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Paris, France; 19 July 1815
Prussia thumps his mug onto the table and grins. Naturally, he always tells the best and funniest stories. He knows this because England is already smirking, and the tale hasn’t even finished yet.
“So,” he continues, “Austria says, ‘What on Earth are you doing here?’ Right? I’m covered head to toe in armour, with nearly the entire order of knights behind me, and that moron aristocrat asks me what I’m doing!”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I said ‘I’m looking for a challenge, could you run and fetch your wife?’ ”
England wheezes, his eyes crinkling with mirth, and together they holler like jackals. If anyone in the vicinity turns to gawk or sneer, they must simply be jealous of Prussia’s incredible narrative talents.
As comfortable as an old shoe, the two scoundrels huddle in a deep corner of a Parisian tavern, past benches and barmaids, where the mob of nations and kingdoms has thinned and the stench of booze blends with the soothing mix of oakwood and burning oil. Bumping shoulders, England leans on Prussia, his drunken laughter fading with a sigh as he smiles into his beer mug, body heat radiating from beneath the thin muslin of his dress shirt and baking Prussia’s entire left side. Jackets were unbuttoned hours ago as the alcohol flooded their veins and warmed the air, driving them to find a booth before they toppled over their own unsteady legs.
And England’s pliant weight has Prussia hoping that all this physical contact is not solely platonic, because the familiar brush of England’s straw hair is distractingly pleasing. He can handle this though, can’t he? Of course, he can! He’s the almighty Prussia, and it’s not as though they haven’t been down this wayward path before.
Upturning his glass, Prussia swallows another gulp of lager, liquid confidence burning down his gullet and filling his belly.
At some point during the night, the portraits and prints which adorn the tavern's walls began sloping to the side and the rusted oil lamps started swaying high overhead. So perhaps he's had a few too many drinks, but tonight celebrates a special occasion: the capture of one, Napoleon Bonaparte. The final chapter has closed in a long series of arduous wars that spanned the continent, and isn’t that enough cause for some minor indulgence? After all, how often does a man witness the downfall of a titan, even if he has lived hundreds of years in Europe?
And speaking of the devil...
Shoving England off him, for just a moment, Prussia clambers underneath the table and retrieves his new prize. He bangs his skull on the way back up and England cackles.
A glint of gold trim catches the firelight. Disregarding the ache of his smashed head, Prussia haphazardly reshapes the crumpled felt and shakes out the dust until the heavenly bicorne appears presentable once again. Proudly, he displays the magnificent spoil to his companion.
Slowly, England blinks, swaying and bleary-eyed as he attempts to focus. “...What is it?”
Prussia smirks. “It’s my trophy.”
England quirks one of his bushy brows. “It’s a hat.”
“It’s my hat.”
Unfortunately, it seems that England doesn’t understand. He takes another swig of amber ale, disregarding the gorgeous hat. With admirable patience, Prussia waits, gradually sneaking the bicorne back into his companion’s field of vision.
Finally, England rolls his eyes. “Alright, let’s hear it. Where’d it come from?”
Prussia smirks. “I got this beauty from Spain; bought it off him as soon as I saw it. He was trying to swap it for a bottle of wine, but the barmaids told him off.”
England scoffs. “Bartering? God, the Parisians aren’t that desperate, at least not from what I’ve seen. What was he thinking? We’re not living in the Middle Ages anymore.”
“Ja, but it’s not just any hat; he was saying it’s Bonaparte’s hat!”
“It’s... what?”
“He thought the French people would want it back and they’d be willing to trade for it. But everyone told him to fuck off!” Prussia howls. “I remember when we took the city, I thought they’d hassle us for weeks, but they hate their emperor more than they hate us!”
“Hang on, you mean to say that – stop laughing! Oi!” England fumbles with Prussia’s lapels. “You're telling me that this thing is....”
Prussia waves his hat, in the mild-mannered way that women wave handkerchiefs at departing ships. “That’s right: the confiscated property of Herr Bonaparte himself.” England frowns and says nothing, to Prussia’s displeasure. “What, you don’t believe me?”
