A/N: this chapter contains violence.

Prussia shoved back from his desk and stood. His eyes burned with fatigue and his fingers itched, and though he could remember doing this type of work since the days when he'd been dragged from his horse and taught to read and write, he couldn't ever remember it being this fucking miserable.

The air stirred, disturbing the pile of papers neatly arranged at the edge of his desk. Before he could slap a hand down on the heap of printed out graphs and charts, they were in motion, crisp white sheets beating like wings as the small stack broke apart and scattered across the hardwood floor.

He bit back a groan and a curse, and settled for baring his teeth at the mess on the floor. Unlike a proper enemy, the paper didn't flinch, and for some reason he couldn't put his finger on, that pissed him off even more.

Great, he was ready to battle paper now. If that wasn't a sign he needed to get the hell out of here, Prussia didn't know what was.

It irked him to leave the mess, but he needed to get fresh air before he screamed. Fresh air and open space. Then he would come back, pick everything up, and sort the stupid, useless papers. And stare at the little columns of numbers until either his eyes started bleeding or he finished, whichever came first.

Decision made, he turned crisply on one heel and crossed the length of the room.

"Where are you going?"

The question rang out from the other end of their home office, where West was diligently merging their reports into a coherent whole that they would present at the next world meeting. His overstuffed leather chair swiveled, revealing eyes narrowed behind delicate frames and lips pressed together in a short line.

It put his back to the window and Prussia spared a moment to wonder how the blatant exposure didn't make his brother's skin crawl. Prussia's own desk was nestled off to the side in one of the room's shadowed corners, lit by a very old fashioned desk lamp that he could almost pretend was candlelight. The tight space wouldn't accommodate the type of monstrously large desk that West preferred, but Prussia liked that he could see the whole room when he turned around, with two sturdy walls at his back.

Prussia glanced over and flashed a smile full of teeth. "Out," he responded, voice clipped. "Need to stretch my legs. We've been sitting here for—" Prussia glanced at his wrist; it read three in the morning, "—shit, for way too long. Lay off."

Lips that were already set in a stern line turned downwards. "The floor is a mess."

"Yeah, I noticed."

West didn't relent. "And you haven't finished your work yet."

"You want a medal for those observations? That's why it's called a break. What are you, my fucking jailor?"

A muscle twitched at the back of West's jaw, and his hands dug into his slacks where they sat atop his thighs. "Your jailor?" After a moment, he pushed himself to his feet and approached Prussia with heavy, measured strides.

Prussia's own hands clenched as West breached his personal space to loom over him.

"Your jailor?" West repeated, as if tasting the words on his tongue. "You'd like that wouldn't you. It would give you an excuse to act like a petulant child." His eyes narrowed in familiar disdain.

Prussia wanted to punch the stupid expression right off his stupid face.

Instead, he put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, a caricature of unimpressed. "Taking breaks is childish? Then maybe the kids have the right idea. Not all of us get off on paperwork, you know. Some of us need to break the monotony." He paused and tilted his head. "You used to love going outside to play."

For an instant, Prussia thought he saw a faded smile before West's expression snapped closed. He took off his reading glasses, tucking them into the top of the button-down shirt he was wearing. "To train, you mean. What you used to put me through couldn't be considered playing by any definition."

"Whatever. You still liked it."

"I didn't know any better." West's eyes flicked sideways to Prussia's desk before continuing. "Enough of that. We're talking about now. What we're doing here is important. Just because it doesn't meet your idea of fun doesn't make it less so."

Prussia seethed. It wasn't about fun. It was about how no one listened anymore. Used to be, he could march into the private chambers of whoever was running the place, and they'd make time for him. They'd listen to him. Now it was all meetings and scheduled telephone calls and fucking power point and Prussia hated it.

He preferred to solve his problems by throwing an army at anything in his way, but he was in the minority on that these days. Stupid modern bureaucracies; Prussia was made for war, not paperwork. On top of that, it was a slap in the face how easily his brother had taken to the new system. Prussia was supposed to be the one who loved new things.

Feeling every bit his age, he sighed and said, "It's all useless shit anyway. Has been for decades but you're too blind to see it."

"That's not true. Just because we use words not weapons doesn't make it any less important."

Prussia fought the urge to roll his eyes. Stubbornness was more a way of life than a personality trait, but he knew West well enough to know when an argument wasn't going anywhere, and he didn't feel like engaging in the verbal equivalent of smashing his head repeatedly against a concrete wall.

He turned and walked away, but didn't get far before West's next words stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't be too long. We need to work together if we're going to finish on time for the conference."

Prussia felt a throbbing in his hands, still thrust deep in his pockets, and realized they were balled so tight that his nails were digging into skin. He forced himself to breathe deeply, unballing his fists and letting them hang loosely at his sides. Slowly, he turned around to face his brother.

