09.

Gone Like Yesterday

"How long's it been since we actually sailed a nice long voyage across the sea?"

"Not as long as you think."

Denmark and Norway step onto the deck of the moored ship, barely pausing to adjust to the sway. They no longer sail the seas for a living or conquest, but they've never lost their touch.

"Sve, really, I can carry my own-"

"S'okay. 'Ve already got it. Jus' keep an eye on Hanatamago."

"Do you think months of having dog droppings thrown into the ocean will affect the ecosystem?"

"Why do you care, Denmark? It'll only last another few years anyway."

Finland, Sweden and Iceland walk at Norway's heels, their feet echoing across the wooden deck of the ship as they go below to store their belongings.

"You c'n sleep here." Sweden places Finland's belongings gently onto one of the lower bunks. Finland takes a breath, almost as if he might protest the placement, but Sweden tosses his own bags onto the bunk just above and gives Finland a curious stare. Finland closes his mouth.

"Norway, is that your bunk?"

Norway nods. Immediately, both Iceland and Denmark make a move towards the bunk just overhead, nearly colliding. They pause, neither willing to give the other leeway, and get into a minor staring match.

Sweden catches sight of this and digs in his pocket for a coin, which he holds up to them and flips into the air. Iceland calls first, for tails, and the pair watch it until it falls to the deck-cling-with the heads side showing. Iceland grumbles to himself as Sweden retrieves the coin, and Denmark tosses his bags up to the bed above Norway's.

Having done that, Denmark, Norway and Iceland head back above deck, still with many things to do, and their footfalls disappear from the wooden deck. Behind them they leave Finland, looking quietly around the empty cabin, and Sweden, with his hands resting on the smaller Nordic's shoulders.

"You comin'?" Sweden asks lowly.

"Yes," Finland replies. But he leaves Sweden at the door and paces down the bunkroom, counting quietly to himself. He pauses for a moment at the far end, then turns slowly, a full half-turn. Sweden faces him across the long empty room, and Finland comments, "There's going to be an extra bunk."

Sweden nods shortly. "So?"

Finland retraces his steps, quicker this time, as if he doesn't want to be here. He passes Sweden who falls in behind him. "There would have been enough room for Sealand."

They emerge into the clear, cool morning, and Finland heads for dry land again. He's halfway across the gangway when Sweden stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Finland turns his head, but his feet remain in place.

"D'you want 'im t'die here, then?"

Sweden watches Finland breathe, in, out, in, out, as his face slowly, silently crumples. The Swede guides him forward with a hand over his shoulders and looks straight ahead, and listens to Finland speak.

"Of course I don't," the Finn says, shaking his head, pulling his faculties together as best he can. "But at least here we would ..."

And they step off onto the dock.

"I like this boat." Hungary steps lightly from dock to gangway, looking around at the anchored ship. "I won't have any trouble throwing Prussia overboard if he annoys me."

Austria carefully boards behind Hungary, arms and hands full almost to overflowing. He takes a measured breath before speaking, making sure his voice betrays none of the strain of carrying the load. "Don't," he entreats. "It will throw our whole routine out of balance. That's the last thing we want aboard ship."

"If he annoys me," says Hungary matter-of-factly, "he's going over the side." She glances back at her brown-haired companion, who is placing each foot with the delicacy and care of a tightrope walker and whose expression is some odd cross between annoyance and mortal anxiety. She can't help a giggle.

"What?" Austria asks sharply, trying to keep his balance with full arms and the swaying deck beneath him.

Hungary speeds up, quickly disappearing below into the bunkroom. Austria does his level best to follow, allowing his jaw to clench as he makes his way across the deck. He hasn't gotten halfway across before Hungary is suddenly at his side again, relieving him of his burdens.

"Stop that!" he chides her. "I'm fine."

She doesn't listen, and pries his luggage from him with ridiculous ease. "Come on," she says. "We have other things to do too, you know."

He follows, empty-handed, and they enter the bunkroom. He takes a quick glance around: The Nordics have stored their luggage near the door on deck. Farther back, an extraordinarily messy bed is strewn with Hungary's possessions. He hears her put his own things down on the bunk below her own, but he's too distracted to watch her.

Hungary is not obsessively clean like Germany, not by a long shot. But she is rarely this messy, even when she's in a hurry. She's very efficient. She ought to have been able to at least put things down neatly before coming back up.