“How do you know it’s his?”
Like a sputtering steam pump, Prussia stalls. If he concentrates, he can probably make a decent case for his claim, but in his inebriated state, that requires significant mental capacity, and he really can’t be arsed. Instead, he gawks at the bicorne, turning it over in his hands. It lacks a name on the inner rim, but it does have the emperor’s tell-tale tricolour cockade; an image that Prussia committed to memory during that fateful October of 1806.
It must be the one; Spain wouldn’t lie to him. The hat that sat atop the emperor’s head through brilliant and terrible campaigns, war rooms and victory marches, cannon fire and blizzards. The crown of a newly shattered empire.
Lost in his own little world, Prussia sighs, and wholeheartedly discards any doubts as to the hat’s authenticity. “Perfect, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, England grabs him by the collar, scowling. “I told you....” Then, he pauses, squinting into the middle distance. “Hang on, what was it? What did I tell you?”
Prussia blinks. “...That you would only come out drinking if I stopped—”
“Yes!” England squawks. “I’d only come out drinking if you stopped going on about how much you admired that stumpy twat of an emperor!”
Prussia’s laughter bursts from his chest. “But with this hat, I can become just like him!”
“Good God.”
“Look, here.” Clumsily, Prussia shuffles out of the booth and kneels on the sticky floor, his head peeking over their wooden table to appear as a shorter man. Cheeks sore from grinning, he puts the hat on and prepares his most obnoxious rendition of Napoleon’s accent. “I found dee crown of France in dee gutter and placed it on my ‘ead!”
He receives a deadpan expression for his efforts. “Really?”
“What do you mean it ees a terrible idea to invade Russia? Dee winter ees still many months away and I am sure Tsar Alexander will lay down ‘is weapons. Not long ago, ‘e and I were very close friends.”
Pressing his lips thin, England inhales and sinks, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.
“You see, dees beautiful man was spending much time with myself and my wife. In fact, I wondered why my Josephine never told me when she was enjoying intimacy. Then I discover it was because I was never there when it ‘appened!”
Immediately, England cracks, dissolving into another fit of candid laughter, his cheeks glowing rosy red and tears trickling down his face. Prussia’s heart swells. Sliding back into his seat, their bodies are pressed close again. And while he freely admits to being a fashion philistine, sometimes even wearing the label as a badge of honour, right now, England’s waist looks so narrow in that charcoal vest, that Prussia is ready to worship whichever angel dreamt up this new style of art. Carefully, he sneaks an arm around that wondrously tight torso.
“Accept it,” he drawls. “You know I would make an impressive emperor.”
“Oh, yes,” England coughs, his sarcasm revealing his recovered composure. “I’m sure that’s exactly what your ego needs: an empire.”
“Everybody has one these days, including you. Why can’t I join in?”
“I can offer several reasons.” Snickering, England gulps down his beer, peach throat bobbing with each sip, and Prussia’s mouth is suddenly very dry.
“Well, what if, as a token of goodwill from the extraordinary Prussian Empire, I... endowed you with... you know... some kind of bounty?”
Setting down his mug, England peers. “Go on.”
Briefly, Prussia freezes, long fingers curling in the folds of his companion’s waistcoat, locking his gaze with England's. A lick of fire ignites in his belly. This is a good sign, isn’t it? He can’t tell; between them, they’ve probably annihilated an entire cask, so accurate judgements are off the table.
“How about Ardenne? Or Lorraine or Burgundy?”
England frowns. “The territories you’ve got? I'm not about to swoon over occupying a French farming hamlet for four years. Or however long we’ll have them.”
Mentally, Prussia kicks himself; he should’ve been bolder. “So, you’re not interested then?”
“I didn’t say that. You just haven’t offered anything enticing yet.”
“What would you consider... enticing?”
“Another pint, for starters.”
“Huh?”
"We’re out of ale.” England emphasises this by tapping his empty cup. “And it’s your turn to get more.”