"Together?" Prussia let out a bark of laughter. "That's a joke. You lead the meetings. You represent us to the EU and the rest of them. You make all the final decisions! If that's your idea of a partnership, your head's been fucked over worse than I thought."

"If you actually did the work assigned to you, I wouldn't have to take it up and present it."

"Assigned! You arrogant little shit."

West straightened and fixed him with a stern look. It was the same holier-than-thou stare that used to rub Prussia the wrong way, even back in the days when West was a mop-headed little runt of a kid who barely reached his knees.

"I asked you to work on the areas that used to be yours. I thought that was what you wanted."

Prussia took a step forward. "What about Berlin? I know this city better than anyone."

"I have Berlin under control. Your assistance isn't necessary."

He'd grown used to the city's muted presence in his mind, but Prussia suddenly missed the way it used to course through him, leaving the hum of his people in its wake with every beat of his heart. Another step forward put him back within arm's reach. "I can still help."

A hint of exasperation broke through as West brought a hand up to rub at his temple. "I said it's taken care of. Focus on the east and let me do my work."

Considering the nickname he'd long since bestowed on his younger brother, it shouldn't have stung. But it did. It felt like being forgotten and it hurt and Prussia lashed out, the missing parts of himself fresh and raw in his mind.

"Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare! Berlin was mine first—my city and my capital and my home—and you don't get to pretend it never happened." Prussia blinked several times, fighting to push back the tide of rage and memories. It didn't work, and before he could give himself away he spun on his heel and marched from the room.

A hand caught his shoulder and whirled him around. The last threads of his control snapped, and Prussia did the first thing that came to mind.

He slammed his fist right into that stupid face.

A satisfying crunch echoed around the room, and Prussia could feel bone and cartilage give way under his hand. Time seemed to come to a screeching halt until there was nothing but the burning of his knuckles and his own panting breath roaring in his ears.

The dreamlike state broke as West stumbled backwards, hands flying to his nose, eyes wide and watering in what Prussia knew was more a physical reaction than a response to the pain itself. Blood seeped through his fingers, and for a moment, Prussia felt a little bit bad.

Then West launched himself forward, catching him off-guard and slamming an answering fist deep into his stomach.

Prussia folded in on himself, gasping and heaving. Not stopping to catch his breath, he clenched his eyes shut and threw himself forward.

The impacts came fast. His head into West's torso. The body-wide jolt as the nearby wall brought them both to a sudden stop. Prussia's head rang, but he shook if off. "Fuck," he muttered, getting his bearings. "Fuck, you little shit."

A knee raced towards his chest, and Prussia blocked with both hands and shoved. Dragging a shallow gasp of air back into his lungs, he ignored the clamors of his body, and slammed both fists into West's sides. Fuck, it felt good to hit something!

Hands tried to push him away, but Prussia ignored it, shoving his head harder into West's stomach to keep him pinned to the wall . A pained groan reached his ears and spurred him on, fists never relenting in their assault.

It all came to a crashing halt when something solid drove into his back, driving the air from his lungs.

Prussia hit the floor chest first, forehead and nose smacking into the ground. He blindly reached out with both hands, grabbing what had to be West's leg, and pulling.

It wasn't enough to knock his brother off balance – damn his stupid height and solid build—but Prussia instantly adapted. He tightened his grip and dragged his body forward. When he was close enough, he sank his teeth into the muscle of West's calf through his slacks.

A howl came from above him and Prussia grinned savagely through the mouthful of fabric, biting down again in the same spot as the initial scream petered out into smaller grunts of pain.

Motion flickered at the edge of his vision, and a foot buried itself in his side. Prussia's hands went slack without his permission. Before he could move, another savage blow rained down. His breath hitched, and through the roar in his ears and West's shouts above him, he thought he heard the cracking of ribs in time with a third kick at his undefended torso.

Shit, that was going to hurt later.

With effort, Prussia got his knees under him and levered himself up. He'd taken far worse on the battlefield; fighting though pain was no big deal. Another kick blurred towards him and without looking, he grabbed it and twisted. His other hand flew out in a punch straight at West's groin.

It was a dirty move, and worked exactly as intended. West let out a strangled gasp and froze in place.

Taking advantage of the lull, Prussia wrapped both arms around his brother's knees and launched himself backwards, rolling at the last moment so he wouldn't be crushed. He scrambled to his knees and straddled West's back.

West thrashed, throwing his head back in a poorly executed attempt at a headbutt.

Grabbing hold of the gelled blonde hair, Prussia slammed his face into the ground. With West's already broken nose, it had to hurt, but he didn't care. "Stop fucking fighting me!" he yelled.

West stopped moving, dazed, and Prussia used the precious moments until the next attack to unbuckle his own belt.

