{ Fic } 32. Linger
Character(s): Gilbert Weillschmidt (Prussia), mentions of Ludwig (Germany) and Ivan Braginski (Russia).
Rating: T
Warnings: Very vague mentions of abuse, Prussia's mouth (recurring theme~)
Summary: Prussia having a flashback moment to when he was the GDR and part of the Warsaw Pact (Read: USSR).
Prussia (Gilbert Weillschmidt), Russia (Ivan Braginski), Germany (Ludwig) & Hetalia copyright to Hidekaz Himaruya
***
32. Linger
One of the dirtier parts of his life, to be sure. One that he and his brother -- hell the entire world -- tried to hide behind their backs; sanitize the whole period, altogether. Gilbert mused as he rubbed lightly at his wrists, more in memory than for any real purpose. There were no marks there anymore, only the constant itch and burn because his skin remembered whether it was visible or not. Everyone remembered.
He remembered the way people flinched when they saw him. Heh, only it was no longer from fear. No, he lost that respect in 1918 when the title of nation was taken from him. This was just another show. ‘A lesson that went wrong,’ as the Allies loved to put it. 'Wrong.' As if the daily abuse that left more then his body seared could be summed up in the word 'wrong.' And yet…
All eyes were drawn to him still, and that same magnetism repelled everyone moments later. He was a show, and a barrier. He could accept and was almost sickly proud of his job guarding his strong, lucid, clear blue and golden Ludwig; keeping the claws of the Soviets out of his brother, even if that meant diverting the pipe and broad, childish smile onto himself.
Throughout his musings Gilbert did his best to distract himself from the itching and burning of his skin; turn the TV on, pace, anything. Take his attention away, so he couldn't concentrate on his recent past playing out behind his eyes in disturbing detail.
His mind was a fucking sadist.
It was a hard thing to explain, what had happened to him. Not truly a nation, even during the war, before his separation. Now his centre had shifted again, this time to a colder, Russian core. He lived like that; forcibly pushed into the position of a communist-Germany's personification. At first he was sickeningly excited, almost grateful to feel the thrum of a nation's people against his own heartbeat; but it was nothing like the empowering feeling he remembered it being. Stuttering, and often frozen in fear the people of the GDR were. The events his people went through hit him like a punch to the gut. Every time a damn, fucking Soviet soldier -- not that they even deserved to be called that -- did...hell, whatever they wanted. They called it karma for what Gilbert's own regiment had done when the roles were reversed and his boots were the one's crushing, grinding Russian cities and Russian bodies into the ground.
Gilbert was a sinner. So, maybe it was karma... But if Gott didn't care about his well being, why bother punishing him?
Fuck it.
Either way he lived out his years behind the wall. Oh, he resisted. Clung to his uniform and his cross, walked up and down his side of the wall, screamed at Gott; he knew praying didn't work. Long as it was, he did get to take pleasure in the crumbling of the USSR. Ivan's slow side downwards from his throne as a superpower.
Gilbert sighed long and heavy, hanging his head forward, his fingers twitched, but that along with the itching of his skin and tensing of his muscles subsided. He knew it wasn't going to ever, ever fucking happen again. He and West would make sure; and Ivan wasn't even the same person as he was then. That was over.
Over.
***
3/64
Rating: T
Warnings: Very vague mentions of abuse, Prussia's mouth (recurring theme~)
Summary: Prussia having a flashback moment to when he was the GDR and part of the Warsaw Pact (Read: USSR).
Prussia (Gilbert Weillschmidt), Russia (Ivan Braginski), Germany (Ludwig) & Hetalia copyright to Hidekaz Himaruya
***
32. Linger
One of the dirtier parts of his life, to be sure. One that he and his brother -- hell the entire world -- tried to hide behind their backs; sanitize the whole period, altogether. Gilbert mused as he rubbed lightly at his wrists, more in memory than for any real purpose. There were no marks there anymore, only the constant itch and burn because his skin remembered whether it was visible or not. Everyone remembered.
He remembered the way people flinched when they saw him. Heh, only it was no longer from fear. No, he lost that respect in 1918 when the title of nation was taken from him. This was just another show. ‘A lesson that went wrong,’ as the Allies loved to put it. 'Wrong.' As if the daily abuse that left more then his body seared could be summed up in the word 'wrong.' And yet…
All eyes were drawn to him still, and that same magnetism repelled everyone moments later. He was a show, and a barrier. He could accept and was almost sickly proud of his job guarding his strong, lucid, clear blue and golden Ludwig; keeping the claws of the Soviets out of his brother, even if that meant diverting the pipe and broad, childish smile onto himself.
Throughout his musings Gilbert did his best to distract himself from the itching and burning of his skin; turn the TV on, pace, anything. Take his attention away, so he couldn't concentrate on his recent past playing out behind his eyes in disturbing detail.
His mind was a fucking sadist.
It was a hard thing to explain, what had happened to him. Not truly a nation, even during the war, before his separation. Now his centre had shifted again, this time to a colder, Russian core. He lived like that; forcibly pushed into the position of a communist-Germany's personification. At first he was sickeningly excited, almost grateful to feel the thrum of a nation's people against his own heartbeat; but it was nothing like the empowering feeling he remembered it being. Stuttering, and often frozen in fear the people of the GDR were. The events his people went through hit him like a punch to the gut. Every time a damn, fucking Soviet soldier -- not that they even deserved to be called that -- did...hell, whatever they wanted. They called it karma for what Gilbert's own regiment had done when the roles were reversed and his boots were the one's crushing, grinding Russian cities and Russian bodies into the ground.
Gilbert was a sinner. So, maybe it was karma... But if Gott didn't care about his well being, why bother punishing him?
Fuck it.
Either way he lived out his years behind the wall. Oh, he resisted. Clung to his uniform and his cross, walked up and down his side of the wall, screamed at Gott; he knew praying didn't work. Long as it was, he did get to take pleasure in the crumbling of the USSR. Ivan's slow side downwards from his throne as a superpower.
Gilbert sighed long and heavy, hanging his head forward, his fingers twitched, but that along with the itching of his skin and tensing of his muscles subsided. He knew it wasn't going to ever, ever fucking happen again. He and West would make sure; and Ivan wasn't even the same person as he was then. That was over.
Over.
***
3/64