Stupefied, Prussia glares at the mug before grimacing. “Scheiße.”
He slips out of the booth, irked and wallowing in self-pity for about five seconds, until he glances over his shoulder and catches England staring at him. And his pulse quickens under that piercing, greedy look. Green, but not like the forests. Instead, more akin to the alluring haze of witchcraft and devilry, the sort that drives even the most pious men wild.
It drives Prussia a little wild too – his pale hairs stand ready at attention.
Licking his lips, he dives into the crowd. He stumbles through the alehouse, pushing Bavaria aside and receiving a slurry of mangled German syllables in response. The air is flushed warm, roiling with dozens of merry voices crammed into a saloon that was never designed for so many boisterous patrons. He bumps into stools and oak tables, getting sprinkled with droplets of wine from overfull glasses, treading through a sea of jolly inebriation.
He finds the bar, scanning the shelves, bottles, and casks in search of a barmaid. Before he finds one though, someone shouts above the ruckus.
“Hey, Spanien! Spain! Do you need a hand?”
A man stumbles toward the main door and slams heavily into the frame. It's followed by a round of chuckling from a nearby table, and the man waves off their offers of assistance. His russet brown hair is matted by the bandages swaddling his cranium, and a weary smile adorns his face. Prussia winces and recognises the man as Spain.
“Ah, fuck,” Prussia mutters. “Don’t do this to me. Not now.”
Prussia tries to ignore the scene, as Spain teeters in place. One of Spain's hands is holding a cup and the other a bottle; he fumbles with the door handle, attempting to turn it without dropping his drinks. Wine dribbles dangerously out of the vessels and Prussia gnaws his cheek, pulled between the desire to snatch some ale and run back to England or to help his long-time friend. The poor Spainard was battered by the wars, struggling for years as a guerrilla fighter in his own land and living under a Bonapartist pretender king. It was only weeks ago that he regained a semblance of shaky stability from the Congress of Vienna.
Though, Spain is a sturdy nation. Perhaps he’s fine. Maybe he doesn’t need any help with his drunken escapades.
Then, said nation stumbles through the door, a thump and the sharp crinkling of shattered glass follows. Several patrons idly turn their heads toward the noise, but soon resume their conversations as though nothing happened. Cursing his luck, Prussia abandons the bar. At the very least, he owes Spain for the fancy bicorne upon his head.
Pushing through the tavern’s exit, he finds Spain flat on his face.
“Spain!” Prussia barks. “I’ve come to your rescue!” He kicks aside the shards of broken bottle and grabs his friend, manhandling him into a sitting position and propping him up against a crate. “Wow, you look like shit.”
“I know,” Spain sighs. The acrid tang of wine is carried on his breath and in his clothes. “Don't remind me.”
Prussia tilts his head to check for blood, thankfully finding none. “Honestly, I wasn't sure if you’d be showing up tonight.”
“Neither was I,” Spain admits with a tired smile, his deep eye-bags wrinkling from the effort. “But I think I needed this. I wanted to celebrate.”
“Of course you need it; we all do!”
“Exactly! We have peace. Everything else, it can wait... for now....” His head is drooping, and his eyes are unfocused.
“Okay, you need rest. Come on; which room is yours?” Wobbling, Prussia drags him up, slinging an arm under his limp shoulders; the drunk leading the drunk.
“Ah...? Oh, I didn’t get a room above the tavern.”
“All right. Do you remember where you’re staying?”
With Spain in tow, Prussia hobbles toward the darkened street, and he hails a cab, waving at the slouching drivers that have crowded their carriages around the bustling tavern. Ever reliable, one of them immediately hops into his seat and beckons the nations to approach. In a short minute, Prussia is heaving Spain through the cab door, asking him for the address of his lodgings and relaying this information to the driver.
“You’re a good friend,” Spain hiccups. “Sometimes.”
“Hey, I’m always a good friend,” Prussia corrects, patting Spain’s arm. “By the way, thanks again for the hat.”
