

“Da, sometimes. I had a really good dream last night. It ended too quickly, and I had to wake up. Boring meetings are the best time to continue them.” Russia shrugged. 

There was an odd softness to Russia’s voice as he talked about his dreams. The purple eyes clouded over, as if he was lost in thought, in another world, a small, real smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was an expression Lithuania -or anyone really—rarely saw.  

Curiosity sparked inside Lithuania. He also wanted to keep the Russian calm, and whatever the dream had been seemed to be working. 

“What was your dream about?” Lithuania asked, nervous that Russia would get irritated at him for asking. 

Russia turned to look at him, a regular smile still on his face.  “An adventure to a free and warm land.” Russia’s face broke out into a bigger grin as he continued to reminisce, not leaving out details. 

“Everyone was happy, even the sky was happy! The sun was shining, and I felt... Free. And happy. And warm. And I got to see the most amazing person ever. 

“His eyes were like the sky on a clear day, his hair golden as sunlight.” Russia had closed his eyes. The soft smile was still on his face, clearly bright with the vision of his love.  

“Who?” Lithuania asked, very confused. He hadn’t realized that the other country had ever fallen in love —or that he even could love someone in such a way. 

Russia opened his eyes again, the softness disappearing like snow in the sun. “I cannot tell you. I am not supposed to love him. I am not supposed to love. We-” he gestured between the two of them, “are not supposed to fall in love.” 

“But we both have fallen in love with someone anyway,” Lithuania whispered. “And even though we aren’t together anymore… I would still run to him. Every time. Because I know we still love each other. And that at the end of the day, I could still go over to his house and hold each other in our arms.” 

Lithuania looked down at his hands, remembering the way his own past love, Feliks, used to hold them. It was so much easier to deal with the burdens of being a country when you had someone with you. 

Feliks, the personification of Poland, was by no means an easy person to work with, but he was still amazing to be with. He had made Tolys laugh so hard that he had cried. Other times, Tolys would comfort Feliks as he sobbed. 

Russia’s demeanor went cold. “Well, good for both of you,” he sneered. 

Lithuania quickly realized his mistake. “I’m sorry-!” He shouted quickly, fumbling for an apology. 

“Get out!” Russia yelled at him. “And I want these papers organized by tomorrow morning, or I’ll treat you the same way Stalin wants me to treat you.”

Lithuania grabbed the papers and bolted out of the room. He shut the door loudly, then leaned against the wall outside of it, still shaking from the threat. Through the wall, he heard Russia muttering — something about love.

And Americans.

-_*_*_*_- 

Lithuania had calmed down by the time he was alone in his small, musty room. He dropped the papers on the mahogany desk that sat in the corner, turning on the lantern that sat on it. If he didn’t start, there was no way he was going to be able to finish. 

He combed through the papers, trying to get an idea of what they were about. Most of them were full of military jargon, but there was one word -or name—that stood out from the rest. 

Poland. 

Lithuania froze, immediately taking the page and reading over it carefully. His heart sped up the more he read, his fear too. They were going to attack his friend.

The nation ran to the phone, hoping that Feliks was near his. Tolys dialed the phone number, knowing it by heart. He heard his heart beating in his ears as he listened to the ringing sound, becoming more worried with every second that passed. 

Finally, Feliks picked up. 

“Sup, Tolys,” Feliks answered. 

“Feliks! You need to listen! Germany and Russia are going to invade you! They have plans to attack you from the east and the west! You need to get your military ready! You need-” Tolys paused as he heard the sound of crunching coming from the other line. “Are—Are you eating?” 

“Like, duh,” Feliks replied, another crunch picked up by the receiver. 

“Did you even hear anything I said?!” Tolys shrieked. 

“Totally!” Feliks said. “But you don’t need to worry about, like, anything. My military is totally good, bro!” 

“Po…” Tolys whispered. “Don’t you think that you should get more ready? These are two big forces; they could take you over.” 

