Cold was the first thing she registered upon awakening. Her bed was cold. Her hand slid out to the opposite side of the bed, just to check. But he wasn't there, and he hadn't been there for weeks. Why she even bothered to check baffled her, but she just rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow.

Of course he wouldn't be there. He scarcely remembered who he was, much less her. It was a miracle he even came home with her after she found him wandering around the city after his name fell off the map completely. He was shell-shocked and muttering, confused as to who she was; but when she outstretched her hand and told him she was a friend, he put his hand in hers with only a split second of hesitation and came back to Budapest with her. Persuading Ivan to let her keep him with her was difficult, but he finally agreed. What good was a deranged and dissolved Prussian to him, anyway?

Perhaps if Ivan knew about them he would have refused just to spite her, which he seemed fond of as of late. Although it was hardly an opportune time, she had realized her love for her childhood friend in the midst of World War II after he had confessed his for her, but they tactfully kept in quiet to avoid international scandal. But now he simply walked listlessly about and mumbled, remembering her for perhaps an hour before relapsing.

She forced herself to crawl out of the cold and lonely cave of her bed and shuffled down to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face and stared at her dripping reflection in the dingy mirror.

"Well, at least the war is over," she whispered to herself for what felt like the millionth time.

When she came downstairs, he was in his normal spot by the window. It was pushed open and the cold air blew in his face, but he simply stared out to the sky. His yellow bird fluttered in and out, going outside and then resting on his owner's perch of a head before repeating his movements. He paid no attention to the creature as he stared, nor did he acknowledge to loud chiming of bells from the nearby clock tower.

She cautiously took a few steps towards him, careful not to startle him. He was jumpy and easily frightened as of late, and barely aware of his surroundings to begin with. He was practically lifeless.

"Good morning, Gilbert," she said softly, taking a hesitant sixth step towards him.

His eyes darted to look at her and his head twitched in what may have been intended as a greeting, but he remained silent. She looked outside and spoke again in an attempt to engage him. "It's nice outside, isn't it, Gilbert?" She added a gentle emphasis to his name – Roderich had once said that calling a person who doesn't remember who they are might help them remember themselves.

Gilbert continued to stare out the window. "Do you ever feel like someone is standing in the corner of your field of vision, just watching you, Elizaveta?"

Her name. He'd said her name correctly. The oddness of his question, although she was used to it, forced to her to stop celebrating him naming her correctly without prompting and dread what was to follow. He came up with strange things nowadays; what was about to exit his mouth she never knew.

"Occasionally," she answered truthfully. "Why, Gilbert?"

"I do. Everyday. Then I turn around, and no one is there. Do you know why? I do. Because all the living are dead and the dead are all living."

She paused and watched him silently for several moments before she composed herself again. "What do you mean?"

"The living are dead and the dead are all living," he restated in a monotone, his red eyes glossing over like they did when he was growing unreachable again. She slowly turned and left him at the window. She turned on the television, but developments about the end of the war were being broadcasted again. She would hear enough of that at work. In the kitchen, she made breakfast for two but ate alone, and left the other plate on the table next to Gilbert; quietly she bade the living dead farewell and gathered her things for work.

That night was an improvement of sorts. When she asked Gilbert to join her for dinner, he agreed, although they merely sat and ate in silence. But his skeletal form at least consumed some nutrients, and he appeared to be able to recognize and understand her when she asked him to join her for dinner, although she had to use a couple different languages before he stood and followed after her. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with a stare muddled with unclear emotion, but he always seemed to quickly avert his eyes away from hers when she raised her head to look at his red eyes. This continued for a couple weeks before they finally progressed to idle chit-chat about their days, and then the next week were able to talk about happy memories they had together, although she was careful to avoid any triggers that might cause him to fall apart again. But even when he seemed to remember something unpleasant, he would squeeze his eyes shut and then open them again with a smile and a happy time on his lips to tell.

