(A/N: This idea came to me while I was reading a few PruAus fanfics yesterday. It is a sort of letter written from Austria's perspective, to Prussia, though he doesn't expect Prussia to ever read it. Which explains a few things he says in it.

The update for Verdict is on the way, my readers, I promise you. I'm sorry it has taken so long.

Now then, enjoy.)

Prussia,

I hate you.

Sweet Mozart, I hate you.

Words cannot describe it. I would find a musical piece, some angry concerto that would properly illustrate how much I despise you, but that takes time, and I'm not willing to waste any time on you. You don't deserve it.

I am tired of you wasting my time, speaking of which. Stop breaking into my house, it's incredibly obnoxious and very trying on my patience. I am certain you have no understanding of the concept of privacy, Prussia, but I would like you to know that you are violating mine when you spy on me while I am in the shower. You also frequently infringe on my personal space, another aspect of you that I find overwhelmingly tiresome.

I would like you to know that I hate your voice. It sounds like a chainsaw, and you always sound like a lunatic. Of course, I suppose this is not unusual, since you are a lunatic. A complete and utter lunatic. That's what you are. I suppose that is a good way to explain your behavior, but believe you me, Prussia, it in no way excuses it. In addition to that, stop making up bizarre new laughs. They are all very strange and slightly disturbing.

I am thoroughly weary of your constant insults. You should know that "rich boy" is not a very original, nor a very derogatory, name for me. The nickname "Specs" is quite absurd, as I'm sure that you are acquainted with several other people besides me that also wear glasses, including Estonia, who I believe now resides very close to where your house used to be. (On that note, please stop trying to take parts of my land for your so-called "New Prussia." It is never going to work. Stop it.) Also, any pet forms of my name, including "Rod" or "Roddy," are exceptionally demeaning, and I command you stop at once. And another thing. Do not refer to me as "Priss."

Ha. I am only faintly humored by the idea you even think of me.

I am quite finished with your disgusting personality. I've had quite enough of your vulgarity, and do not even allow me to begin on your ego. I am sick and tired of arguing with you constantly, no matter how much entertainment it may bring us—

. . .

You. No matter how much entertainment it may bring you.

Yes, just you. Not me. I don't care. I would be perfectly happy if I never saw you again.

. . . very well. I suppose that I must admit that perhaps my life would not be nearly as interesting without you around. But I would cope. I would probably . . . most likely . . . possibly be just as content with my life without you around. I am completely . . . mostly . . . partially . . . somewhat certain that my life would be exactly the same, if not even more peaceful, without you in it. Yes.

I am quite concerned about your bad habits. Not because I care about you, of course. I am merely thinking about those that are important to you, if anyone is important to you . . . there, let me rephrase that. I am concerned with the following bad habits for the sake of the people in your life who care about you. This group does not include me, but it does include your younger brother, Ludwig, who also happens to be my friend, and whom I know would be very . . . distraught should you do something to harm yourself. As would, I might add, your friends – France, Spain, England, and whomever else you keep in your company; I rarely pay attention. Regardless. Allow me to proceed. Your drinking is out of control. I understand that you think you have a remarkably high tolerance for alcohol, but this is clearly not so, as you have proven by showing up on my doorstep heavily inebriated at three o' clock in the morning – when, you should know, I was in bed.

That constitutes the last time I will do anything to assist you when you . . . appear in that condition at my house. I will ignore you, or promptly call Ludwig to drive you home, and I could not care less what happens to you in between.

I took no pleasure in aiding you that time, either. Or any of the other instances in which such has occurred, by the way. I do not concern myself with your well-being, Prussia. And I hate the manner in which you sleep, with your limbs sprawled out all over my couch. You also snore.

. . .

Well.

I . . .

Perhaps I . . .

I suppose, since you will never read this, I should be fully honest.

Yes, you are not quite as obnoxious as usual when you are sleeping. In fact, you appear quite peaceful, and if you were like that all the time . . . perhaps I would find you more tolerable.

But you are still ugly.

. . .

. . . well, that isn't true.

Not . . . that I find you attractive.

I don't.

You are not my type, by any means. At all. Never.

. . .

Well, I suppose your eyes are . . . nice. They are a . . . satisfying shade of crimson. This largely reminds me of blood, enough of which, might I remind you, you have spilt – particularly Austrian blood. But you must already fully know the impact of our multiple conflicts on our relationship. (Entailing, of course, that we have no relationship. Because I hate you.)

