I don't see this pairing much these days, so I'm asking for some. Basically what I'd like to see is France topping the hell out of Prussia. Modern setting or after cold war would be the best. It could be angry sex because they still have issues. Maybe dub-con with Prussia not willing to submit but really incapable of say no to France because he feel he deserves it after WW2. Or France ashamed of himself, but again, incapable of stopping...It can be as angsty as you wish, kind anon, as long as there's an happy (or not so sad) ending.
Bonus: some other nations notices what's going on and try to do something
Re: France/Prussia - finally understandign each other
I shameless stole this from the other author!anon. I apologize if I completely butchered this. _
i.
He doesn’t cry out.
(His breath comes in harsh pants as he desperately clutches the sheets. His forehead, slick with sweat, hovers inches from the bed and his shoulders tremble slightly – in excitement, anticipation, indignation; he’s not quite sure. He’s not used to be being taken this way. Years ago, he would have never considered handing himself over so quietly to fucked and used until he could no longer breathe, no longer walk, but his body betrayed him as easily as if he was a fumbling adolescent and not a great nation. Former great nation, he reminds himself as cool hands grasp his hips too gently and his body betrays him again by seeking out the warmth he knows is right there. He arches his back as warm lips pressing against his spine. They murmur meaningless words in sweet French, moving with deliberate slowness. He ignores the light trembling of the lips as they kiss the curve of his neck and as they part slightly as a pair of sharp teeth bite down on his shoulder – still too gently – then make their way back down the column of his spine. His lover, if that’s even the correct term for the arraignment they have, makes another slow, torturous circuit with his lips as blunt nails dig into his hips.
The low French continues and he can feel the quick nips of sharp teeth along his back, across his shoulders and a warm tongue sliding across skin salty with sweat. The nails dig deeper. A voice whispers in his ear, Merci, mon cher. Merci.
Then, Francis enters him.)
He bites his lower lip, swallowing the German swears before they escape. He knows what will happen if he manages to let them escape. They’ve both been there. For the sake of their equally stubborn pride, Prussia pretends not to hear him whenever he moans Angleterre. It works pretty well.
It’s disgusting, their arraignment, and Prussia can’t help but wonder if they’re both sick. He knows France is, the way he maneuvers his hands across his skin teasing and exploring or that mouth murmuring French nonsense even as his thrusts become frantic and his hips lose the carefully constructed rhythm as he reaches his climax.
He would rather finish himself off, but France is still inside him, now soft, and his fingers are curling around him already in slow even strokes. For the first time tonight, there are no French words offered in comfort and Prussia can screw his eyes shut and imagine the long fingers deftly sliding across his most intimate part belong to someone else. Even if the palms are too calloused and worn.
(Afterward, there is no talking. There never is.
They’ve already cleaned up and settle next to each other in bed carefully avoiding physical contact. Francis offers him a cigarette. He accepts, pressing the unlit end to the already burning cigarette dangling from Francis’s lips. He keeps his eyes low, takes a long slow drag until his lungs burn, then sits back to exhale.
The smell of smoke lingers in the room until the next time. Prussia doesn’t bother to open the windows until then.)
He is aware of the looks other nations give him when he appears at one of the meetings with his brother for the first time since the unification. He ignores all the glances except for one. The usual sneer is a familiar comfort amongst the wary looks of mistrust. Prussia welcomes it.
Then suddenly, his small source of familiarity morphs into a grimace of disgust and pity. His own confident smirk remains fixed on his face, but his eyes harden and he takes his seat without looking back at the face he’s seen every time he’s closed his eyes for the last 43 years. He sits quietly, ignored, for the rest of the meeting as his brother attempts to maneuver the meeting from the less productive discussions.
Rather unfortunately, he manages to catch the attention of a very calmly smiling Russia. He spends the rest of the meeting digging the nails of his right hand into his thigh. His brother notices but thankfully doesn’t comment.
When France arrives on his doorstep – it’s his brother’s doorstep, but he’ll be damned if he has to admit it – a scarf tied loosely around his neck and a bottle of wine, he lets in inside.
(He’s not delusional enough to think that things will return to what they were before. No matter how many times Antonio and Francis snuck over the wall to visit him with smuggled wine and beer to relive the good old days, he could see the distrust in France’s eyes. He knows – and he knows very well that Francis knows that he knows – that Francis was only there for Antonio. Every time the pair left, the two would lock eyes and Gilbert would fix his best shit-eating grin on his face in challenge. Francis’s eyes would narrow and he would blow his old friend a kiss before chasing after the drunken cheerful Spaniard.
