The Last Three Days

Day 3

"In jedem Sturm mit mir gekämpft... Hast mir gezeigt Was wirklich wichtig ist."

February 25, 1947

Prussia stares with blurry eyes at the ceiling as he tries to control his breathing. His heart is pounding and his clothes are soaked through with perspiration, and the hand that clutches the handkerchief to his mouth is shaking unsteadily.

Pulling the cloth from his lips, he grimaces. The little moonlight that pokes through his curtains illuminates the fresh blood that coats the material, and he sighs as he lowers his hand to his chest.

It's a matter of hours, now, he thinks gloomily, watching as undefinable shapes circulate the ceiling from his tired eyes.

He's been restless all night. Tossing and turning, kicking his blankets off, pulling them back up... He's either too hot or too cold, too tired or not tired at all, coughing hysterically or wheezing from his tired lungs. His eyes are heavy and his limbs like lead, but though sleep is all he desires, his brain refuses to quiet its agitated thoughts.

After four hundred plus years on earth, Prussia knows insomnia better than anyone. It is not a new notion to him; he's gone many a night without sleep. Even still, no matter often he has been plagued by it, it never ceases to irritate him.

Outside his mind, all is silent and still. The usual whir and click of the heater is absent, and other than the motor of a passing vehicle, no other sound can be heard. The city sleeps on, peaceful and blissfully unaware of the fate that is soon to befall him.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Prussia pushes himself into a sitting position. His body is rigid and cold, and every muscle protests as he lumberingly makes his way out of bed and onto his feet. Stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket, he shuffles to the bedroom door.

Prussia peeks outside but finds the hallway dark. His shoulders slump ruefully.

As selfish as it is, he had hoped Germany would be awake, too. At least then he wouldn't have to spend his last night tired, miserable, and alone.

Dejected, Prussia slips out of his room and drowsily makes his way down the stairs. The hardwood is icy beneath his sock-clad feet, and he pulls his sweater tighter as a shivers passes up his spine. So enthralled is he with not slipping and falling, he nearly misses the subtle glow of in the dining room.

Prussia pauses at the bottom of the steps and blinks at the flickering orange, wondering if Germany had stayed up late working and accidentally fallen asleep at the table. It wouldn't be the first time, anyway. It was a weekly occurrence at this point. Honestly, he would be more worried if it didn't happen.

Making his way to the dining room Prussia peers inside, half-expecting to find a hunched form with papers stuck to its face and a pen lazily dangling from its lacks fingers.

He is surprised when that is not what he sees.

"West?"

Prussia stares in puzzlement at the sight of his brother slouched over the dining room table. A blanket is draped around his shoulders and his hair clings to his forehead in messy strands. He is sporting shadowed eyes and a sullen frown as he stares, quite awake, at a blank piece of paper in front of him.

Germany looks up as Prussia approaches.

"You're awake," he states simply.

Prussia's brows climb in mock surprise.

Eyeing the empty bottles that lay askew across the tabletop and the pieces of crumpled papers on the floor, Prussia tries to fight a smile as he asks, "Have you been here all night?"