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Chapter Text

• Prewar Period to World War I •

                  He decided to overwork again. His eyelids were threatening to shut down like a well-aged, crackling television. He was completely engulfed by the strong aroma of caffeine - there were about seven packages littered around his desk like shredded leaves, limp and lifeless. His head had drooped itself over his resting arm, supported by the painfully hard surface of the desk, that was icy-cold to the touch. A small string of saliva escaped the corner of his guarded mouth that was twitching in anxiety - because of his daydream, probably - and it glided gracefully down like a trickle of silk, finally finding its destination of an undisturbed piece of paper. It wasn't blank, though. The saliva landed and quickly blurred up the black ink he wrote in. Somewhere else in the house, far from his bedroom where the only sound is the suffocating silence, light-hearted laughter can be heard. They sounded like a trail of ringing bells, but a pain to his ears. He, however, only continued to glare at the wall before him, determined to laser a hole through it.

                 "Papa! We're ready, come find us-"

                 "If only you can~"

                 "Of course I will, silly! Now I take it that one of you has such a high level of intelligence you decided to not shout out like your other clumsy siblings..." Chuckled German Empire as he quickly uncovered his eyes and started scanning the garden - his children had asked him to a game of hide and seek again, even though it is almost impossible for them to win. Within a few minutes, he has spotted the tips of a bright red head poking out from inside a bush and proceeded to approach, patting his youngest child and only daughter on the head and whispering "Found you!" while the Austrian sighed in defeat.

                  As time went on, no one was spared by the Empire's sharp eyes: he would soon discover Weimar, then Hungary. Just when they were begging for another round, someone walked in with a tray of Bienenstich and she was immediately hoarded by the children, who all felt as if they were starving. Austria-Hungary looked up awkwardly at German Empire as he tries to suppress a laugh. "Oh, children... always glued to desserts like bees to flowers!" 

                 "Mama, can I have that, please?" 

                 "My loves, these are made just for you, so go ahead! Just don't make too much mes-"

                 So they proceeded to snatch the tray and began fighting for who will get more. 

                 German Empire slowly strolled next to Austria-Hungary who tried to pull up a smile but failed. "What's troubling you, Liebling?" "...N-nothing, really." She looked down at the ground and guided her hands together nervously. "You know, I can clearly tell that's a lie. And I can guess what's bothering yo-" 

                 "Well, fine! Fantastic, I'll tell you what's going on. He, is my son, you know? And yours too. You may not care for him-"

                 "I knew you were going to bring this up eventually; and, it is not just that I don't care for him."

                 "But as his mother, I do care - and I'm disappointed in you, Kaiserreich. You promised to try to be the best father for our children - but you're not allowed to pick favorites."

                 "Listen, meine Liebe," German Empire clutched at both of her agitated hands. "You don't understand. The potential in a country which exists as soon as they're born cannot be rewritten. And I know that he... has a potential that is made to be locked away -"

                 "And by that, you mean locking the boy away? Telling him he has to be isolated from the rest of the world? Tell him that his own father will never love him?!" All these years, Austria-Hungary's carefully concealed anger is finally freeing itself. "I've never ever heard of anything as possibly ridiculous as this, not even close!"

                 "I just wanted to protect you, protect our children, and protect everyone else from him. He might be a boy but soon will grow into a man. A monster. And if he's let loose... only God will know what happens..."

                 "Ja ja, go tell that to anyone else who hasn't lost their mind. In your logic, you're probably even thinking why don't we just kill him!" She snatched her hands out of his grip, turned on her heels, and stormed out of the garden, leaving a distraught German Empire staring still at the place where she used to stand.

                 "Papa, what happened to M-" The sweet voice of his daughter also came with a tiny hand gently tugging on his pants, causing him to kneel down to her eye-level, raising a finger to her mouth. Bringing up a smile he reassured her: "Nothing, my angel. Mama just wants to go and rest, she's tired after making you that delicious dessert! Now now, go along and play with your brothers."

                 ❖ ~ ❖

                 *Knock knock* Silence.

                 *Knock knock knock* Silence.

                 "Drittes, my boy. I know you are in there. Please, open the door..."

                 "...Go away." I don't belong to the outside world.

                 But what I'll do will make me belong...

Chapter Text

• Some time in September, 1914 - World War I •

                 No one ever knew that he had a talent of disappearing. It was as if he was a nocturnal animal - the only limited amount of freedom that he receives only existed in the dead of the night, when all has rested and not a single soul was to be seen. Or rather more like a time when everyone can avoid themselves from the mere sight of him with ease. 

                 Now that survival was the only thing on everyone's mind, with the German Empire and Austria-Hungary being far away fighting in a pointless war, Drittes did not hesitate to wander out. With his peaked cap, the proud sleek black uniform and brightly-polished black boots on, there was no doubt that he was the odd one out, walking steadily down a lone street that was only illuminated by the soft, silver streaks of moonlight leaking out from cotton clouds. 