“But that’s like, totally not gonna happen!” Feliks said, sounding confident.

“Feliks,” Tolys whispered again, sounding completely serious. “You need to start preparing. If they take you, you’re either going to have to deal with Stalin or Hitler. And I…” I can’t stand the thought of you trapped with either of them. 

“You don’t think that I’m strong enough?” Feliks asked, sounding irritated. 

“No! I’m just worried that-” 

“Whatever.” Feliks scoffed, then his tone softened a bit. “I’m going to be totally fine. You’ll see. Then we’ll, like, totally laugh about this later.” Feliks paused for a few more seconds before continuing. “Well, that's all, TTYL!”

The dial tone rang in Tolys' ear before he even had the chance to whisper goodbye. The nation sat there, in the dim lighting of his room, knowing that this was only the beginning of something awful.

Chapter Text

“It is an unfortunate fact that we can secure peace only by preparing for war.” —John F. Kennedy (JFK)

September 22, 1939 —Hove, England

The meeting room was stuffed with important-looking men and documents. Both French and English shouts filled the room, none of them about happy things. It reminded England of World War I, something that he hoped he would never have to live through again. 

Yet here they were, because humanity is bad at keeping peace. Even the people who were fighting were a common factor, including his ally. He looked over at the nation next to him. 

It was France, of course. The frog’s country and his had been growing closer ever since the early 1900s. England had been seeing him an awful lot lately because of war meetings between the two of them. The long-haired blond looked bored, his chin resting on his hand, listening to the latest intel about the German invasion of Poland. 

The more news they heard, the worse they felt. Towns bombed, churches set on fire, people shot down without hesitation, and tanks rolling over rubble and people. 

Both England and France had tried to get Poland to upgrade his military power, but the Pole had just laughed it off, saying Lithuania had told him the same thing. 

"I'm going to be totally fine! You'll see!" Poland had told them, flipping his blond hair and quickly moving to a different topic. 

Poland was facing the consequences of it. Now, here England and France were, trying to figure out what to do next. 

They couldn’t stop the invasion; it was too late for that, but they could destroy the German forces, then free Poland. 

But if they couldn’t stop the forces... the Germans would march and take over the rest of Europe. That was something no one wanted. 

Battle plans and ideas for peace were coming from every corner of the room. Some of the British men mentioned getting the Americans involved, but the Prime Minister quickly turned that down. 

England was a little relieved at that. He didn't want America to come bursting in with loud ideas. As much as he loved America — like a brother— he didn't want another annoying nation. France was by far enough. Enough to deal with that is. 

England glanced over at his… friend… once more. The Frenchman seemed to be unworried by the talk of a potential German invasion. He twisted his blond hair between his fingers, playing with the ends of it. 

“Like what you see, mon cher?” France asked, turning to smirk at the British nation. 

“No!” England scoffed quickly. “I was just thinking about the Germans.” 

France continued to smirk, sitting up straighter. “And thinking about the Germans while you stare at me makes you smile?” He teased.

“I was not smiling, you git!” England yelled loudly. 

“England! Do you have something to contribute?” Asked one of the British military leaders. England sputtered, but shook his head. “Well, try to be quiet if you don’t have an idea for how to stop the German invasion.” 

“Yeah, Arthur,” Francis whispered in his ear, so close that the Brit could feel his breath, “Be quiet. You’re being too loud.”  

The thick eyebrowed nation rolled his eyes, leaning away from the other. The other continued smirking as his face turned slightly red. 

“Oh, how cute!” Francis continued to tease, “Mon lapin is almost as red as a rose. If only you were as beautiful as one too!” 

“Oh, you bloody-” Arthur shrieked, reaching over to grab the Frenchman. His fist met the lovely blonde’s face with a bit of a crack.   

“England!” Shouted his Prime Minister, Neville Chamberland. “Take your nonsense outside! We need to be focused and work as a team, not punch each other!"

England was going to put up a protest, but quickly quieted when his boss sent him a fierce glare. He took a deep breath to compose himself, telling himself that he would be calmer once he got away from France.