He hates the pair of them.)
“Mon dieu, it’s been too long.” His eyes roam over the simple décor looking for a comfortable looking chair to lounge in and dangle his legs over the armrest as if he were in his own home. Prussia considers informing him that the chair he’s chosen is reserved for West’s dogs, and promptly changes his mind when he notices the bottle of wine has already been opened.
“I wonder how you’ve managed to stay away from my awesome presence for so long.” He comes back into the living room with two wine glasses.
“Merci.” France pours the wine into each glass before holding his own for a toast. “To long enduring friendship.”
He smirks, raising his glass to accept the toast with hard eyes. He wishes the wine were something stronger.
It takes them a few glasses to slip past the awkward, slightly tense atmosphere that has built up over the long years behind the Iron Curtain. Neither of them bring up the war – which each is silently thankful for – nor find it necessary to ask too many unnecessary questions.
(“Where’s Allemagne? Visiting Italie?” Francis laughs to himself as in reveling in a secret.
Gilbert clutches the near empty bottle of wine firmly in his hands. “Nein. He’s…in Vienna.”
Francis, being tactful, chooses that moment to tumble out of the chair, spilling the remaining wine over both of them.)
They make their way through Germany’s impressive alcohol collection laughing and touching in earnest. France rests his head on Prussia’s lap, fiddling with the collar of the other man’s shirt. His long fingers slipping under the shirt and tracing a collarbone with lazy alcohol induced carefulness. Prussia closes his eyes remembering the countless mornings the infamous Bad Touch Trio found themselves half-naked, tangled in each other’s limbs, and more often than they cared to admit, in jail playing what-did-we-do-last-night.
France’s cool hands are familiar as they trace patterns on his collarbone. His own hands twist through silky blond hair thinking, it’s too long and too light, but it’s nice anyway.
(Francis’s stubble feels rough against his skin as their lips meet clumsily and their noses bump into each other. They intend to defile Ludwig’s living room floor in a fit of drunken passion, regardless of whether or not it’s been defiled before. They grasp at each other, shedding layers of clothing to nip at the flushed skin below. They are not who the other wants or needs, but they are there and they are drunk enough to convince themselves that this arraignment is enough to sustain them both.
It doesn’t, but they succeed in defiling the floor and sharing a smoke as they let their eyes wander around the room, at each other’s naked bodies. They have sobered up enough to avoid eye contact entirely.)
It happens this way several more times until the terms of the arraignment are drawn.
As a general rule, he avoids Spain for some time afterward.
(They both do.
Neither of them is the mood to listen to Antonio talk about joys his little Italian lover brings him. Gilbert is fully aware of them. There is a reason he chose to stay in his brother’s basement rather than the East Wing that was left unoccupied for him.)
Italy is the one who discovers them.
“Ve, I think it’s wonderful. Don’t you?” He turns to Germany with a bright smile on his features.
“Er…yes?” Germany is caught unaware by Italy’s sudden surge of excitement. He sends his older brother a questioning look, but Prussia quietly hums to himself as he paws through the fridge looking for a snack.
Italy, undeterred by Germany’s confusion and Prussia’s indifference, continues on prattling a bit in Italian before his words begin making sense.
“..and big brother Francia seemed so sad for a while. I think it has something to do with Inghilterra, but I didn’t want to ask him in case he got mad. So instead, I asked Fratello, who asked big brother Espana. And then he said that he’s so happy for the two of them, and he doesn’t know why they didn’t just tell him first–”
“Wait, Italien. You did what?”
Germany’s eyes widen in horror as his brother grasps Italy’s shoulders in his hands. Italy trembles at his tone and quickly backtracks.
“Ve! I’m so sorry! I was worried about big brother France, so I asked Romano to–”
“What did you tell Romano?” Prussia’s voice is deceptively even and controlled, but Germany can see the all too familiar set of his grin and the cold look in his eyes. He stands then placing a warning hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Bruder.”
“What did you tell Romano?” Prussia repeats calmly ignoring his brother and focusing on the Italian looking back and forth between them in panic.