Regardless, yes, your eyes are red. I find this very strange, and I will have you know that at times, I find it very disturbing. However, as an artist, I cannot dispute that they are aesthetically a very nice color. Just nice, mind you. It is not as if I find them beautiful. And you are certainly imagining whatever fascination I may have with the way they used to appear on the battlefield, because they were most certainly not filled with fire, and it was not beautiful, and I did not find it in the least bit attractive. So cease asking me such questions. And stop telling me about your muscles.

Speaking of which, one thing I can appreciate is the fact that you are actually . . . proportionate, I suppose. Of course, this is from a completely objective, artistic point of view. Aesthetically, yes, your body is very . . . adequately shaped. You have enough muscular definition for it to be visible that you are physically strong (though I believe your mental capacity to be significantly lagging), and yet, you are not bulky like your brother. I can appreciate this – objectively, of course. And yes, perhaps your face has suitable proportions as well. But you do not do them any favors with that ear-to-ear grin of yours. It just makes you look deranged.

Well, for all of your physical aspects, you are a very ugly person.

. . .

Right.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. I hate you.

I absolutely despise your personality. You are entirely egocentric and only concern yourself with your own well-being. This makes you an utterly self-absorbed, narcissistic, arrogant blockhead, and you act like one, as well. Your language is absolutely foul, and I demand that you clean it up, for it never ceases to irritate me how freely you talk about your . . . sexual escapades. I utterly loathe it when you talk about those. Loathe it. I do not care, I am not jealous, so stop asking me.

. . .

Not jealous. Please read that correctly.

Also, your sense of fashion. Please correct it. You dress considerably too casually, and I haven't the slightest idea why Ludwig puts up with it so readily. I, personally, am tired of it. The next time you come to my house, as well as ringing the doorbell instead of breaking in (I plan on calling the police on you the next time you do this), I insist that you dress appropriately. Also, bring me something useful, since your very presence seems to undo things. Chocolates would be nice.

. . . that has no implications, do you understand?

I am starting to lose my purpose for writing this letter. Ah, it was intended to be a thorough description of why I hate you so much. Which I do, I abhor you.

However, I suppose that this is somewhat of a debate, and in a debate, the good as well as the bad should be presented.

You . . . in your own ridiculous, crass, insensitive, disgusting way, you can occasionally be amusing. I would not consider it funny. You are much more like a clown. Clowns are amusing. Comedians are funny. Yes, just like a clown, you bumbling buffoon.

Also, you have a great deal of experience with military tactics, so I suppose you are quite adept with strategy. Perhaps this makes you not a complete and total moron. But you are still a moron.

You . . . also . . . ah.

How to . . . say this. What it is.

A vitality, I suppose.

Yes. An everlasting vitality. I first noticed it during our encounters on the battlefield, but you have a relentless energy, a vivacity . . . and you are certainly a commanding presence. At least for your soldiers. It is not as if I could ever find you commanding, for I do not. However, this energy of yours, this life that you have . . . somehow sustained even after your dissolution, is something I have never possessed. Do not mistake this for admiration. I do not admire it. I do not even like it. Still, it is one of your less repulsive qualities.

Moreover, though I find your egotistic tendencies thoroughly inappropriate, I suppose one could almost find them endearing. However, I do not. I also maintain that, no matter how self-absorbed or vain other nations consider me to be, I will never be as pompous as you, so stop saying so.

There is also a certain . . . power to your character from the old days that you have not entirely lost. That could be regarded as appealing.

I suppose it should be considered a "good" trait that you are outspoken, but I consider you to be too outspoken, much too loud. Yes, perhaps it is positive to have your opinions known, and I suppose it is harmless, since you have no real sway over the politics of the world anymore, but I continue to find it thoroughly unappealing how much you speak your mind. For example, I resent your observations about my hair or my behind. Stop it.

In general, you are the complete and total opposite of me in every way.

And that is why I love you.

. . .

Wait, I don't . . . that is, I . . .

I . . . yes, I love you, Gilbert Beilschmidt.

I love the way your eyes look when you're impassioned.

I love the way your hair catches the light.

I love your stupid voice and your stupid comments and your stupid laughs.

I love your tremendous ego and the ridiculous things it makes you do.

I love that you are completely and entirely different from me, because you are everything I need.

And everything I want.

And you hate me. And you have given me no reason to even enjoy your company.

But I love you.

I love you, you blockhead.

(A/N: Very different opinion by the end, there, Roddy.

A friend of mine may be writing a response letter to this. I'm pretty excited. :3 Hope you guys enjoyed. Reviews are adored.)