                 Slowly, he made his way upon a hill that was covered by a blanket of cornflowers, swaying to the whistles of the wind. The hill was one of the most frequent destinations he made in the outside world: when one's head is raised, they're free to watch the exchange of sun and moon in all its glory; when one's head is down, an undisturbed, mirror-like piece of a lake will jump into their sights. And right now, with his head raised, thousands of sparkling dots reflected in his eyes. "Oh, the wonders of the stars..." 

                 But suddenly, he heard footsteps that were steadily approaching him at an alarming speed. His mind rapidly processing this new information, he seized his Luger P08 pistol out of its holster and spun around ready to aim and shoot this intruder... but instead, he bumped face-first into someone's chest. 

                 His eyes widening, he staggered a few paces back, taking in the stranger: they are another redly colored country just like himself, except they're wearing an eyepatch for their right eye which resembled a golden emblem where a hammer and sickle are crossed. The other most noticeable piece of this stranger, he noticed, was the brown fur hat that sat on their head; on the middle of it, there was another emblem of a red star. 

                 "Не стреляй!" (Don't shoot!)

                 "Was?!" (What?!) He couldn't believe he actually shook at the sound of the raspy voice emitted by the stranger. "I don't understand whatever the hell you just said! Speak English?"

                 Recognition flitted across the stranger's face. 

                 "But of course."

                 "Who are you? Why did you decide that sneaking up on me was a good idea? I've never seen anyone around here, so were you following me?!" He hissed threateningly, waving the Luger to remind the stranger of what he was considering to do. 

                 "I do not consider my identity to be of utmost importance right now... but you. I know who you are. You come out here every night. Right?" The stranger carefully took off their brown fur hat, twirling it around in his hands. 

                 You're one very…interesting country, thought Drittes. But instead, what shot out of his mouth was: "What's so special about that stupid hat, or whatever the hell that is?" He smirked trying to insult the stranger - they seemed too calm for him - and that was enraging him. He smirked because he was fully expecting the stranger to start talking to him with their fists.

                "It is an Ushanka." The stranger replied, still well-composed and mannered. They spoke the last word - the name of the hat - with fondness. "How very blatant of you, and you seem to like the expression of 'whatever the hell' quite a lot. And if you think it seems unusual, my attachment to my ushanka, then look yourself, and notice your own attachment to your uniform and that shiny Iron Cross of yours."

                Drittes was surprised... once again, by this country, and he hated that fact. "Are you telling me that I am so readily readable?"

                "Нет," Sighed the stranger, shaking their head softly. "I only like to observe."

-----------------------------[The Christmas of 1914]------------------------------

                 They sat wordlessly, shoulder to shoulder, overlooking the lake which was now patched up by ice. The sky was a dull gray, and from it fell thousands of tiny particles, landing on everything and hiding up the bare branches of leafless trees.

                "Uhm," Drittes shifted uncomfortably on the grass that was adorned by the snow. Their pants were smudged by the wet earth, but neither complained as more snow melted on their heads.

                "Yes, Drittes?"

                "Tell me your name. Seriously. It is not at all fair for you to know things about me while my knowledge of you is blank."

                "There is a reason why I never told you it. And a good reason too-"

                "And what might that be?"

Chapter Text

• The Christmas of 1914 •

                 "Drittes, I'm serious. I can't tell you!"

                 "But why can't you at least tell me why? I don't think anyone would ever want to be friends with someone they've known for three months already, and still don't know their name!"

                 The other's eyebrows knitted themselves together tightly as an unreadable expression started taking over their face. "...Oh. I understand it now. You'd rather ignore and abandon our three months of friendship...no, acquaintanceship, just because I cannot tell you my name. If that's what you wish, I'll gladly leave."

                 They picked themselves up from the ground quickly, their boots crunching the fragile grass that they were sitting on moments ago. Drittes, who sat beside them, was stone silent; he neither moved a muscle nor made the tiniest of sounds. His elbows were on his lap, supporting his chin while he stared ahead blankly. His companion quickly turned around and started walking away - but then suddenly, they couldn't help it and stopped in their tracks. They slowly looked back at Drittes with a weird twinkling in their eyes. 

                 Then, they began sauntering away...

                 "NO!" For the first time in his life, Drittes allowed the much smaller, and much more nonexistent emotional part of him to take over his logical brain. "You... y-ou come back here, immediately!" 

                 For his companion, Drittes's words were like magnets, capable of giving them an urge so strong, they wanted to run back. They could hear that his voice was laced with a hint of desperation, pleading them to stop. 

                 But they didn't.

                 They only tried to tell themselves that everything was going to work out, even though they were feeling dreadful on the inside. They only tried to tell themselves that their eyes weren't watery, it was just the melting ice. 

                 But mostly, they wanted to tell themselves that they will one day have someone who'll stay by their side no matter what. Someone who'll appreciate them, and hold them preciously. Someone who will not abandon them. Someone who they can call a friend...

                 "Look at me. Look at me, please!" Startled out of their thoughts by the voice, they looked down subconsciously and sees a pair of red hands tugging on their right arm. They looked up at the face of the owner of these hands nonchalantly. Drittes was inhaling and exhaling rapidly - he felt devastated. "I...I cannot believe I'm actually going to say this," he blurted out. "But...

