Summary: In 1922, Prussia meets the Soviet Union for the first time, after seeing the Russian empire for the last time during WW1. For @ruspruweek the prompt is ‘First’
Characters: Prussia, Russia
Warnings: Discussions of war and metaphorical death.
Word Count: 1.2K
Prussia caught sight of the man through the crowd, and his eyes lighted upon the red star on his uniform. In a room full of politicians, there was no mistaking the difference.
He inclined his head to his brother and asked, “Who is that?”
He felt like he knew the answer already, but he had to hear it to be sure. Germany answered, “He’s Lenin’s representative. He’s here to restore our diplomatic relations.”
He sounded terse, like the presence of the Soviets bothered him, but he saw no other choice to break his isolation. Prussia felt his heart drop. If Lenin had sent a diplomat, then it was possible that someone else had also come. Someone he had not seen for years.
He watched as the Soviet diplomat turned to a tall figure, one that Prussia knew far too well. He felt his heart skip an unpleasant beat as Russia turned his face and spoke to the diplomat. He looked thinner, and there were unmistakable dark circles under his eyes, but he was still the same man. If possible, he looked liked he had aged. The roundness of youth had left his face, but it made him no less handsome.
Prussia had not seen him since the peace treaty, though he had thought of him often as the news of the civil war continued for years. The face of his former lover had always been present in his dreams, even without seeing him in the flesh.
As he looked, Russia turned and met his gaze. A feeling of dread flooded his chest. He had thought for years of what he would say to Russia, but his mouth went dry.
Russia silently turned away, without even a glimmer of recognition or affection. Then he turned and walked away. Prussia decided to follow him, because he could not let the opportunity pass. He needed the chance to talk to him, to explain what had fallen apart between them at the end of the last century.
He found Russia on a balcony alone. Prussia swallowed his nerves and stepped outside. Russia had a cigarette between his lips, and was fumbling with a lighter.
He didn’t look up at the sound of the other’s footsteps, which Prussia couldn’t help but interpret as a slight. He knew that Russia must be aware of his presence, but the man’s eyes were firmly fixed on his lighter as he attempted to get a flame. The man he had known fifty years ago would have never ignored him.
Prussia cleared his throat and broke the silence, “I am glad to see you again.” It was a simple nicety, but he meant it. After the years of hearing about the carnage of war, he had worried.
Russia lit the cigarette and inhaled. He spoke as he exhaled the smoke, “I know who you are expecting to see, Gilbert. But that man is gone. I buried him in the snow with the rest of the Whites.” Russia’s eyes looked cold as he spoke, alarmingly so.
Prussia knew the terms well enough since the reports had been rife with them. The Whites were the old nobility who were scattered to the wind after the Revolution. Some of the Romanovs were in exile, others had vanished.
Prussia answered, “I do not believe that. War is painful, and I understand that.”
Russia scoffed and said, with a rough edge in his voice, “You could not imagine the pain of being torn apart day after day for years. Whether you believe it or not, it killed the man you knew.”
He took another long pull from the cigarette, almost like he was steadying himself. The end flared bright red and hot. Prussia realized that he had never seen Russia smoke before. It was not a habit of the nobility, not the way he was doing it. The hand rolled cigarette was the habit of the soldiers. But, a new habit did not make someone a new man.
Russia continued, “No one mourned him either. The Romanov empire died in obscurity, and so many treated it like liberation. Toris, Ravis, Felix, even my own sisters. They left the first moment they could.”
The sound of his voice was as sharp and cold as steel. He tapped the cigarette and a cinder fell from it, momentarily bright orange and then burning out. He finished the thought, “When they no longer feared the empire, they left. That is how much love is worth.”
Prussia could hear the deep pain in every word. But, this did not feel like a vulnerable moment, it felt like he was being told the agonizing story of the pain that he could never soothe. He felt like Russia was trying to push him away.
He drew in a breath of the night air through his nose; it was thick with tension and cigarette smoke. Then he said, “I worried for you. All of these years I have worried.”
He heard his own voice threatening to break on the emotions as he spoke. The emotions from years of reading news from a distance welled up in his chest. But, Russia seemed unmoved. He answered, “And why would you do that?”
Prussia bristled, after the years of friendship and affection he thought it would be obvious. He said, with a growl, “You should not have to ask that. Do you really think that one war changes things that much?”
He hated how impassive Russia’s eyes were as they remained fixed on him. It was impossible to see what he was feeling. His face used to be so easy to read, comfortingly certain in its emotions. Russia was frighteningly cold as he said, “I don’t know what you missed that you couldn't find in Bucharest. Or wherever it is that you spend your time these days. Whichever alliance suits your needs, I suppose.”
The words struck like blows. Prussia had known the mistakes he had made, but Russia had never spoken about them before. He had retreated to jealous glares and terse silences, but had never chosen to confront him.
Prussia took another deep breath, and answered, “It is not what you are imagining. I care about you, and nothing changed that.”
Part of him had wished that he didn’t care so deeply. It had been agonizing to lay awake at night wondering when the Civil War would end. It had scared him just as much as the fighting in the streets of Berlin.
Russia shook his head, like he was denying every bit of the sentiment. He took another drag from the cigarette before he answered, “Well, that doesn’t matter anymore. That’s what Revolution means. Something new begins and the old is discarded.”
His eyes lingered on Prussia for a moment too long for comfort, making it perfectly clear what feelings were old. Then he dropped the remainder of the cigarette and crushed it beneath the toe of his boot. With that, Russia turned to leave.
Prussia could not let that be the last word. He said, “Is that it then? You hate me now and nothing we had before matters anymore?”