“Ah. I told him about you and France. You were getting to know each other the way Germany and I know each other, and I was so happy I asked Fratello if he knew and he said it was stupid and that hanging around ‘that potato bastard’ was making me weird. So then I asked him to ask big brother Spain if he knew anything and Romano said, ‘like hell I’m asking that tomato bastard anything.’ But he asked Spain anyway, and oh Prussia I’m so happy for you! You’ve been so down lately and even Germany was worried. And now everyone’s happy, ve!”
When Italy finishes waving his hands about exuberantly and mimicking his older brother’s coarse tone, Germany has trouble deciding which part of his speech to be most disturbed by. (He’s going to have to talk to Feliciano about making their sex life public knowledge after he’s bleached the image of his brother and Francis as well as any memory of Feliciano speaking like Lovino. It’s going to be a long night.)
Prussia’s hands slip from his shoulders. Without another word, he stalks from the room.
(Later that night, Ludwig opens his front door to find Francis leaning against the doorframe with a small smile that gives way to,
“Allemange what a pleasure. Are you treating my dear Italie well?”
He politely asks the other nation to come inside, before convincing Feliciano that he agreed to have dinner with the Italian brothers and they must be on their way before Lovino gets angry. He will have to get drunk another night.)
(Francis kisses him roughly, thoroughly, until his lips are bruised and Gilbert pins his hands above his head. Their teeth clang violently while their hips rock in a frenzied motion. Gilbert lets a hand wander across the other man’s body for the first time. His nails dig into flesh. Francis writhes underneath him – first in confusion at this new game that they’re playing then in pure desire as the friction below makes him arch his back.)
France is crying out in while he’s being prepared. Prussia doesn’t offer any words of comfort and France doesn’t ask for them. It’s sick, the arraignment that they have. It doesn’t offer them more than a few moments of pleasure and even if he can appreciate the sight of France’s lithe body below him, he knows this is not what truly wants. (He makes sure to lay him on his stomach before taking him. Even through the coarse calls for Angleterre, he can nearly imagine it’s a different voice calling out a different voice. Nearly.)
They’re enjoying their post-coitus pack of cigarettes. It’s another first for them as knees brush against each other, shoulders knock together, and hips touch. Prussia is enjoying his second cigarette when France speaks.
“I spoke to him.”
“Did you?” He lets out a plume of smoke. “What did he say?”
France’s laugh fills the room. It’s a hollow sound, laughing without mirth, and he turns to his old friend. “We both know I didn’t give him the chance to say anything.”
The statement lingers in the air a while. Thighs sweep past each other, and Prussia wonders idly if he remembered to feed his birds.
“Mon dieu, he seemed surprised. Can’t imagine why after all these years.” France’s hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. He tucks a stray strand behind his ear. “I gave him a deadline and told him he knows where to find me.”
“The deadline. When is?”
France gives him a side-along glance before closing his eyes and taking as slow drag.
“Tomorrow.”
It takes a moment for the information to process, and Prussia lets out a loud laugh that shakes the entire bed.
“You’re a cruel man Francis Bonnefoy.”
(Later, after Francis has left, Gilbert calls Alfred. They talk for a while before Alfred’s laugh interrupts one of Gilbert’s questions.
“Of course everyone’s going to be there. It’s the party of the year! Ya sure the old age isn’t getting to you, Gil?”)
“I’ll be gone for a conference for a few days next week.”
“Sounds fun. Where?”
Germany hesitates and wonders if he should tell his brother. Prussia is lounging in a chair, legs dangling off the back, reading the back of some DVD he picked up from America’s house some time ago.
“Just Vienna.”
“Cool. I’ll come along.” Prussia scrunches his eyebrows together as he continues to inspect the DVD. Germany lets out a sigh.
“Gud. That’s good.”
(The air in Vienna is the same as Gilbert remembers, and even as he closes his eyes, the sounds of the street carry a note of familiarity. He knows his brother is watching him carefully, but Feliciano is peering into the shop windows and dragging poor Ludwig around.
He doesn’t care that he agreed to sit through three days listening to the nations argue amongst themselves over tariffs and airport security.
He’s in Vienna.) __
I apologize yet again if this wasn't what was expected as well as for any mistakes.
Not the OP, but this is so beautifully written, I can't believe no one's commented yet. I love the images you've described, the messed up relations between them, gah, my heart breaks for them, for everyone involved with them.