He voices this concern, simultaneously stepping across to rearrange his own luggage to his liking. "You should keep your bunk more neatly."

She gives him a look. He's used to Hungary's scathing glances, but this one is unusual in its ferocity. He empties his hands and turns fully toward her, in some slight confusion. "What?" he asks, and it comes out clipped and annoyed.

"I'll have plenty of time to straighten it up when we sail." She turns and heads back up on deck, followed by a bewildered, still slightly annoyed Austria.

"It makes you look like Prussia."

Her expression freezes for a moment, as does she. Austria overtakes her and has a few steps head start by the time she finally gets moving again. "What did you say?"

What he said, he begins to realise, was not very clever of him. He widens his stride, searching for a compromise between saving his pride and saving his skin. He is remembering painful fights with Hungary as younger nations: Lots of futility and bleeding and ...

He steps onto the dock. Seconds later, so does Hungary.

"Germania! Germania! Dove sei? Germania!"

Italy is running, speaking rapid-fire Italian and worried clean out of his wits. He half-stumbles onto and across the gangway, adjusting to the sway of the moored ship as he searches for Germany on the empty deck.

The military figure emerges from the bunkroom at his desperate call, just in time to catch Italy's full weight and momentum in his chest. He stumbles backwards slightly, then catches himself. Italy, more unfortunate, lands on his behind and is talking all the way down.

Germany grits his teeth and interrupts the string of babbling words. "Italy! Calm down and get up! What's the matter with you?"

"Germania," wails the little Italian as he scrambles haphazardly to his feet, "Prussia dice-"

"I said, calm down!" Germany interrupts again, aware that the Italian words indicate his annoying fellow hasn't followed the order yet. He waits, slightly impatient, while Italy catches his breath. Once Italy is breathing more normally, Germany quickly steps forward to straighten his rumpled, sea spray-dampened clothing. "Now," he says to a wrinkle-free Italy, "tell me what's going on. Why haven't you loaded your luggage yet? We sail tomorrow morning and we won't wait for you."

"I was going to bring it! But I wanted to come with Prussia."

"Well then, why are you here now?"

"Because," Italy begins, and Germany can already see the nervous little nation riling himself up again, "Prussia isn't coming with us!"

Germany's eyes narrow in annoyance. "Then you should have brought your luggage here anyway. If he doesn't want to come, then he won't come. Go back and get your things." Germany is turning towards the bunkroom before he is even through speaking. Partly, perhaps, it's to hide the surprise on his own face.

From behind him rings Italy's voice. "But Germany!" he calls. "We can't leave him all alone here!"

"We're not leaving forever, you idiot," Germany says through gritted teeth. "We're leaving lots of people behind, and most of them aren't nearly as lazy and slobbish as he is."

"But we'll have an extra bunk," Italy says.

Germany is walking away, wondering why on Earth Italy might care about something like that. "If you really want someone else to come," he tosses over his shoulder, "then go ask. But I want your luggage and the luggage of anyone else you invite on the ship by nightfall."

"Yes sir!" The hollow sound Italy's shod foot rings from the deck of the ship lets Germany know without looking back that Italy is trying his best at a salute. Then the Italian turns and his feet clatter back across the deck, towards the gangway. "I'll go find someone! I promise I'll be back before ..."

He leaps onto the dock. Behind him, still aboard ship, Germany just shakes his head and continues stowing things.

"West, I am way above manual labor, you know. You shouldn't be making me do this."

"You'll live."

Germany is first back onto the gangway, followed at a distance by a long-suffering Prussia, who is carrying one of Germany's smallest duffle bags. Germany himself has his arms full and is taking much more of the burden.

"I shouldn't have to do this," Prussia complains as he walks behind Germany. "I'm not even going. I should be back at the house, gracing whoever's still there with my awesome presence."

"There isn't anyone there," Germany sighs.

"Then the house will get a full blast of awesomeness and be loads better when you get back."

"Bruder," Germany says with a glance over his shoulder, "sei still."

There are a few welcome moments of silence as they stride into the bunkroom and begin to stow the last of Germany's luggage. Then Prussia says, "This trip is going to be so boring without me there to make it great, you know."

Germany growls and turns his head to glower at his brother. "If you must talk," he says, "why don't you tell me why you bothered accepting the invitation if you weren't going to come?"