Russia turned back to face him, and for the first time in the conversation Prussia recognized the look on his face. It was the old tenderness that had been so familiar for so long.
He answered, “In truth, I could use a friend. I do not want to be alone anymore.”
Prussia could feel the hint of a smile on his own lips. Friendship would be enough, as long as he was not treated like a hostile stranger. But, Russia added firmly, “But, I will not be your fool again, Gilbert. I gave you more of my heart than I should have once, and I will not do it again.”
Warnings: Topic deals with religious themes, there are mentions of death but no characters death. Injuries.
Warm touch.
Warmth, Gilbert's body was warm, he had dreamt of the fire pits in hell, a small devil poking his liver constantly, a searing puncture widening in an agonizingly slow rhythm.
Opening his eyes, he was met with wood, his eyes scanned the room, the dim candlelight outlining figures, there were manuscripts and herbs lying around, the shuffling of papers alerted him that there was someone, or something close.
Gilbert tried to stand up, a groan escaping his lips as a searing pain in his stomach kept him on the bed, he moved his head to the side, a dark towering figure approaching him slowly, violet eyes scanning him as if they were observing a prey.
“You woke up.” a soft voice said, Gilbert felt a heavy hand caressing his forehead, he closed his eyes, relieving in the soothing feeling of coldness that dulled his fever. “Rest some more, Gilbert”
He nodded, about to fall asleep again, registering the words, Gilbert? Everyone in the battalion called him Beilschmidt, he had only revealed his name once, his eyes widened, realizing what was happening, he moved the hand away. “Stop with that, Ivan. I will not accept your aid.”
A soft laugh escaped the other. “Think about it this way, I am healing you, there’s no sin in that.”
“Where do you leave the part where you use your dark magic for it? I’m a knight, I swore to never use unholy methods.” Gilbert frowned, hovering his hand above his gut, with the softest touch of his own fingers a prickle of pain traveled his body, he hissed. “What am I even doing here?”
“Unholy.” Ivan echoed, humming as he retreated to his desk, picking up a quill and scribbling down a page.
Gilbert sighed, clenching his hand. “Do not ignore me.”
“Did you know... that I used to be a priest in my motherland?” Ivan said, moving his chair back, the wooden floor protesting the movement. “In my village, they told me that I was born with a gift and the priest took me in as his pupil, when he passed away, I took his place.”
“You are such a liar, there is no way for a magician to be accepted by any church.” A chuckle escaped Gilbert, though he tried to suppress it, each exhalation felt like a poke into his wound. “Don’t dodge my question with your deceiving words. Why didn't you leave? You should have listened to me when I helped you escape.”
“That’s what I’ve been told since my arrival. To listen and obey. I have also been told that going after the sorcerers is the wish of god.” Ivan stood up, approaching Gilbert again. “When I stumbled upon a market on my first day here, I forgot the word in your language for church, instead, I asked for the place where I could find god and speak with it, and your people told me I was crazy, that such a place was nonexistent and that I was a liar. Until now, I have not argued against any of you, because I thought you had the right to speak like that, this is your land after all.”
Gilbert stayed silent, as he observed the man in front of him, the black tunic he wore making sense after his words, it wasn’t a tunic, it was a cassock. He wanted to laugh at the irony, a priest being persecuted by his own church, but this was different, wasn’t it? Ivan was different, and that was the reason behind his sentence.
Ivan placed his hand on Gilbert’s chest, the touch was soft, warm. “Today, I have decided not to believe the words of your people but to listen to mine. In my village, people said I was invested by god’s power, that it was a blessing, I could manage to help the sick and the injured because they sought my help, they said it was a miracle.” He pressed his hand harder, the soothing, cold feeling from before present again. “So, I will not listen to you Gilbert, though I know you don’t believe in your words, otherwise, you would have killed me as you were told.”
Gilbert widened his eyes, so much for stepping up against his commander's orders, he had been accused of treason, deemed to die under another knight’s sword, he should have died. Why hadn’t he died? He clenched his hand around Ivan’s wrist, trying to pry him off. “I saw no threat in you. I thought you weren’t a sorcerer but I was obviously wrong.”
“I am not a sorcerer. I am a priest and instead of bewitching you, I am going to bless you.” The coldness increased, the candlelight flickered, casting shadows on Ivan’s face. “I could not let them kill you, I’ve nodded and lowered my head to everything they’ve said, even when they called me a monster, blaming me for something beyond my will, but I figured, they only point at what they fear, and they fear because they know who the real monster is, they will never admit it. I did not wish to have this blessing but I do wish to help you.”
Gilbert clenched his eyes, waiting for a wave of pain to hit him, for the flames of the devil to consume him, but it never came. As he opened his eyes slowly, Ivan smiled, retreating his hand. "Why did you reveal your name to me?"
"Because you are different."
"Very well." He chuckled, caressing Gilbert's cheek with his thumb. "I think there might be space for both of us in the church."
Gilbert observed as Ivan returned to his scribbling on the desk, the fever had vanished but a slight trace of warmth had settled on his face. Perhaps the idea of an eternity in hell wasn't that bad after all.
Rusprus week day 3 touch @ruspruweek So I don’t normally use Ibis paint but I really wanted to participate in rusprus week (cause it’s my favorite ship). I literally just started drawing this when I was on my break. It looks similar to what I normally do in Krita. Hope you like it! Tags: #ruspruweek2021 #ruspru #rusprus #hetalia #hetaliafanart #cute #aphprussia #nyorussia #APH #shipweek #nyotalia #ヘタリア #ibispaintxart #ibispaint #digitalart https://www.instagram.com/p/CPmNlNaJ5cV/?utm_medium=tumblr