Spain nods sluggishly from the passenger seat. “At least someone wanted it.”
A farewell is just on the edge of Prussia’s tongue when there’s a clang behind him – a creaky wooden door hitting stone.
“Oi! Are you leaving?”
It’s England. He’s stumbling out of the tavern and bracing against the doorframe. “You can’t drag me to some French alehouse, make eyes at me all night, and then just piss off!”
Prussia laughs incredulously. “I’m not going anywhere!”
“You’re getting in a cab!”
He turns to Spain. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. Don’t fall asleep before you get to your bed!”
Spain’s forearm sways, his slack hand flapping goodbye, and the door shuts. Prussia slips off the carriage step and the horses shuttle the carriage away. Then, he wobbles back to England and readies some sort of half-assed explanation. But his torso is already tilting, and he wraps his arms around England first, cooing in the way one would settle a mangy cat.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats.
England squirms. “What are you—? Get off.”
“Nah.” Prussia nuzzles his haybale of hair.
“You’re absolutely legless.”
“So are you.”
“Oh, do fuck off.”
“Deep down, you know I wasn’t going to leave.”
“Is that so?”
“The awesome Prussia would never be so bad-mannered.”
As a matter of principle, England is never one to relent. But he is the type to snort and stop squirming, to slouch into the unsteady hug with his cheek squished awkwardly into Prussia’s necktie.
“Complimenting yourself is poor manners,” he mumbles, fingers groping for purchase in the folds of Prussia’s jacket. “What were you doing out here, then?”
Alcohol buzzing through his addled mind, Prussia blinks slowly. “I was thanking Spain for the hat.” He could fall asleep like this, with the dim lamplight, the muffled hubbub of the tavern, and England in his arms. Eyelids falling, he almost does. But everything shifts, suddenly.
He’s spinning, the doorframe blurring into a side alley, swallowed in near darkness. Fistfuls of his jacket are being tugged and there’s a muttered “you and the damned hat.” He’s shoved against a solid wall, the wind knocked right out of him, totally unsure if he’s about to fight or score.
Prussia coughs, his head swirling. “Sometimes I forget that you were once a pirate.”
“Hmph. Privateer.”
“Oh?” Prussia chuckles breathlessly. “There’s a difference?”
England sputters. “Yes, of course there’s a difference! What— What do you think, I just scuttled about the Atlantic, raiding and pillaging without oversight? Without proper clearances from the Royal Navy?”
Trying his best not to grin, Prussia swallows the ‘yes’ on his tongue. “I mean, I’ve heard stories.”
“Well, they’re wrong.” Lurching, England stabs a wobbly finger at Prussia’s chest. “Understand? Being a privateer... was a respectable way to earn a living.”
Struggling, Prussia’s mushy, waterlogged brain registers that England is mildly upset, and that they're pressed very close together, shirt buttons catching and snug trousers rustling. If he can rescue Spain, maybe he can rescue the night, too.
“I am not judging. I wouldn’t mind if you were a little savage back then. It’s, uh.... It doesn’t bother me.”
“...You?”
“Me?”
“You’re not bothered? You, who wakes up at five o’clock in morning for military exercises, disturbing the bed, waking your companion, demanding he join you, then coming back an hour later to scribble in your journal before the bloody sun is up.”
Prussia halts, his mind fish-hooked on those highly specific details. “That was... at least fifty years ago.”
“It was.”
A smile blooms across his face. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do,” England murmurs. “Why?”
“You never mentioned it,” Prussia replies. “I thought, maybe you’d forgotten.”
“...I didn’t.”
Prussia stares. If England were sober, he’d avert his gaze and deny everything. But far beyond tipsy, with inhibitions washed away, he stares back. The flickering lamplight carves his brow and cheekbones out of the darkness, haloing his blonde mane. Prussia’s stomach twists, and he curls a hand around the back of England’s neck, grazing freshly clipped hair.
With a dry throat, Prussia swallows. “Come here.”