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France/Prussia - finally understandign each other
(Anonymous) 2011-10-05 04:17 pm (UTC)(link)Basically what I'd like to see is France topping the hell out of Prussia. Modern setting or after cold war would be the best. It could be angry sex because they still have issues. Maybe dub-con with Prussia not willing to submit but really incapable of say no to France because he feel he deserves it after WW2. Or France ashamed of himself, but again, incapable of stopping...It can be as angsty as you wish, kind anon, as long as there's an happy (or not so sad) ending.
Bonus: some other nations notices what's going on and try to do something
Re: France/Prussia - finally understandign each other
(Anonymous) 2011-12-02 06:19 am (UTC)(link)Possible A!A
(Anonymous) 2011-12-30 04:11 pm (UTC)(link)Old Times [1/5]
(Anonymous) 2012-08-14 09:48 pm (UTC)(link)_
i.
He doesn’t cry out.
(His breath comes in harsh pants as he desperately clutches the sheets. His forehead, slick with sweat, hovers inches from the bed and his shoulders tremble slightly – in excitement, anticipation, indignation; he’s not quite sure. He’s not used to be being taken this way. Years ago, he would have never considered handing himself over so quietly to fucked and used until he could no longer breathe, no longer walk, but his body betrayed him as easily as if he was a fumbling adolescent and not a great nation. Former great nation, he reminds himself as cool hands grasp his hips too gently and his body betrays him again by seeking out the warmth he knows is right there. He arches his back as warm lips pressing against his spine. They murmur meaningless words in sweet French, moving with deliberate slowness. He ignores the light trembling of the lips as they kiss the curve of his neck and as they part slightly as a pair of sharp teeth bite down on his shoulder – still too gently – then make their way back down the column of his spine. His lover, if that’s even the correct term for the arraignment they have, makes another slow, torturous circuit with his lips as blunt nails dig into his hips.
The low French continues and he can feel the quick nips of sharp teeth along his back, across his shoulders and a warm tongue sliding across skin salty with sweat. The nails dig deeper. A voice whispers in his ear, Merci, mon cher. Merci.
Then, Francis enters him.)
He bites his lower lip, swallowing the German swears before they escape. He knows what will happen if he manages to let them escape. They’ve both been there. For the sake of their equally stubborn pride, Prussia pretends not to hear him whenever he moans Angleterre. It works pretty well.
It’s disgusting, their arraignment, and Prussia can’t help but wonder if they’re both sick. He knows France is, the way he maneuvers his hands across his skin teasing and exploring or that mouth murmuring French nonsense even as his thrusts become frantic and his hips lose the carefully constructed rhythm as he reaches his climax.
He would rather finish himself off, but France is still inside him, now soft, and his fingers are curling around him already in slow even strokes. For the first time tonight, there are no French words offered in comfort and Prussia can screw his eyes shut and imagine the long fingers deftly sliding across his most intimate part belong to someone else. Even if the palms are too calloused and worn.
(Afterward, there is no talking. There never is.
They’ve already cleaned up and settle next to each other in bed carefully avoiding physical contact. Francis offers him a cigarette. He accepts, pressing the unlit end to the already burning cigarette dangling from Francis’s lips. He keeps his eyes low, takes a long slow drag until his lungs burn, then sits back to exhale.
The smell of smoke lingers in the room until the next time. Prussia doesn’t bother to open the windows until then.)
Old Times [2a/5]
(Anonymous) 2012-08-14 09:50 pm (UTC)(link)He is aware of the looks other nations give him when he appears at one of the meetings with his brother for the first time since the unification. He ignores all the glances except for one. The usual sneer is a familiar comfort amongst the wary looks of mistrust. Prussia welcomes it.
Then suddenly, his small source of familiarity morphs into a grimace of disgust and pity. His own confident smirk remains fixed on his face, but his eyes harden and he takes his seat without looking back at the face he’s seen every time he’s closed his eyes for the last 43 years. He sits quietly, ignored, for the rest of the meeting as his brother attempts to maneuver the meeting from the less productive discussions.
Rather unfortunately, he manages to catch the attention of a very calmly smiling Russia. He spends the rest of the meeting digging the nails of his right hand into his thigh. His brother notices but thankfully doesn’t comment.
When France arrives on his doorstep – it’s his brother’s doorstep, but he’ll be damned if he has to admit it – a scarf tied loosely around his neck and a bottle of wine, he lets in inside.