Prussia shrugs breezily. "I decided I didn't want to make the trip. I can see Canada whenever I want, all on my own."

"France and Spain will be there."

Does that give Prussia pause? Germany stares carefully at his brother's face, looking for any sign of the Prussian's relent.

"That means there's only going to be sissy drinks, then."

It clearly has given no pause at all. Germany glances forlornly up at the darkening sky for a split instant, praying for assistance with his stubborn, self-centered big brother, then looks back to that nation again.

"Italy's coming."

Does he see a change in Prussia's face? Germany knows Prussia holds a soft spot for the little Italian. But he also knows that if Italy hasn't convinced Prussia to go, then he, Germany, probably won't be able to either.

It's worth a try. A harder try than his pride will have him admit. Because maybe he doesn't want Prussia to stay, even though it's only a party, and it probably won't be that long, and he'll be returning soon anyway.

But that's stupid. And even if it weren't, there has been no change in the Prussian's face.

Prussia opens his mouth to speak, and is interrupted just then by a clatter of feet on the gangway and a pair of excitable voices Germany doesn't want to hear.

The one is calling out to him: "Germany! We're back, and we have all our things and it isn't dark yet! Germany?"

And the other is chattering obliviously to Italy as if nobody else is speaking: "There totally hasn't been a good party in, like, forever! ... Oh, no. Is he coming too?"

This last is in reference to Prussia, who straightens up at the insult and faces Poland down. "Hey! Are you talking about the awesome me?" He glowers down at Poland, whom he has a couple of inches on, standing as haughtily as he is. "No," he says, "I'm not coming, because I don't feel like attending something less awesome than me. I'll have my own party and it will be ten times better than the one you're going to."

Poland huffs. "You totally didn't get invited, did you?"

Their argument bores into Germany's head like a very long, sharp nail. He grits his teeth and begins to wonder why in the world he told Italy to just invite anyone. Austria's going to have things to say about this too, he's sure. But Poland and Italy are both loaded down with their luggage, and Italy will probably break down again if he rejects the Italian's guest now.

He's exchanged his slobbish, self-centered brother for the excitable, self-centered Poland, and he's dearly wishing he hadn't.

"You two, just be quiet!" he calls over the rising din of Poland and Prussia's annoyed argument. "Poland, if you're coming, put your things away and get some sleep. We're sailing early in the morning and we won't be held up. Prussia ..." He pauses for a moment, looking at his elder brother, trying to figure out what to say: You're coming with us, no questions, or I'll let you have the run of the house for a week when we get back, or even please.

What he says is, "If you're not coming with us, move out of the way."

And Prussia does, grumbling and complaining and apparently unhurt by the callous remark covering Germany's confusion, and gradually the boat settles down again.

And in the morning, things are busy. The Nordics are the first to arrive: The sailors, the crew, they scurry to ready things to set sail as early as possible. They never have a spare moment for quite a while, and maybe that's a good thing, because it keeps Finland from thinking. Sometimes.

And sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes he'll pause for a moment and wonder about the little lost Sealand, contemplate and stare out across the wide open waves as if he might see the fort where the little nation used to dwell.

In these moments it's Sweden who always comes to his rescue, with a surprisingly gentle hand on the shoulder, a wordless encouragement and prod to work again. His presence never falters over the course of the morning as he guides Finland past those little moments.

And then the passengers begin to arrive.

"... Don't think I want to leave."

"Why not?"

Hungary and Austria board first, talking quietly between them as they cross to an out-of-the-way portion of the deck, looking out into the sea.

It's Hungary who's unsure of herself. Beside her, Austria's face is stern, but his eyes are steady and watch her intently, and she can detect the look in them that other people might not see.

She says, carefully, trying to find the words, "Why should I leave? I've already lost everything else. I don't want to leave my land."

"We're coming back," Austria says matter-of-factly. "It's not forever."

"There's only so much time left," she says.

"Do you want to stay behind?" he asks, and then elaborates when she gives him a confused look. "Right now? Do you want to go home right now and let us sail?"

She looks from sea to land, and even though it isn't hers it's almost as if it's calling to her. Come back to me, for the little time we have left. Why let go what you haven't truly lost yet?

"Hungary?" Austria asks quietly.

"Maybe I do," she says. "There isn't enough time for everything now. For going to North America and for staying here." She holds the railing with one hand and glances across the sea again, imagining the time spent to cross it. The time spent to cross back again. How much will she have after that, with the few remaining people in her land, with the hard-won land itself?

