I feel pretty productive recently (I managed to turn out two fanfics). So, I'm happy about that :) . But not so happy about upcoming exams :( . Please go ahead!

It is in here, this sparse little room with cement-gray walls and one lone window, that the Allies have allowed you and your brother to have a few moments before the inevitable farewell. The pathetic condition of the place shows how they think of you. Jones is not as lenient as he was the last war; still, he did procure this meeting place.

"It was all I could get," he had said, not quite apologetically. You had nodded, thanking him quietly, so here you are now. Gilbert is sitting at the table in the center of the room. He is silent. You become antsy. Braginsky has allotted ten minutes for the conference. Furthermore, Kirkland demanded that English be used so that nothing will be missed by them through the thin walls. At the first utterance of a deviant language you will both be pulled from the room. So you speak in halting, clumsy tones.

"We have ten minutes. Let us…make the most that we can of it." He just looks at you. Unlike yours, his eyes are calm. You try again.

"Take care of yourself. Do not—fall into trouble." Silence.

"Will you not speak?" Well, perhaps he has nothing more to say. The night before, both of you had clutched each other tightly, not wanting to let go. Gilbert had whispered unintelligible things into your chest; most likely words that he could not bear to say face to face. You remember the silkiness of his hair on your cheek, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. His lips had been rough as they attacked your mouth viciously. One thing led to another. The ensuing events were imprinted into your mind. They are what you will remember most as the years you spend in solitude pass by. As both of you had lain on the sweaty sheets, all sense of stoicism disappeared. Hushed "I love you's" had rained from your lips, falling upon the ears of your brother, friend, partner, lover. And it is only now that you realize he never said a word back to you.

"Brother?" His sole reaction to your inquiring tone is to flick his eyes toward you. The clock on the wall reads 7:00. Only five more minutes. You suddenly realize that the words on the tip of your tongue are hardly meant to be said in the presence of attentive ears, especially those of your captors. So you swallow them and say something else instead. "Is there nothing you would like to say?" Gilbert turns his focus back to the wall. You are suddenly angry, but you suppress your feelings. Such an emotion is inappropriate for a heartfelt goodbye between two siblings. Looking at him, you see that his legs are crossed primly, two hands folded neatly on top. He is serene, composed; the complete opposite of you. Gilbert was never one to lose his head. Even after losing major battles, he bounced back with a resilience that is unparalleled by anyone else. It is a characteristic that you have modeled yourself after. And it is precisely what you will need now, at the end of this tragic war. How will you go on without him? He is the steel backbone to your iron support. In times of despair, your brother has always been the one to bring you back into reality. Guilt and shame nag at you. By losing this war, you have indebted the Fatherland, lost your freedom, and ultimately handed Gilbert over to the Soviet Union. He had fought long and hard beside you. You feel the need to apologize.

"I am sorry for everything," you tell him, your voice wavering. A sharp glare is sent in your direction. Do not show weakness in front of the enemy is its meaning. The countries outside of the room are suddenly more present than ever. You glance at the clock again. Although it had seemed like a matter of seconds, two precious minutes have passed. And Gilbert does not seem as if he will speak anytime soon. Vexation wells up in you, slowly but surely. The cold, distant look of your brother's eyes is hateful. You say curtly,

"Is there anything that you would like to tell me? We are leaving soon." He ignores you.

"Well?" More silence. Anger and spite mix turbulently in your stomach.

"Can you not understand me?" By this time, your emotions are boiling over. His lack of a response serves as the final straw. You walk over to the table, almost livid. The thunderous thud of your fist hitting wood resounds throughout the room. English is no longer sufficient for conveying your sentiments, the Allies be damned.

"Mein Gott, Gilbert! Ich liebe dich. Verstehst du mich?!" Immediately, the door bangs open. Braginsky is looming in the doorway, smiling. Behind him comes Bonnefoy's smooth voice.

"Time is up." It is then that Gilbert stands. He walks over to you purposefully. One gloved hand places itself on your shoulder, gradually drifting down to rest over your heart. The heat of his body bleeds through his leather glove, the pocket of your jacket, and even your undershirt, all the way to your chest. It is an action that both thrills and confuses you. Your brother smiles. He then turns to leave. You see his mouth open as if to speak.

"Viel Glück," he murmurs in a voice so low that you would have missed it, had you not been hanging onto his every word. Then he walks past Ivan into the sunlight. You cannot bear to see Russia bring him back to the Soviet Union, so you stay frozen to the spot. Alfred comes to retrieve you after a moment.

"Let's go," he says softly. His eyes seem to hold a few traces of pity. When you step outside, you notice that Braginsky and your brother are both gone. The only ones who remain are Arthur and Francis. They look none too pleased.

"You'll be going back to your original home," Kirkland says civilly, albeit with frost. Bonnefoy says nothing at all. And so you follow the three men meekly, back to the place where centuries of memories are stored.

They leave you alone upon arrival, telling you that they will be back the next day. It is just as well. You need time to readjust to the quiet old house. Being ever-efficient, you decide that stripping yourself of your dirty clothing is in order. Your military jacket comes off first. The methodical turning out of pockets is a comforting activity. After you have made sure that the ones on the bottom are empty, you move to the breast pocket.

There is something inside.

That is a surprise; you don't remember putting anything in it. It turns out to be a folded scrap of paper. You open it hesitantly. Gilbert's elegant handwriting covers the white surface. Your mind flashes back to when he placed his hand over your heart, on your pocket.

West,

If you're reading this, I think it's pretty safe to say that I managed to relay it to you somehow. This was written last night, after I was sure that you were asleep. First of all, I want to inform you about the meeting. I'm not going to and most likely didn't speak at all for several reasons. One, I didn't want the bastards intruding on our privacy to hear anything. Two, I know that you and I are close enough to understand each other even without words. (Upon reading this, guilt floods your being. You should have looked deeper into Gilbert's silence instead of getting angry.) And three, I didn't trust myself to remain indifferent. But you probably figured that out, right? You're smart enough. (You cringe.)

Since you're all for responsibility and whatnot, you're probably beating yourself up for all of this. But it wasn't your fault. This is the truth. Think about it; when haven't I been perfectly frank to you? It was that crazy boss of yours that did it. And I made my own decisions. So don't think that this was entirely your doing.

I'd like to ask you for a favor. As you may have noticed, I gave you an Iron Cross along with this message.

You stop for minute. Rummaging around the pocket, you retrieve the necklace.

Years ago, I had an exact replica of your Iron Cross made for myself. That is the one that I will wear while I go to live with Braginsky. You have my own Iron Cross in your hand. Please wear it for me. That way, I can feel like we have a piece of each other. As long as you have that cross with you, we are as good as together. So do your big brother a favor, will you?

So, some parting advice. Continue with your life; moping around won't do you any good. Keep working hard. Make me proud of you, West! And I love you. As you probably know.

See you in a few years,

Gilbert

You read the letter several more times, wanting to memorize your brother's words. Then you look at the pendant in the palm of your hand. It has an old-age feel to it. The black surface gleams, surrounded by a border of pure silver. You get up and make your way to the nearest mirror. There, you take off your own Iron Cross, comparing it to Gilbert's. It is slightly newer, colored black with a silver lining. They are almost identical. However, your brother's feels warm…almost alive. Slowly, you fasten the clasp of the chain around your neck. It hangs against your chest. You look at yourself. Thin, weary, in bad condition. With a decisive tightening of the lips, you turn. March over to where you left your jacket. Put it on and straighten it out. Then you begin to piece your life back together.

I'm experimenting with writing in different languages. If I made a mistake, please feel free to correct me. Also, please tell me what you think! Reviews are my life.