The hiss of leather racing across fabric set West struggling again, but it was too late. Prussia wrenched both his wrists behind him, and wrapped the belt around them several times before pulling it tight and fastening the buckle. There. It would be a lot harder for West to attack him without his hands.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" West shouted. But he didn't try to attack again, or make any useless attempts to get free, so Prussia knew he'd won this one. "Let me go," West tried again, breathing deeply in what had to be a combination of rage, pain, and exhaustion.

His voice was rough and a clear warning, which Prussia blithely ignored. "Me? You started it."

West squirmed beneath him, trying to twist around and glare at Prussia. It didn't work, but it did give Prussia a better view of his spectacularly bloodied nose.

"I started it? I tried to stop you from storming out like a child. That is not starting it."

Prussia slapped his free hand down on the floor and twisted his fingers tighter into West's hair, pulling his head back until he could speak directly into his brother's ear.

"I'm not a child. Stop calling me that. Stop treating me like one. I fucking raised you. I raised you and I trained you and I created you, and all I get these days is ridicule." He paused. "I've always wondered. What did I do to lose your respect that badly?"

Beneath him, West startled, head straining to get enough distance between them to look him in the eye.

Prussia let him, curious to see which of his brother's many glares he was the recipient of this time. He was surprised to not find the expected furious glower, but instead a shuttered, unreadable expression.

"Well," Prussia demanded, impatient now. "Tell me!"

"Nothing." West's expression turned to stone. "You did nothing. You haven't changed since we met. I'm the one that grew up."

Prussia took a breath, but all he could muster was a sneer and a terse, "Well good for you. All grown up now."

"I—"

"Shut up," Prussia cut him off, voice turning cold. "You're always the one talking. You're always…" He trailed off as a wave of dizziness swept through him, the edges of his vision going blurry. Pushing past it, he started up again. "You're always the one—"

The world fell away.

A lance of fire shot through Prussia's chest as he crashed into the ground, jolting him back to awareness. It took him a moment to realize he'd slid off West's back and onto the floor. He tried to sit back up, and bit back a cry at the unexpected pain. He didn't try again. Without the adrenaline from the fight to keep him going, the extent of his injuries roared to life. His ribs were definitely cracked. Maybe more than that, he conceded, as his vision went from blurry to dark. Internal damage wasn't enough to kill a nation, even a former one, but it hurt like fuck and he hated being incapacitated.

A vile string of curses was on the tip of his tongue, but his brain had other ideas and what came out was, "I gave you everything, and you threw me away."

Fuck, that wasn't what he wanted to say. He didn't have much time to be mortified, and all remaining thought was blotted out by the nausea that clawed up his stomach and into his throat. Shit, West sure could kick.

Moving hurt, but Prussia managed to roll onto his less injured side where he stayed, curled up and struggling to breathe. Flicking his eyes over, he could barely make out the form of his brother sitting up in stiff, jerking motions. Even to Prussia's weak vision it was clear he hadn't been able to free his arms.

"This is pathetic," Prussia mumbled.

He was startled to get a response, the sardonic tones of, "In that, we're in agreement," floating to his ears.

The world slid out of focus, and when it came back, there was a hand reaching over his body and into his back pocket. Prussia jerked, trying and failing to roll away out of reach. He immediately wished he hadn't, fists clenched tight against the fresh wave of agony rolling through him at the movement.

"Stop moving, you idiot." West again, sitting with his back towards Prussia and at least that explained the hands.

Prussia didn't need to be told twice. He felt, rather than saw, the mobile phone plucked from his pocket; heard the sounds of a familiar number being dialed.

"What the fuck," he managed to get out. "We don't need a hospital."

"Shut up," West responded. "Yes we do. You can't even move, and I—" he squeezed his eyes shut while he took several measured breaths, "—I could use one too."

Prussia recognized that expression. It was the one West used when he didn't want anyone to know he was in pain. He didn't remember getting in a hit that would cause his brother to be that bad off. Maybe he shoved West against that wall harder than he'd thought.

That line of thinking was derailed by a familiar clench in Prussia's chest, one that had nothing to do with his injuries, and he was surprised to recognize the old worry that rose up in his mind. It was a feeling he'd thought long since buried.

"West, you okay?" he asked, the words slipping out unthinkingly.

Another controlled breath and a shaky, "Fine," was the answer, and Prussia knew enough to know that that didn't mean fine at all.

West would be okay, Prussia knew (it took more than a fist fight to kill a nation) but that didn't stop the twisting in his gut as he watched his brother lose the battle to stay upright.

Lying on the floor in front of Prussia, West looked younger, more like the little boy who used to idolize him than the hard-eyed adult he'd grown into, and Prussia's hand moved of its own volition, sweeping a stray piece of blonde hair from where it had fallen out of its severe style and into West's face.

West closed his eyes and turned his face away.

Prussia took the hint and let his hand drop to the floor.

Something was nagging at the back of his mind. Something that he should be doing. Clothing, pants, a belt, maybe? Something. But he was tired and fuzzy and didn't feel like thinking.

So he didn't, and his eyes slipped shut.