Everyday after dinner, he fell asleep on the couch and she stood and washed the dishes. He had turned on the television and the noise crackled through the house although its supposed watcher could not hear it. One day, she walked into the living room and saw him lying across the couch. His face was so much more peaceful in sleep, she noticed. His white hair fell across his face and the muscles that were usually tense were relaxed. He almost looked like laid-back happy Gilbert from a decade or so ago, just with a slack jaw in place of a grin and closed eyes in place of bright, shining red irises. The brunette moved across the room and hesitantly reached out a hand to stroke his hair. Although they conversed, they hadn't touched each other in months.

"I meant it when I said it, you know," she whispered to his sleeping form quietly as she moved her fingers through his hair. "I know you meant it too, now. I didn't believe you loved me at first, but I know now. Please get better. I love you." She leaned over and pressed a kiss against his forehead. He twitched briefly but did not stir. The television was left on when she left the room; the noise helped him stop the nightmares from coming. Any noise helped him to not wake up screaming in blood-curdling piercing calls of mental agony.

She climbed into her bed and turned off the light. She awoke a few hours later when there was a warm hand on her cheek. She fluttered her eyes open, and in the dim moonlight stood Gilbert, looking down at her. They simply stared at each other for several minutes. Eventually he leaned down and pressed his lips against her forehead.

"Can I stay with you, Lizzie?" he whispered quietly. Her eyes opened wide. Her nickname. Only he called her Lizzie. He remembered her.

"Of course," she answered. Gilbert walked around to the other side of the double bed and lay down beside her. She rolled over to face her, and his hand brushed hers underneath the covers. Impulsively, she held on. He made no move to pull away and closed his eyes. Their breathing fell in even time together and he focused on the sound even after he'd fallen asleep. His subconscious kept Elizaveta's steady rhythmic breathing in his mind, matching his with hers.

For the first time since the dissolution he slept in a sea of blackness that was not plagued with nightmares and did not wake up screaming.

He slept in her bed every night from then on. The nightmares stopped coming, and he no longer stared out the window. He spoke to Elizaveta. His mind sometimes left him, but he was aware of when his mind was threatening to run, and did whatever he could to ground himself.

Eventually this took the form of kissing Elizaveta.

"You keep me here," he explained after a kiss. "Knowing and remembering that you're here and I love you and that you love me stops me from leaving again."

"Kiss me all you want. I don't want you to leave again."

He'd smirked and pecked her lips playfully, much like he did before the war. "I won't."

But sometimes he almost did and even a kiss wouldn't bring him back, but he'd shake out of in a few moments and sheepishly say, "At least the war is over."

And the war was over. And perhaps, in some deluded sense of the word, they'd won. He'd won, because they were still together and he was still alive although Prussia was dead. They'd tried to make him go away completely but they'd failed. He was still here in being if not on a world map. He remembered everyone and every single year of his existence and he was still making more memories.

One day he told Elizaveta he wanted the rest of his memories to be with her for as long as he was still around, and he wanted this to be the first day, the day that began up in their bedroom after the war, him and her, until the world stopped spinning.

And she smiled at him and kissed him firmly, creating his first memory in their bedroom after the war.

Author's Notes:

Inspired by In Our Bedroom After The War by Stars.

I feel like the beginning was stronger than the ending, but I still think it turned out all right! It's a bit weird, since it's almost angsty fluff, but hey, I like it. XD What did you guys think? I'd love some feedback! =D

Historical Notes:

Prussia was annexed into Nazi Germany and technically dissolved as an independent nation, although from 1918-33 Prussia had been a "Free State" in the Weimar Republic (post-WWI Germany, the German Reich prior to the Greater German Reich. The Greater German Reich is often referred to as Hitler's Third Reich). Thus, Prussia had been somewhat previously dissolved. The name Prussia fell completely off the map after the post-WWII Zones of Allied Occupation split Germany into sections. Most of former Prussia was in the USSR-controlled zone until the USSR began to collapse and the Iron Curtain began to be punctured, and was completely away from the USSR realm of influence once the USSR dissolved in 1991.

I read like ten Wikipedia articles and other websites to bring you that summary XD