                Don't leave me, please."

                His face was so flustered - not only did he just confessed that he was emotionally dependent on his companion, but he was even accepting the electrical surges of emotions swimming through his entire being... it was such a tasty but dangerous feeling, he could feast on it. It was simply something that was out of his reach, his father had made sure, from the moment he was born, until now. 

                "Drittes," Their voice was so serene, just like always. It felt like it could fill up the void in Drittes's heart. "I won't be able to stand leaving you anyways." They smiled...before adding: 

                "My name...is...USSR, short for Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. But you probably know me better as...Soviet Union..."

                His mind was suddenly wept blank; he felt that it was beginning to feel harder to breathe. There was a horde of unleashed wild horses trampling through his brain; and at that moment, he knew he had to do something.

                "AGH!" Soviet Union received a violent punch on his stomach. Yelping, he bent over immediately from the blinding pain and spurted out a mouthful of fresh, metallic-smelling blood onto the pure white snow. Wiping his mouth carelessly with the sleeve of his coat, he slanted his head in order to face Drittes, who was flexing his fingers on the hand which delivered the blow to Soviet. He knew this was inevitable to happen... why not let it go naturally...the punch was spelled with hatred, betrayal, and a thirst for revenge. 

               "This...is for being the son of that Arschloch - the Arschloch my mother and my, father are fighting."

               "But this..." Without any warning, Drittes hit knee-first on the ground next to Soviet and wrapped his arms around his torso.

              "Is for being my first and only friend, even though you knew I am your enemy."

              Mouth agape, Soviet turned around in Drittes's arms and embraced him back, burying his face on his shoulder. And began to chuckle. With happiness. 

              "I know, he sure is an asshole."

              "That's even funnier that you said it!"

              "But he really loves me until this day... And hey...you really are also my first, and only friend."

              "With that asshole of a father? I'm sure that's true."

              "And your father?"

              Soviet felt Drittes's breath hitch. After a few seconds, he simply cleared his throat.

              "I don't want to talk about him."

              "Oh, I'm sorry. I respect that... Did I ever tell you that - you're very lucky your mother loves you so much?"

              "...That can make the record of the most bizarre thing you've ever told me."

              "It's because...I don't even have a mother."

              Drittes tensed upon hearing this. His eyes widened. "How is that possible...Soviet?"

              "My father told me that…she died after I was born. And I felt so, so very guilty ever after that. It felt like…I was the reason she died."

              "Well, let me tell you something. You are not."

              Both were speechless for a while, quietly enjoying each other's warmth. It was such a new experience for both, to know that they now have someone else with them on this world; it was fascinating, how the skin was icy cold but beneath it was a fire burning steadily.

              "Frohe Weihnachten, Sowjet." (Merry Christmas, Soviet.)

              "С Рождеством, Третье." (Merry Christmas, Drittes.)

Chapter Text

• Postwar Period to WWI - November 13th, 1918 •

                  Is it possible to feel even less emotionless than him right now?

                  Probably not.

                  He was oblivious to the fact that his older brother and younger sister are breaking down right beside him.

                  Hungary had a wailing Austria wrapped tightly in his arms, struggling to keep his own emotions in check. He was forcing his red, swollen eyes to shut themselves, his tears silently sliding down like a dripping water faucet. 

                  Austria, compared to her brothers, was in much worse condition. She was so loved. Her father and mother have devoted so much to her. Her father - when he was with her, he was a completely different father to all of her brothers. He always had all the time in the world for her. All the times when he worked himself well and late into the night, he always had time to read her to bed and kiss her good night. "You're my little slice of Sachertorte," he always cooed to her while she giggled.

                 Used to. He used to do all that.

                 Despite everything, the house felt much, much more emptier than ever before. Even emptier than when they were still away, fighting on the fronts.

                 Were. They were. 

                 And he wished more than anything that maybe, just maybe...

                They might still be alive.

                Not that it mattered whether or not his father was. He was only hoping with a hopeless hope for his mother.

                 Their perfect, loving world was now shattered, forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                 His eyes slowly traveled left and right, taking in the sight of this strangely familiar but unfamiliar room. Familiar because this was his home. Unfamiliar because he had rarely lived in it. They kept wandering around the place until they landed on a silky, cream colored dress. A dress that carefully reminded him of her. The only known person who tried to show him real affection but someone who he forcefully blocked out. Someone with the name of Austria-Hungary.

                 Weimar is found nowhere in the vicinity of the house. He had left immediately after the telegram had arrived. 

                 God, the gottverdammtes telegram.

                 How can words be so cruel? But so loving, so comforting, so addictive, and most of all, why did they exist to hurt the people who are not prepared for them? It's probably because they can also embrace the people who need them the most, give warmth to the people who are cold, give hope to the people who are hopeless... Ironic.

                 Words. Impactful words. Addicting words. Important words. Powerful words.