Drunk eyes widen, then slip, falling to a lazy, half-lidded expression. England’s scarlet face is pulled closer. The ruckus of Paris – whistling wind that swirls through the boulevards, creaking carriages full of giggling escorts, little rats scampering down the muddy alleyway – is entirely drowned by the rustling of their waistcoats and the sharp intake of breath that passes England’s barley-sour lips as they finally touch Prussia’s own.
And it’s better than he remembers.
Warmth pours out of England’s chapped mouth and rolls along his tongue in sloppy, pliable kisses. Satisfaction melts into Prussia’s bones as he tastes beer and old ocean salt. Oh, he missed this. England’s firm embrace, the demanding press of arms encircling his ribs, massages a long-neglected itch deep in the pit of Prussia’s greedy soul.
God, they should’ve done this sooner.
He holds England's head in place. Pushing his tongue inside, he wanders and re-explores, yields and plunders. Letting England nip and gnaw, Prussia returns with his own teeth to trace England’s chin, tugging insistently on his silk cravat, exposing the skin, then burrowing into his neck and bruising. Breath steaming his cheeks, Prussia earns a moan, and the sound sets his nerves alive, igniting his spine like a trail of gunpowder.
Quickly, the air suffocates. Fingers claw at silver buttons, crushing fistfuls of muslin fabric and scratching the flesh underneath. Shuddering when England shifts his thigh just perfectly, Prussia’s jaws snap shut with a clack, holding back a desperate noise that threatens to bubble up from his core.
Limestone digs into his back and sanity cracks through the thundering waves of intoxicated pleasure. They’re in public; they’ll be caught. And Prussia’s libido makes a valiant effort to combat his diligent Teutonic upbringing: snarling and tearing at it, a rabid badger throwing itself upon an immovable wall, but it’s no use. Cursing himself and his code of ethics, with sinking regret, Prussia untangles their limbs and wrenches England off.
“Wh—?” England gasps.
“Can’t be arrested,” Prussia pants, his skin swiftly cooling in the most wretched way. “Assembly tomorrow... the generals would kick my ass... if I missed.”
“Oh, come on. There’s no one around.”
“You don’t want to be respectable anymore?”
“No, I— it's just— ...Fine, but we’re at a tavern. They’ll have a room.”
Prussia slumps. “I checked when I arrived. They’re booked for the night.” His drunk yet astute German brothers had the foresight to reserve their rooms in advance.
“...Fuck’s sake.”
Grimacing, England wipes saliva from his mouth. He’s little more than tousled hair and dishevelled clothing, with dark pupils blown wide, eclipsing those viridian irises. He’s fucking glorious this way and hunger coils low in Prussia’s belly, appetite unsated. Heart pounding, Prussia quiets his inner critic, the nagging reminder of that crucial military assembly tomorrow morning, and sucks obscene back-alley air into his lungs.
Then, he asks, “My quarters aren’t far. Do you want to...?”
England, rubbing his swollen lips with the side of his hand, pauses. His irritated gaze turns ravenous, slack limbs straightening with sober purpose.
“Yes.”
Bursting with more excitement than a circus, Prussia’s smile outshines the sun.
Clinging to each other, they stumble into the street and the world swims. Dizzy and high, Prussia clumsily waves at a vague shape that resembles a carriage. Horses slow as the cab pulls up beside them, brass lantern clinking, and the driver asks for their destination. Mangling the French address, Prussia repeats himself twice, before the burly man nods in understanding and yanks open the passenger door.
Prussia can’t get inside fast enough, scooting to make space for England, who clambers on top of him, slamming the door shut and plunging them into total darkness. A hot mouth finds Prussia’s cheek, then his ear, nipping and whispering wicked obscenities.
Leather seats squeak and jostle as the carriage bounces along old Parisian roads. Helplessly giddy, Prussia quakes, his aimless hands skirting over England’s hips, and he cackles. Growling, England bites his throat and tells him to shut up. He tries his best to oblige. The cab scurries off into the night, shuttling its eager and willing passengers, who by their own standards, are not being very clandestine in the slightest.
End / Fin