“You go too, France,” said the French PM, Édouard Daladier. “You have blood on your face.”

Well, shit. 

England grumbled, collecting his things, before marching to the door, uttering curses about the Frenchman who followed behind him. 

“I think your reaction was unnecessary!” Francis told him, coming up to walk beside him, wiping the blood from his nose with a handkerchief.  

“I think you’re unnecessary,” Arthur grumbled. 

The Frenchman laughed in response, elbowing Arthur. Francis had elbowed him hard, causing the Brit to drop all of his papers. Arthur let out a few colorful curses before bending down to get them. Francis bent down too, gathering up the papers. 

“For you, mon amour,” Francis said with a wink, holding out the papers, a rose somehow in his hand as well. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who caused me to drop them anyway! And the one who got us kicked out of the meeting!” He snatched back the papers, standing up and stuffing them in his folder, refusing the rose entirely. 

“Now, now, I remember your boss telling you to leave first, because you punched me,” Francis argued, standing back up next to him. 

“That’s because you were being ridiculous and whispering into my ear.” 

“Do you not like it?” Francis whispered, once again leaning down towards Arthur’s ear. His face turned red again as he felt the Frenchman's warm breath on his ear again. “I think you do.” 

Arthur pushed Francis away, both out of embarrassment and anger. “Could you be any less serious?! You could be invaded or bombed or something in a matter of months. You could be spending your time doing something productive, like spending your time wisely before going to war!” 

Francis shrugged, still smiling. “I would say I’m spending my time wisely. I’m spending it with you, mon cheri.” He said this with a wink, which only infuriated Arthur more. 

“Well, if you would spend your time actually preparing for war, then you wouldn’t have to worry about spending your sorry time with me. You could just do that when we’ve won the war.” 

Francis’s smile grew. “So you’re saying that you want to spend time with me? That you don’t mind it? Oh l'Angleterre, je t’aime aussi.” 

“I never said that! I just mean that I worried-” Arthur stuttered.

“Oh, you’re worried about me now?” Francis placed a hand over his heart. 

“Would you just shut up and let me finish!?” Arthur screeched. “We are at war with Germany. You could be taken over at any point, yet you don’t seem to give a monkey's bollocks about it! Aren’t you worried? We haven’t heard from Austria, Czechia, or Slovakia in months! I just…”  Arthur trailed off. 

Since when had Arthur actually started caring for Francis's well-being? Since when had he started calling the other Francis instead of frog-face? Blast it all, when was the last time he had truly hated the other?

He hated how close he had gotten to the Frenchman in the past few decades. By some miracle, they had both started getting along better—though they still teased and fought. 

“Are you going to continue?” Francis asked, his voice actually sounding considerate. 

“As much as I hate to say this,” Arthur gritted out. “You aren’t… terrible.”

Francis didn’t laugh at him, but instead smiled. “You aren’t too bad yourself, mon beau aux sourcils épais.”

“What did you just say about my eyebrows, you frog!” Arthur yelled. 

“Just that you’re handsome,” Francis said, flashing a smirk before walking in front of Arthur. 

The Brit froze. No one had ever called him that. He was proper, gentlemanly, and put together. But he wasn't handsome. 

He found himself staring at the French nation, who was walking away from him. 

“Enjoying the view?” Francis asked, chuckling and turning around. 

Arthur rolled his eyes, biting back the smile that was threatening to appear. 

Francis thought he was handsome. 

Chapter Text

“Man built the atomic bomb, but no mouse in the world would ever build a mouse trap.” —Albert Einstein.

October 6th, 1939 —Warsaw, Poland 

Everything was on fire. 

The churches, the buildings, the people. 

His heart was the center of death and destruction, tanks rolling over the dead, both bones and rubble crunching. 

Screams filled the air, some being cut short after the sound of a gun crack echoed through the quiet streets. 