But Austria is going, and there's another timer for her: How much time left to spend with one of the people she loves most in the world? Everything conflicts with everything else, and it all has to do with time, and whatever she does, she's going to lose: Austria, or her homeland, or seeing friends she hasn't seen for years.

"Hungary?"

The soft voice and brown hair are so familiar to her. She can map the curves of the face and the wave of the hair with her eyes shut tight, and will be able to hear the voice in her head even if she goes deaf where she stands. And he's still dearer to her than nearly anything there is.

"I'm coming," she says, slowly, and pushes off the railing with finality. Austria follows silently at her heels as she heads for the bunkroom, dodging Norway, who is engrossed in some frenetic activity of his own.

He watches her stride to her own bed, still messy after yesterday's unfortunate spat. She begins to tidy things up, stow them away in preparation for the voyage. Her shoulders are stiff and she is trying not to think of time any more than she has to.

Austria sits on the edge of her bunk, his back straight and hands folded in his lap. He watches her put things away without moving, and when she's finished she sits quietly beside him. She's breathing with the waves.

And after a few more moments of this, she hears Austria's quiet voice from beside her: "Több is veszett Mohácsnál." His pronunciation is none too good, although she doubts he knows it, and he doesn't look at her as he speaks.

She is always losing. But Austria is reminding her, in his aloof, stern way, that things are not quite as bad as they might have been, as they were.

More was lost at Mohács.

Of course.

"Germany?"

"What, Italy?"

"Is Prussia going to come say goodbye?"

Germany laughs, and it's surprisingly harsh. "No. He's fast asleep back at the house."

"Can I go back to say goodbye?"

Germany looks down at the smaller Italian nation, who's staring into Germany's face with wide, pleading eyes. Germany can understand the look this time. It's too overt for him, and it's far teary than Germany would ever dream of getting, but behind that bright sheen there's just a desire to say goodbye to a good friend before a long voyage. And Germany wants to do that too: A quick handshake or a word of farewell before a long trip across the ocean on which Prussia won't be joining them.

He doesn't understand why it's hitting him so hard. Everybody seems to be saying the same thing: "We're coming back, it won't be forever." He's said it, and he's heard Austria say it, and he caught even Norway saying it to an excited Denmark. But despite all that, despite the repeated reassurances both given and received, he can't shake the feeling of needing to see his brother before he goes.

But he knows there isn't time. Italy's late as it is and they're due to sail very soon. He can already see Poland wandering up towards the docks, the last of their guests to board. There isn't time for him to run from the ship and find his brother and wish him well and be rebuffed by some stupid boast that Prussia didn't need anybody and he would be fine when Germany and Prussia both knew that maybe he wouldn't be as fine as he said. He didn't really have time for all that. Not unless he wanted to stay behind and defeat the whole purpose.

"No," he says to Italy, and the wide sad eyes spill over. Germany's used to this. "We have to leave," he says as the Italian sniffles and wipes his face on his sleeve and Germany tries not to empathise with him. "Are you ready?"

"Y-yes, but-"

"Good. Go tell Poland he needs to hurry, then."

The task gives Italy something to focus on, although his face is still downcast and his eyes overbright. He heads for Poland's distant figure, and Germany leans against the rail and breathes himself calm.

Across the gangway come Italy and Poland, the former still unusually subdued, the latter complaining about how he doesn't really like the sea and if he gets seasick it's going to ruin his entire day. They pass by and head for the bunkrooms, from which direction Germany expects to soon hear the voice of a none too pleased Austria.

They'll sail soon. Till then, all Germany has to do is wait.

His eyes roam the dockside land for something to see, to distract him, and catch on a distant figure hurrying towards the ship. He can't quite make it out, but as it runs nearer, a voice rises above the sounds of the surf. "Hey! Hey, West! I know you can hear me! Are you going to come down and see me or what?"

The loud, brash voice, the nickname, that light hair, are all too indicative, and all too unbelievable.

Germany brushes by Finland on his way off the ship, throwing a hurried apology in his wake as he hurries to meet his older brother on the shore. Prussia, now that Germany has seen him, has not bothered to come any further and is waiting for Germany to approach.

"What are you doing here, Bruder?" calls the younger Germany nation as he walks quickly up. "I thought you weren't coming."