                 Written in the same way, but with slightly different wording, for all the families of another 20 million people around the globe. It doesn't matter who they are. How important they are. Oh no, that doesn't matter a bit in front of death. 

                 We regret to inform you that your:

                 Son, 

                 Husband,

                 Father,

                 Brother... 

                 Has been killed in battle.

                 The cursed words which have been entitled with the duty of explaining everything to them; but at the same time, tells them nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                 "SHUT UP, YOU BUNCH OF SHAMELESS, IMMATURE, AND SPOILED BRATS WHO KNOW NOTHING BUT CRYING!"

                 Reich shouted hysterically as he brought his fists down, slamming them on the surface of the table. 

                 A beat. 

                Report: Watery liquid is swimming upon the Target's eyes.

                "THEY'RE GONE! GONE! VANISHED, POOF!"

                Another beat. 

                Report: Target has squeezed his eyes. One streak of the liquid ran free.

                "And they're never coming back..."

                The resounding, final beat. 

                Report: The plan has been activated. The hot, burning liquids are trailing down the Target's visage.

                Hungary could not believe what he was hearing. He could've never imagined that his youngest brother, quietest brother, locked-away-in-his-own-world brother, can act like this. He spent his entire youth bathed in the loving attention he received from their parents, along with his other siblings. He also spent his entire youth with one thing that he thought was true stuck inside his head: forget that you even have another brother. He is an outsider in every way and that is why he locks himself inside his bedroom all day. He does not care for you, or Austria, or Weimar, or even your parents. 

                He is cold, emotionless. A walking skeleton who isn't capable of loving.

                Why does he always look like he hates me?

                Does he really hate us all?

                What have we done...to deserve this hate?

                . . . . . .

                Seeing Drittes like this has made him doubt his whole entire being. But there was no going back now. He heard what he heard.

                "DON'T YOU DARE TALK TO YOUR OLDER BROTHER LIKE THAT! Especially in front of your sister! How DARE you call US spoiled and shameless, you. Emotionless. Hateful. ASSHOLE!

               You pathetic and unappreciative piece of scum! Do you have any idea how many times we heard Mama and Papa talk about you, and sighed, and how Papa said he was SORRY HE HAD YOU AS A SON!"

               A long, dreadful pause.

               Everything was shattering.

              "GET OUT OF OUR HOUSE! YOU NEVER BELONGED HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE!"

              The blow was delivered.

              And hit its target where it's supposed to.

             Shards after shards of shattered glass hit the ground with a crisp clang.

------------------------------[The Christmas of 1918]-----------------------------

             "Here," He carefully took out a golden-framed photo after searching inside his pockets. "I know you never liked your father and, I guess, neither did he...but it has no meaning for me. It might be...important for you. Take it, do whatever you wish with it. It belongs to you now."

             They were sitting in the same exact spot again. It was Christmas again. Snowflakes are whispering down from the sky again. Their pants were smudged wet on the grass again. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder again.

             But nothing else is the same. Not anymore.

             A destructive war that costed 20 million lives finally played through its cadence, and with it, the curtains finally fell. Parents were dead. Children were lost. Morality has since shifted, and became unrecognizable. Christmas wasn't merry anymore. Others rather spend it while crying on their loved ones' gravestones. 

             Drittes' voice cracked. Like the shattered glass shards. "Soviet, how - how did you find this? And why is there a picture of...them...with your father?"

            "I think he said something about back in...1873, my father and your parents had an alliance called the League of Three Emperors. And this photo was taken when they all came together. Drittes, listen...there's nothing else I can say other than 'I'm sorry' but I'm truly so sorry...but trust me:

            Soon, you're not going to be alone in this..."

            Drittes was confused for a second. He tilted his head alarmingly. "What do you mean by that?"

            "You will see."

Chapter Text

• June 27th, 1919 •

                 Eyes snapping open, he took a well-deserved, deep inhale. Sweet air rushed into his lungs and he has never felt so alive before. So charged with the zigzagging spasms of life. So ready to get up on his legs that will for sure disappoint him, buckle right down and send him crashing onto the forest ground again. So ready to fight, so ready to flee, so ready to seek revenge. And his chest - oh, that fragile area that was doomed to be married to a bullet. The entrance the bullet had forced itself into was making him wheeze and hiss. Let's just say, every. Single. Movement. Of the muscles. Hurt. What's more is, that pun was neither intended nor funny.

                He has been in much worse shape before, he realized, gazing down thoughtlessly and disappointingly at the conditions of his body. He had at least nine broken limbs. He was covered with, from head to toe, blood. He had a bloodied eye, a bloodied chest, a bloodied arm - no, scratch that. Every single working body part of his is bloody. And he was sure he did not bathe in blood. That's the reward for you when someone nearly sent you to Hell. He was that close to stepping into its gates. Closer than the bullet to his heart. Move 2.791046 millimeters and he would've never lived to see the sun again.