(He’s not delusional enough to think that things will return to what they were before. No matter how many times Antonio and Francis snuck over the wall to visit him with smuggled wine and beer to relive the good old days, he could see the distrust in France’s eyes. He knows – and he knows very well that Francis knows that he knows – that Francis was only there for Antonio. Every time the pair left, the two would lock eyes and Gilbert would fix his best shit-eating grin on his face in challenge. Francis’s eyes would narrow and he would blow his old friend a kiss before chasing after the drunken cheerful Spaniard.
He hates the pair of them.)
“Mon dieu, it’s been too long.” His eyes roam over the simple décor looking for a comfortable looking chair to lounge in and dangle his legs over the armrest as if he were in his own home. Prussia considers informing him that the chair he’s chosen is reserved for West’s dogs, and promptly changes his mind when he notices the bottle of wine has already been opened.
“I wonder how you’ve managed to stay away from my awesome presence for so long.” He comes back into the living room with two wine glasses.
“Merci.” France pours the wine into each glass before holding his own for a toast. “To long enduring friendship.”
He smirks, raising his glass to accept the toast with hard eyes. He wishes the wine were something stronger.
It takes them a few glasses to slip past the awkward, slightly tense atmosphere that has built up over the long years behind the Iron Curtain. Neither of them bring up the war – which each is silently thankful for – nor find it necessary to ask too many unnecessary questions.
(“Where’s Allemagne? Visiting Italie?” Francis laughs to himself as in reveling in a secret.
Gilbert clutches the near empty bottle of wine firmly in his hands. “Nein. He’s…in Vienna.”
Francis, being tactful, chooses that moment to tumble out of the chair, spilling the remaining wine over both of them.)
They make their way through Germany’s impressive alcohol collection laughing and touching in earnest. France rests his head on Prussia’s lap, fiddling with the collar of the other man’s shirt. His long fingers slipping under the shirt and tracing a collarbone with lazy alcohol induced carefulness. Prussia closes his eyes remembering the countless mornings the infamous Bad Touch Trio found themselves half-naked, tangled in each other’s limbs, and more often than they cared to admit, in jail playing what-did-we-do-last-night.
France’s cool hands are familiar as they trace patterns on his collarbone. His own hands twist through silky blond hair thinking, it’s too long and too light, but it’s nice anyway.
Old Times [2b/5]
(Anonymous) 2012-08-14 09:51 pm (UTC)(link)It doesn’t, but they succeed in defiling the floor and sharing a smoke as they let their eyes wander around the room, at each other’s naked bodies. They have sobered up enough to avoid eye contact entirely.)
It happens this way several more times until the terms of the arraignment are drawn.
Old Times [3/5]
(Anonymous) 2012-08-14 09:52 pm (UTC)(link)As a general rule, he avoids Spain for some time afterward.
(They both do.
Neither of them is the mood to listen to Antonio talk about joys his little Italian lover brings him. Gilbert is fully aware of them. There is a reason he chose to stay in his brother’s basement rather than the East Wing that was left unoccupied for him.)
Italy is the one who discovers them.
“Ve, I think it’s wonderful. Don’t you?” He turns to Germany with a bright smile on his features.
“Er…yes?” Germany is caught unaware by Italy’s sudden surge of excitement. He sends his older brother a questioning look, but Prussia quietly hums to himself as he paws through the fridge looking for a snack.
Italy, undeterred by Germany’s confusion and Prussia’s indifference, continues on prattling a bit in Italian before his words begin making sense.
“..and big brother Francia seemed so sad for a while. I think it has something to do with Inghilterra, but I didn’t want to ask him in case he got mad. So instead, I asked Fratello, who asked big brother Espana. And then he said that he’s so happy for the two of them, and he doesn’t know why they didn’t just tell him first–”
“Wait, Italien. You did what?”
Germany’s eyes widen in horror as his brother grasps Italy’s shoulders in his hands. Italy trembles at his tone and quickly backtracks.
“Ve! I’m so sorry! I was worried about big brother France, so I asked Romano to–”
“What did you tell Romano?” Prussia’s voice is deceptively even and controlled, but Germany can see the all too familiar set of his grin and the cold look in his eyes. He stands then placing a warning hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Bruder.”
“What did you tell Romano?” Prussia repeats calmly ignoring his brother and focusing on the Italian looking back and forth between them in panic.