Off in the distance, there was the sound of more bombs exploding. They kept coming, ticking and exploding faster than the second hand moved on a watch. 

 The air smelled like ashes, mildew, and death. The scent danced in the atmosphere, creating a stench that seeped into the damaged buildings lining the roads.  

Poland lay amongst the rubble, in the remnants of his burning heart, barely able to process the destruction of his home. It was like his soul had been ripped out of his chest, then held in front of him, only to watch it be destroyed. 

He had only felt pain like this one other time, before he had disappeared for two hundred years. He wondered if he would disappear again, taken by the inky blackness. 

Poland could feel the dust clinging to his broken body from the recent bombings. It clung to his clothes; no matter how hard he tried to dust it off, it wouldn’t go. Blood stained the cloth as well, both his own and from some of his fellow Poles. Everyone in his resistance group was dead.

He felt a raging pain sear through his head, and he could see countless deaths in vivid detail.  

His men being shot in the back, head, or chest and left to bleed out on the streets. The screaming of elders as they were burned alive inside their church, the stench of their burning bodies and hair singed his mind. The cry of mothers and wives as they watched their husbands being killed and their kids being dragged down the street. 

Five weeks. And Poland was tired of it. He had felt the moment his people gave up, their hearts heavy as they let the German and Russian forces tear their country, tear him, apart.

Poland let out a strangled sob as he heard the sound of tanks rolling closer. He should have listened to Lithuania. Even thinking of the green-eyed man made him burn with sadness and guilt, wishing he hadn't laughed off his warning.  

Poland wished that this could all be just another nightmare, and he’d wake up next to Tolys again in the 1600s, laughing about ‘this, like, totally crazy’ nightmare he had. The other nation would just give him a small smile, then probably kiss him on the forehead, telling him: ‘Go back to sleep, Feliks, it’s the middle of the night.’

But that was centuries ago.

Now he was lying on the dirt, wondering what horrible fate could await him. He could barely breathe as the dirt clogged his throat and the screams of death clogged his brain.   

Minutes seemed to pass like days. He could feel the blood dripping from the cuts above his heart, bleeding alongside his citizens.

He had scoffed off the initial invasion, saying that he could, like, totally get rid of the Germans. But as the days crept by, the Germans charged forward, bombing and scorching his land, leaving death upon the land and burns upon Poland. 

Then the Russians had come. Just like Tolys had told him. 

Being invaded from both sides felt like slowly being crushed. Every day seemed to be filled with the sharp pains of death and war, slowly making their way closer to his capital, his heart. 

The Pole wanted to stand up, to fight for his land and his people, but every ounce of resistance was being put down like an old dog past their prime. Even trying to crawl forward was a monumental task. His feet had been knocked underneath him when his buildings had been bombed to their foundations. 

So Poland stayed waiting in the ruins of a bombed-out building. He tried to close his green eyes, only to be reminded of the one other pair of green eyes that made his heart ache more. 

Why hadn’t he listened? 

Poland felt small tears run from his eyes and down his face, the only way he could show the world how much he wanted to be held in Tolys’ arms. And every minute that he spent thinking about his life, his life that had suddenly gone terribly wrong, the more he wished he hadn’t returned at all. 

What was the life of a nation but one of suffering, loneliness, and betrayal?

The sun was high in the sky when the soldiers found him. They shouted at him in German, asking who he was; the nation didn’t feel they deserved a response. They dragged him to his feet, the biggest of the group spitting into his face as he asked Poland who he was. 

The blond gagged as globs of spit landed on his face. “Well,” Poland remarked in a snarky, heavily accented German, “You totally need, like, no introduction. You’re a total ass and a son of a bitch. Oh, and your mother is, like, a whore. Your father totally already knew that, though.” Poland smiled, feeling a little satisfaction as the man’s face flared up in anger. 

He dropped the nation to the ground, then started hitting him repeatedly with the butt of his rifle. The satisfaction vanished and was quickly replaced by bursts of pain shooting through his body. 