               Thinking about the word "sun"...

~~~~~~~~~

• June 29th, 1919 •

                 There was a knock on the door. Then two knocks. They sounded polite, however desperate, and restrained at the same time. It was like someone was almost too afraid to knock harshly on the wooden surface, however urgent the matter is.

                 Austria was confused. No one ever knocked on their door and politely asked for entrance. Not that any other country would ever want to have any business with the German family anyway. But nonetheless, her instinct led her to eventually tread over to the entrance of her home, and peek through the peephole. At first, her left eye registered nothing; it might as well have been pitch black outside, since it was well and late into the evening already. But after a quick scan through the offered and available view, she gasped loudly and immediately unlocked the door. Swinging it wide open she cried tears of pure ecstasy and threw herself face-first into the other Countryhuman's embrace. Two arms engulfed her frail body: the warmest "blanket" she has felt yet. 

                "You're back! Oh dear God, you are back!"

                 "Back I am, dear sister."

~~~~~~~~~

• June 28th, 1919 •

                 "You will take full responsibility for what your disgrace of a father and mother have done to all of us, you little Kraut!"

                 "I wanted you dead, your brothers dead, your sister dead! Dead like your oh-so-mighty parents! But you're lucky my allies said otherwise!"

                 "I request a whole returned ownership of Alsace-Lorraine which my old friend German Empire snatched away from me."

                 "I DEMAND A PIECE OF YOUR LAND!"

                 "Likewise, because the little Kraut is not permitted to leave this place alive without being generous and sharing a piece of well-deserved land to each and every one of us."

                 Voices. So many voices. So many voices raining down their special kind of artillery shells on him as he shrank himself smaller against the agonizing straight surface of the wall. They had him cornered. He was obviously outnumbered. He was never one who was interested in the masterful art of warfare, but he knew he will not be able to escape Paris either with his mentality seized away, or his beating heart. And by God does he still want to live. 

                  What was he thinking when he daringly stepped onto solid, French soil? Was he really, honestly, seriously that hot-headed at the time that he literally chose to ignore the fact that a world war has just ended and he was obviously trespassing the territory of someone his parents literally just finished fighting who was more than happy to capture him? 

                 What a ludicrous moron you are, Weimar.

                 His mind? I was cornered - just like right now, held at gunpoint, I fell on my knees, I begged for my life shamelessly, I was showered with humiliation - it's like an old, good friend now - and I was knocked out white. 

                 Out of every single possible corner of the world, he chose to run into France.

~~~~~~~~

• June 29th, 1919 •

                  Austria peered extremely curiously at the briefcase that her brother was grasping tightly. They were both forced violently out of their wandering thoughts when someone shouted behind Austria.

                  "Oh God, it's really you! Where have you been?! Why were you gone for so fucking long - you worried us to our deaths! What happened?! Are you hurt? Are you alright because you don't fucking look like someone who is alright!"

                  Then, softer than a whisper: "We thought we lost you like...like Pa-papa and Mama..."

                  Hungary fully expected his brother to show him...something. Anything. Embrace him. Or maybe even snap at him for using inappropriate language like he always does. 

                  So, he visibly stiffened and shivered when not even a single noise was uttered out. Weimar was in a trance state and the air suddenly felt dangerously suffocating. A dull ache pounded inside his head. Voices. Loud voices. 

~~~~~~~~

• June 28th, 1919 •

                  The shameless, little ones first. Little ones that weren't even actual countries before the war. 

                  Tschechoslowakei.

                  Polen. Cut off and separate our land. Separate Eastern Prussia and our own people from their Fatherland.

                  Greedily, you're not satisfied. Of course, you aren't. You wanted a Route to Sea. You snatched Danzig.

                  More land was given to Belgien.

                  Then, the old bastard who has been determined to eliminate our existence over centuries ago. 

                   Frankreich.

                   "Alsace-Lorraine comes back to me, you hear that Boche? Look at me. LOOK AT ME! You and the rest of your filthy war-addict family. Why you're even alive is a miracle!" 

                   He loomed and towered over Weimar like the Eiffel Tower. This was his territory. His home base. Weimar only retreated to the corner even more; his lips were a frosty blue and it was as if the natural cycle of blood flow was disconnected at the base of his neck. His face looked like he might have been well dead. His eyes were soulless and devoid of any reaction when an enraged France snatched him up by his shirt collar, dangling him in the air. His shaking was far worse than that of a volcano ready to erupt. 

                   And when he felt the cool surface of metal against his face, he finally broke. He flinched. He bailed. He wailed like the shame he's become for his parents. 

                   He has never dropped a single tear before. At least, not in front of strangers. Other countries.  

                   France was utterly annoyed. That hand that was snatching Weimar's collar suddenly let go -

                   Gravity made Weimar slam onto the floor on his back. 

                   His entire head felt like it was being chewed on by a dozen poisonous snakes. There was ringing in his ears and his vision was dampening like an overused lightbulb, black spots creeping into his sight. Hands reaching up to the back of his skull, all he could feel was a steady, fresh, metallic-smelling, oozing bloodstream pouring out of the back of his head. 

                   He fainted immediately. But not quick enough. A whole bucket of water was dumped mercilessly right on his face, forcefully entering his mouth that gasped open in alarm and his inhaling nostrils.