"I'm not," says Prussia. "But I thought you should see me before you go, just to make your day better." He grins, unashamed, and Germany is already shaking his head at his brother's ridiculous folly.

Or maybe it's because the Prussian has actually roused himself at this early hour to come down to the docks and see him off. He doesn't know which bewilders him more.

"What?" Prussia asks. "You should be pleased to see me!"

"No more than usual," Germany says, because he knows Prussia will take the lie the same way he would the truth: By completely ignoring it.

"You should be," scoffs Prussia. Then he adds, motioning with his head towards the ship, "When you get there, make sure to apologise for the awesome me not being there, all right?"

"Of course," Germany agrees, because it's easier than refusing.

Prussia slaps him hard across the shoulder. "Good!" he says. "Now, where's little Italy?"

And so they prepare to sail, the five Nordics and their four passengers, some unsure and some unhappy and some who are just aiming to have fun with the world ever nearer to its end. Finland and Sweden work side by side, silent. Prussia lets Italy give him an enthusiastic goodbye hug, promising their swift return and practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with his excitement. Germany watches, quiet, until Prussia comes over just before leaving to tell him he shouldn't be away long from the greatness that is his elder brother. Iceland has to prod the two brothers aside because they're standing in the way. And just before they sail, Norway shoos two bystanders off the ship: One, Prussia, waves enthusiastically as he leaves them all behind. The other cannot move for several seconds because Poland is handing out his own enthusiastic goodbye, which is an earful of fast-flowing words.

"You should totally come with us!" he's saying, grasping his friend by the arm to preclude any escape. "You'll like it! I bet we have room." He turns to Norway, who's waiting with slight impatience. "Don't we have room?"

"Poland," sighs Lithuania, his arm twisting to try and free itself from the surprisingly strong grip of his Polish friend, "don't bother him about it. I'd rather not come."

"You'll like it!"

"Poland-"

"Come on, you totally need to get out of that house of yours anyway."

"Poland, I have things to do here."

"Important things?"

"Important things."

The Pole's face twists into an annoyed grimace, and he slowly, reluctantly looses his friend. "Fine," he mutters. "But you should come visit!"

"You're coming back," Lithuania reminds him patiently. "I'll see you then."

"You'd better, like, be there to greet us."

"All right."

"Promise?"

Lithuania sighs and, at Norway's silent urging, starts to walk from the gangway. "Promise."

The only people not staring back at the land as they leave are the Nordics, who are sailing the ship away. Everyone else is gathered at the rail, eyes focused on their own specific portions of the land and the people standing on it. Prussia is still waving from the shore, staying in sight as long as he possibly can. Lithuania returns Poland's own last goodbye wave, but then he turns and begins to walk briskly from the docks. Poland continues waving anyway, until he realises he and Prussia are the only two left waving, at which point he quickly drops his hand and just watches. Beside him stands Hungary, and on her other side Austria. The pair of them are silent, both watching the coastline recede slowly into the distance, one's thoughts full of time and the other's full wondering how he can make her forget about it.

It's impossible to say any of them are truly happy, and it's impossible to say any of them are truly sad. They're going to meet friends. They're going to attend a party. And they're leaving friends behind, and the entire world is ending, and they each have their own personal woes and worries. They've lost things, some they'll get back and some they won't. They're either very happy for people doomed to die, or very subdued for people on their way to food and conversation and seeing old friends. It's very difficult to tell which.

End notes:

- This is a weird chapter, and I think it's partly because I was in much too good a mood when I wrote it. I didn't intend it to have humor, fluff, the Nordics, Poland or Lithuania in it at all. I think it got rather out of hand. So I'd like to know what you think: Was the humor out of place? Was the angst? Was the characterisation off, because I know very little about most of these characters?

- The Italian Italy uses in his conversation with Germany ("Germania! Germania! Dove sei? Germania!") translates to "Germany! Germany! Where are you, Germany?" Later on, "Prussia dice-" just translates to "Prussia said-". If my Italian is wrong, please correct me.

- "Sei still" simply means "be quiet" in German.

- "Több is veszett Mohácsnál," as far as I can tell, basically means something along the lines of "it could be worse" or "don't cry over spilt milk." It means "More was lost at Mohács" and refers to a battle fought between Hungarian and Ottoman forces in 1526, during which the Hungarians were badly defeated and which led to the collapse of Hungary as an independent country until 1918.