The guard stopped for a moment, and Poland thought his punishment was over. He prayed that the guards thought he was dead, but was wrong when the same one who had been beating him swiftly picked him up by his shirt collar. 

“Identify yourself, filthy Pole!” The German shouted at him, shaking the nation so hard that he could feel his bones rattling. 

Something about being called filthy lit a fire of hatred in his core. He tilted his green eyes towards the Germans, never letting the other man's snarl scare him. 

“I am the totally great fucking nation of Poland.” He leaned in close to the man holding him captive, close enough to smell the German's disgusting breath. “And no matter how hard you hit me, I can totally assure you of one thing. I will get up.” 

The German seemed stunned by his answer. Poland liked to imagine what he had said had fried what little brain was left in the German. But he was wrong. Instead, he felt a swift blow to the back of the head, and everything went as dark as the ashes of his home.

Chapter Text

“It’s not who you’re fighting against that matters. It’s what you’re fighting for.” —Alan Gratz.

March 13th, 1940— Helsinki, Finland 

Everything was gray. The smell, the sounds, the color, everything was dull. Finland had just arrived back at his capital — his bombed-out capital. How the hell had this even happened? Finland wondered. 

Snow littered the ground, crunching as the Finn marched back home. A few other soldiers were walking along with him, their faces grim. 

His people had killed far more of the Red Army than they had killed of them. They had stained the snow red with Russian blood. 

 But he was still forced to give up his land. 

Finland's gloved hand curled into a fist. He wanted to grab his sniper rifle that was slung on his back and run towards the border to claim the victory that was rightfully his. 

But he had to keep walking through his destroyed city. His cold city. His gray and dull city.  

The only good part about returning home was that he would finally get to see Berwald — Sweden — again. 

Sure, the Swede had sent letters to him when he was on the war front. But that would be nothing compared to actually being with him again.  

Finland reached his apartment, which had only received minor damage. The whole apartment was empty and quiet. Maybe some of its inhabitants had died in the war. As he walked through the cold and gray hall, he continued to wonder who else was gone. Who else could he have protected? 

When he finally reached his door, he couldn’t bring himself to open it. 

Finland felt like a failure. He was a failure. He felt guilt and sadness swell with him, pricking his eyes with tears, as he thought about all the people who had died only to lose. 

In a matter of seconds, those pricks had caused a dam to break, and Finland couldn't hold back anymore. It was all his fault. 

25,904

That was how many people had died to protect him. 

Some of them had been fathers, wanting to go back home to celebrate their child’s birthday. Others had been sons, wishing to be in their mothers' arms as they died in the cold snow. There were even mothers, daughters, and sisters who had left home to tend to the soldiers, men they didn’t know. 

It was his fault they were dead now. 

Finland slid down against the wall, still not having opened the door. He felt his rifle pressing into his back, a reminder that if he killed a few more Russians, then maybe more people would have gotten to live. 

“Finn?” A deep voice asked. 

The voice cut through the rest. Finland looked up to see his lover, Berwald, standing in the doorway. Worry clouded his turquoise eyes, the only thing that gave away his emotion. 

Tino wiped the tears off his face, trying to pull himself more together. “Hiya, Berry,” he said as he stood up again, smoothing out his pants to try to look more presentable. 

“What’s wrong?” Berwald asked, taking a step closer to his love. 

“Oh, nothing! I’m fine!” Tino said, ducking under the tall man's arm and walking into their shared apartment. 

The place wasn’t too big, perfect for only two people. But it was gray. The air felt stale, as if no one had lived in the house for years. The furniture looked unused, and the lighting cast a dull glow. 

Tino tossed his custom-made, silver rifle on the table, where it landed with a thunk. His bag full of stuff from the war landed next to it with a louder thunk. 

“Tino?” Berwald asked again, this time the worry creeping into his voice. 