                   He coughed. Violently. 

                   "Get up, you weakling. I thought, as the eldest son of German Empire, you should withstand much worse pain than this."

                   There was not a bit of shouting, yelling, or vengeance involved with this. They steered clear of the way for this deep, velvety voice.

                   But when Weimar, albeit his head feeling like being ripped open, drained all the remaining sparks of energy left in his body as he slowly lifted his head off the ground and squinted right into the eyes of the owner of the voice - 

                   - those eyes tell a very different story.

                   Maybe one called I would like to skin you very much.

                   He shivered mentally.

                   Vereinigtes Königreich...

                   United Kingdom stared down at him. Literally and figuratively. 

                   "I'm not one to approve of random physical assaults, especially when you were not personally inflicting each and every one of our pains. But I have rules for the people who must take responsibility for their family's cruel deeds."

                   "We shall start discussing and come to terms with this delicate matter."

                   France raised his fist wanting to give a free package of blood and a severed, aching stomach to the German first, even though he was already damaged beyond control.

                   "Peacefully." UK shot a warning glare at his friend.

Chapter Text

• June 29th, 1919 •

                 One second ago, his body was humming, charged with consciousness as he still held his sister close to him, not daring to loosen his grip.

                 But the next second, he simply let go.

                 His body slacked and deflated faster than a balloon. Gravity pulled him forwards this time, the ground eagerly coming up to kiss his cheeks -

                "WEIMAR!"

                 His siblings shouted for him at the same time. Two strong arms had caught him and helped him regain his footing. But he felt like a rag doll and looks like one too. Just hold on a little bit more - just, a bit more, please, do not let your vision run black -

                 And they went black. The statics in his struggling television of a body gave up.

• • • • • •

                He was plummeting through the sky in the middle of thunder clashing with lightning.

                He was fully drenched, because, the majority of what is contained in a thunderstorm is rain. They were darting all over the place.

               Those bullets fell on us like rain, his father had addressed bitterly in a letter to him. Don't worry about us though, Weim. Your mother and I will be alright. One defeat doesn't mean all hopes for victory are shattered.

               If that's true, Weimar wanted to yell, even though he knew fair and well that none of this is real - is it? You wouldn't have been killed. Mother didn't have to die.

              He was still falling weightlessly.

              At the start: My dearest son, Weim, how have you been? There was not a single day that your mother and I didn't miss you. We're pushing full-on ahead to France with the Schlieffen Plan - we entrusted ourselves in it. And it seems to be working. We captured Belgium.

              As usual, it was all written in elegant and cursive handwriting; if not talking about wars and strategic plans, the German Empire would be talking about the importance of culture. Our art. Our dishes. Our history. Remember our history.

              The fury of the Gods that was hurled at Weimar unexpectedly caught him square on the back.

              His screams were nightmarish. It sounded like a pig that was forcefully dragged into a slaughterhouse. A lamb under the claws of a wolf. A little bird about to become the snack of a falcon.

              As soon as the lightning reached his soft flesh, they sizzled and hissed loudly; it burned and cooked his back like meat on a barbecue stand. His skin started curling up into wrinkles as they turned a shade of charred coal. 

             He was still a good few thousand meters away from his crash. 

             His skin and mouth screamed at the lightning to stop its advance.

             It didn't.

            At the end: Weimar Republic, my son. You needn't know what is happening here on the battlefields. You are too young - oh, who am I kidding? I'm sure you've grown so much since we left. Your mother and I would like to make you promise us something.

            The paper was hurriedly snatched out of a notebook. Its torned, jagged edges looked like little thorns on a rose. Apparently, the writer was out of resources for fresh, sharpened pencils. It wasn't until the fourth different pencil did he find a comparably appropriate one. And as if desperately trying to hold on to a last bit of dignity, though the words were scrawled across the page, they maintained their cursive states.

            The lightning drove itself straight into the depths of his bones - every fiber of his being was being electrocuted by white, hot pain. His muscles twitched and spasmed.

            If we are not able to make it back...

           The skin on his burnt back splintered into thousands of small openings, the blood that was protected beneath it came gushing out freely.

           We want you to remember that no matter what, be strong for us, my boy. Be strong like iron and steel.

           The rain. The rain was still falling. Its substance is setting another series of burns on the wounds.

           If we are not able to make it back like we promised...son, you as my eldest child will be my successor. You shall be named the new ruler of Deutschland. My title passes down to you, Weimar.

           There was an earsplitting crack that resonated from somewhere buried deep in his back. Something was forcefully kicking his muscles and bones around as if it was...making space for something. 

           As your father, I can't be more confident in your ability to handle things well. But as your predecessor, I can't help but feel worried. I really should have listened to your mother and spoke to you about responsibilities and politics a lot sooner, ja? Mein Kind (My child), please don't blame your father. He is getting older by the day.

          His blood boiled. His stomach churned. Had he been standing on his legs, he would've hunched over and vomited. 

          Closer and closer to the ground he fell. The wind enveloped his ears in wolf howls.