“Ah. I told him about you and France. You were getting to know each other the way Germany and I know each other, and I was so happy I asked Fratello if he knew and he said it was stupid and that hanging around ‘that potato bastard’ was making me weird. So then I asked him to ask big brother Spain if he knew anything and Romano said, ‘like hell I’m asking that tomato bastard anything.’ But he asked Spain anyway, and oh Prussia I’m so happy for you! You’ve been so down lately and even Germany was worried. And now everyone’s happy, ve!”
When Italy finishes waving his hands about exuberantly and mimicking his older brother’s coarse tone, Germany has trouble deciding which part of his speech to be most disturbed by. (He’s going to have to talk to Feliciano about making their sex life public knowledge after he’s bleached the image of his brother and Francis as well as any memory of Feliciano speaking like Lovino. It’s going to be a long night.)
Prussia’s hands slip from his shoulders. Without another word, he stalks from the room.
(Later that night, Ludwig opens his front door to find Francis leaning against the doorframe with a small smile that gives way to,
“Allemange what a pleasure. Are you treating my dear Italie well?”
He politely asks the other nation to come inside, before convincing Feliciano that he agreed to have dinner with the Italian brothers and they must be on their way before Lovino gets angry. He will have to get drunk another night.)
Old Times [4/5]
(Anonymous) 2012-08-14 09:54 pm (UTC)(link)The last time is different.
(Francis kisses him roughly, thoroughly, until his lips are bruised and Gilbert pins his hands above his head. Their teeth clang violently while their hips rock in a frenzied motion. Gilbert lets a hand wander across the other man’s body for the first time. His nails dig into flesh. Francis writhes underneath him – first in confusion at this new game that they’re playing then in pure desire as the friction below makes him arch his back.)
France is crying out in while he’s being prepared. Prussia doesn’t offer any words of comfort and France doesn’t ask for them. It’s sick, the arraignment that they have. It doesn’t offer them more than a few moments of pleasure and even if he can appreciate the sight of France’s lithe body below him, he knows this is not what truly wants. (He makes sure to lay him on his stomach before taking him. Even through the coarse calls for Angleterre, he can nearly imagine it’s a different voice calling out a different voice. Nearly.)
They’re enjoying their post-coitus pack of cigarettes. It’s another first for them as knees brush against each other, shoulders knock together, and hips touch. Prussia is enjoying his second cigarette when France speaks.
“I spoke to him.”
“Did you?” He lets out a plume of smoke. “What did he say?”
France’s laugh fills the room. It’s a hollow sound, laughing without mirth, and he turns to his old friend. “We both know I didn’t give him the chance to say anything.”
The statement lingers in the air a while. Thighs sweep past each other, and Prussia wonders idly if he remembered to feed his birds.
“Mon dieu, he seemed surprised. Can’t imagine why after all these years.” France’s hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. He tucks a stray strand behind his ear. “I gave him a deadline and told him he knows where to find me.”
“The deadline. When is?”
France gives him a side-along glance before closing his eyes and taking as slow drag.
“Tomorrow.”
It takes a moment for the information to process, and Prussia lets out a loud laugh that shakes the entire bed.
“You’re a cruel man Francis Bonnefoy.”
(Later, after Francis has left, Gilbert calls Alfred. They talk for a while before Alfred’s laugh interrupts one of Gilbert’s questions.
“Of course everyone’s going to be there. It’s the party of the year! Ya sure the old age isn’t getting to you, Gil?”)
Old Times [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2012-08-14 09:55 pm (UTC)(link)“I’ll be gone for a conference for a few days next week.”
“Sounds fun. Where?”
Germany hesitates and wonders if he should tell his brother. Prussia is lounging in a chair, legs dangling off the back, reading the back of some DVD he picked up from America’s house some time ago.
“Just Vienna.”
“Cool. I’ll come along.” Prussia scrunches his eyebrows together as he continues to inspect the DVD. Germany lets out a sigh.
“Gud. That’s good.”
(The air in Vienna is the same as Gilbert remembers, and even as he closes his eyes, the sounds of the street carry a note of familiarity. He knows his brother is watching him carefully, but Feliciano is peering into the shop windows and dragging poor Ludwig around.
He doesn’t care that he agreed to sit through three days listening to the nations argue amongst themselves over tariffs and airport security.
He’s in Vienna.)
__
I apologize yet again if this wasn't what was expected as well as for any mistakes.
Re: Old Times [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2012-10-08 03:32 am (UTC)(link)