The Finn continued to ignore him in favor of digging through the kitchen cabinets, pulling out a bottle of Koskenkorva vodka. He collapsed on the couch, taking a swig of the vodka before setting it down on the table. He wiped his mouth, then froze when he saw the newspapers. 

FINLAND SIGNS PEACE TREATY WITH RUSSIA

FINLAND MOURNS 

RUSSIA INVADES FINLAND; HELSINKI BOMBED; NORWAY UNDER PRESSURE

FINNS WERE BEATEN

RUSSIA, FINLAND SIGN PEACE TREATY; SOVIET GETS VITAL LAND CONCESSIONS

MOSCOW ANNOUNCES PEACE TREATY SIGNED; FINNS DELAY RATIFICATION, FIGHTING ENDS; TERMS GIVE BIG FINNISH AREA TO SOVIET

In the blink of an eye, everything went from gray to red, from cold to burning hot. Finland grabbed the bottle of vodka again and this time smashed it against the newspapers. He ripped every one of them up till they were nothing more than snowflakes falling on the ground. 

He should have won the war. He was better. He didn’t deserve this. 

Finland wanted to take his rifle and run back to the border, back to the land that was rightfully his. 

He wanted to see the gray snow turn red. He wanted to see the Soviets' ugly fucking flag shredded and scattered in the wind. He wanted the Red Army to fall to their knees. He wanted-! 

His rage was cut off by a hug from behind. Berwald's arms wrapped around him tightly, stopping him from moving. For the first time in weeks, Tino saw color.  

The room wasn’t gray, nor was it red. The couch was its regular chocolate brown again, and the walls were navy blue. He looked at the table in front of him, where the newspaper had been.

Now, broken glass was scattered across the carpet. Tino had gotten a few pieces of the shattered glass in his hands, too. Vodka dripped off the table, mixing with the blood from his cut hands and staining the carpet.

Oh Gods, what had he done? He leaned into Berwald, turning around and burying his face into the Swede’s chest. Berwald's large hand started combing through Tino’s short, blond hair, as the Finn began sobbing. 

Berwald sat on the couch, pulling Tino down with him. He continued to lie in the taller man’s lap, sobbing and clutching onto Berwald’s blue jacket. They stayed like that until Tino’s sobs turned to sniffles and hiccups. 

“Tino,” Berwald said, his deep voice a soft whisper. “Please tell me what’s wrong. And don’t say you’re fine.” 

The Finn’s eyes fluttered to the newspapers that had been ripped up. “I should have won. We killed more of them. But I still had to give up land.”  

Finland choked on a sob before continuing in a whisper. “So, so many people died for nothing. They died, and- and we didn’t even win. If I had killed more people… maybe I—Maybe they wouldn’t have died pointlessly.”

“Tino, älskling, ” Berwald started, putting his hand underneath Tino’s chin to tilt it up towards him. “You did everything you could. You went and fought, and damn well too. 

“Those people didn’t die for nothing. If they hadn’t fought, then the Red Army would be swarming your city as we speak. You did all that you could.” He placed a kiss on Tino’s forehead before bringing him to rest under his chin.

Berwald's hand continued brushing through others’ hair, and his other hand rubbing small circles on the shorter’s back. Tino closed his eyes, savoring the warmth, the calm, the scent of his Swedish lover. 

“You hungry?” Berwald asked after a few minutes of sitting in silence. 

Tino nodded his head and sat up, scooting up from the other.  They walked into the cozy kitchen and started cooking. They moved in sync, gathering the ingredients to make Kesäkeitto, a vegetable soup.  The mellow, salty scent filled the room, wrapping Tino in a hug. 

As they let the soup cook, Berwald took Tino’s bloody hand and kissed it, before wrapping it up in cloth. The shorter of the two moved to give the other a hug. Berwald leaned close, hugging the Finn tightly. 

“I missed you, Tino.” He whispered.

“I missed you, too, Berry,” Tino said softly. 

Berwald tilted Tino’s head towards his and leaned in for a kiss. He kissed back, feeling a surge of hope and love for the first time in weeks.