           Take care of Hungary and Austria for us. Tell them we love them - we still do - and we'll carry our precious memories; till death we part. As for the other one who somehow shares the same blood as you...

           Something, whatever the endless possibilities, was being planted within his scarred back.

           And it was growing larger at the speed of light.

           There was no way he could spin his head around 180 degrees in order to see what his body was doing.

           Just make sure he never intervenes in anything you plan to do. If you will still listen to the wise words of your aging father, then lock him up. Conceal him away.

          Inhale.

          800 meters.

          Exhale.

          691 meters.

          Weimar, there is one last thing you might want to know. All Countryhumans, as you know, are extremely different and special. You are the one and only Weimar, and likewise, no one can be a second German Empire.

          314 meters.

          Inhale.

          182 meters.

          Even though your mother and I were not blessed with this specialness, I have done my research, and I'll be smiling down at my handsome, special son from heaven.

          49 meters.

          Exhale.

          27 meters.

          He no longer felt like screaming as he calmly stretched his arms wide open, welcoming nature. The rain continued to pound on him downwards. 

          Even though it couldn't have been more than a few seconds, every millisecond felt like a year as he concentrated on steadying his breathing.

          9..

          8...

          He gulped down the air.

          We love you, son.

          7... 

          And hanged on to it.

          6...

          I'm sorry...

          5. 274 meters.       

         3. 081 meters.

         We'll be forever proud of you, because you will grow -

         Just a bit more. 

         A bit more until I'm free from all of this excruciating pain.

        . . . . . .

Chapter Text

• June 29th, 1919 •

                 Something had saved him. Had spared his life from Death's grip.

                 Had filled every atom of his being with hope. Hope, the world's most precious feeling. Something to live for, and another to die for.

                 Had swept him up just as the tips of his toes were about to crash onto the ground.

• • • • • •

                 "WINGS!" was what brought him back to life: you know, the suddenly-waking-up-in-an-entire-pond-of-sweat-in-the-middle-of-nastily-arranged-bedsheets-and-desperately-gulping-for-air-like-never-before kind of life. Cliché? Yes. However, to say that he was scared to his death was an underestimate. 

                  First a crack that allowed a string of light to pierce through. Then they opened.

                  It was not a very thought-out idea.

                  "HaH-AHHHHHHhhhh-URGGGGG!"

                   A bloodcurdling shriek raced out of his mouth before it was forcefully extinguished to a whimper when something green pressed itself over his mouth. The gleaming amber eyes centimeters before his own clouded, gray-blue eyes narrowed as a face scrunched up into a frown. 

                   "Báty? (Brother?)" A deliciously familiar accent flowed in the voice like cream.

                    Instead of actually processing it through his brain, however, this came out instead:

                    "WAS? WER SIND SIE- oh nein, WO BIN ICH?! (WHAT? WHO ARE YOU- oh no, WHERE AM I?!)"

                    A young girl's voice drifted from the left side of him. "Wenn ich sagen muss, unser Bruder ist sicherlich verrückt geworden. Schau dir nur sein Gesicht an, er sieht verängstigt aus! (If I must say, our brother has surely gone insane. Just look at his face, he looks terrified!)" 

                   A red hand reached over and loomed over his forehead - that's when he felt something damp and soft nested there - that's also when he realized not all the streaks of liquid gliding down his face are sweat; some of them are water. 

                    "Honestly, Aus, how many times do I have to remind you I have not a single idea what you said." Frustration flooded Hungary's voice as he frowned even more, not looking up and intent on staring at his dear brother until he finally makes another noise besides a scream.

                     "Ary - you realize it's the same for us," Austria gestured towards her brother and her while exchanging the side of the towel on his forehead.

                     "Austria? A-and Hu-Hungary?" He felt so weak and dreamy, it was like he didn't know how to talk anymore.

                      A certain Hungarian-accented sibling laughed. "AH-HA! He's finally talking normally and not that sort of gibberish only you two understand!" He clapped in fake enthusiastic celebration.

                      "I despise your sarcasm." Growled Austria but in a second, her attention drifted away to her oldest brother. "WEIMAR! YOU ARE FINALLY BACK!"

                      For the second time since he returned and showed up on their doorstep, she flopped herself onto his body and tackled down his flailing arms. 

                      The child let out a battle cry."Stay close to the GROUND! Warning: incoming missile! ShhhhhHHHHH-BOOM!" She laughed hysterically, rolling on top of her brother. 

                      "OuuuUU-OUCH, let GO you crazy kid!" Whined Weimar as he completely gave in under his sister's non-stopping "assaults". Technically, they're just little and weak punches that Weimar could easily block out with two fingers, but he was trying hard not to ruin those precious moments where they were allowed to travel back in time, to their younger selves. 

                       "KID?! How dare you, rude young man, call such a refined and well-aged lady such as me a child!" 

                       Hungary chirped in: "That's because you always act like one and you never grow up, damn it!"

                       It was precisely then when Weimar seized the perfect opportunity for a counterattack, seeing as his "enemy" was clearly distracted, retorting at Hungary and gesturing wildly with her hands. Quicker than a flash, he gripped her shoulders and flipped their positions. Now, there was a wide-eyed Austrian blinking in confusion as she was pinned down on Weimar's bed. He smirked triumphantly. 

                      "My, my, what have we got here? Tsk, tsk. An overconfident General is bound to lead his soldiers to their dooms."

                      Normally, Austria would have a string of savage-sounding comebacks right after Weimar's done with his teasing. Or give him those sarcastic "death glares". 

                      She did none.

                      Instead, her warm, fiery eyes kept widening in awe, focusing not on Weimar's face, but somewhere...

                      Behind him.

                      For whatever possible reason, he whisper-shouted: "What are you looking at?!"

                      Austria just kept on staring at that one spot with a shocked expression, an unusually artificial smile dragging itself across her lower face, making her look like someone who's lost their sanity. 

                      That left Hungary who actually and eventually answered Weimar's question.

                      "Your WINGS, Weimar. Look. At. Those. Wings."

                      Silence erupted in the whole room as the air grew thicker. 

                      Almost as if he was terribly afraid with what he'll find, his head carefully, and oh so carefully, turned itself around. His hands didn't let go of his sister's shoulders.

                     What a magnificent sight of a lifetime. 

                     Nonetheless, it terrified him even more.

                     Behind his used-to-be bare back were a pair of brightly polished wings; they were slender and long in strength. At the moment, they've been raised up and standing tense. Almost as if reading his thoughts, Austria whispered in a lovestruck voice: "That - that's what wings of eagles do when they're attacking their...prey, right?"

                     "Those are not eagle wings, my dear sister who needs to relearn her wing study." Hungary was quick to retort. He gingerly strolled up to Weimar, and extended a hand: "May I?"

                     Weimar only managed to give a small squeak of approval, and he visibly flinched when he suddenly felt his brother's hand gently stroking the feathers of his wings. Oh, good gracious LORD! HIS WINGS! They. Are. REALLY. REAL!

                     A fascinated Hungary wasn't paying any attention to his brother's reactions by this point, as he ran his hands through those beautiful, baby-blanket-soft feathers. And those colors...first the golden yellow of his skin at the top, where they locked muscle and bone with the rest of Weimar's body; then, there were brushes of royal and blood-red hues painted in the middle; and lastly, from there on to the wingtips, a solid blackness lived. It was a precise remake of the colors of Weimar's flag, only upside down. 

                     "...ittes. Where is Drittes? Ary! HUNGARY! Republic of Hungary!"

                     Weimar sighed frustratingly as he abruptly tore his new body parts out from his brother's gentle grip, releasing Austria at last and waved a hand in front of his daydreaming brother's face. 

                     Hungary finally snapped out of his trance when the beautiful wings were gone from his hands in a swoosh. He then proceeds to be met eye-to-eye with a slightly annoyed older brother. "Damn, does daydreaming run as a habit in our entire family or what? Grandfather daydreams, Mother daydreams, Drittes daydreams, and now you, Hungary?" 

                     "Grandfather Prussia!" Hungary suddenly exclaimed.

                     Austria sat up straighter on Weimar's bed. "And now, what about our scary beast of a grandfather, Ary?" 

                     Weimar laughed profoundly at his sister. "He's not scary, little scaredy-cat. And he certainly isn't a beast."

                     "All of you are even dumber than I thought! ...H-heyyy, don't h-it MEEEeee! ...Okay, OKAY, I'm sorry, but have none of you ever remembered that Prussia has wings too? I think that everyone in this room is wondering the same thing: how in the devil's world did Weimar get his wings - I mean, it's not like no one has wings, take Grandfather for an example - but this is just too extra-ordinary!"

                     "Of absolute course, I knew about all that, Ary. But the person I need the most right now is Drittes, seeing as he is both a wing and aerodynamics expert and have read many, many books on politics and military matters." Reasoned Weimar. Upon hearing that name, Austria trembled, while Hungary sucked in a great, deep breath. 

                     "Whether you believe it or not, brother and sister, Deutschland is... a complete mess."

                     Gasps and coughs rippled through the room. 

                     "Our people need me. Us, even. Maybe Drittes can help me get a start on things I don't even know how to begin. Now, as I asked before while you were dozing off, Ary, where is Drittes? I haven't seen him anywhere since I set foot in our house."

                     For a fraction of a second, Hungary and Austria shared the same glance. She looked at him from behind their brother's back, and he returned the gesture from in front of their brother's face. This time, Hungary was awfully quiet and allowed his sister to take this dreadful task.

                     "Weim...he is no longer here. In fact, he left the same day you left when...when the telegram came to t-tell us that...they are dead." 

                     There was nothing, absolutely nothing left to do for her but to collapse onto the bed and start sobbing.

                     Hungary determined to stare down at the ground, counting the cracks.

                     Weimar tensed up all over again, and with his narrowing gray-blue eyes, fury roared to life inside him like a wildfire. 

                     With this newfound anger, his wings flashed dangerously.