Author Notes:

-This is just something random I came up with.

-No, I do not support (not really) the Russia/Prussia as a pairing, even if I read a lot of RuPru stuff...

-Yes, I make Russia out to be the "bad guy" in which he's not nice to Prussia. Okay? Enough warning? You get it yet?

-Also: "boo facts! Boo reality!" (I did some research but I got confused and just said 'aw screw it') But, no, I really did try; some of it is headcanon, some of it is facts, some of it is me just being creative.

-I listened to "Einsamkeit" by Prussia and the duet by both German brothers (which can be found on youtube) while writing this; it definitely set the mood.

Warning:

-This is not a pairing fic. Please don't bite my head off.

-Mention of rape (not detailed), torture, and possibly OOC characters. If you see it that way.

~!~

Chirp for Me, My Little Bird

~!~

It was cold.

Of course it was cold. It was always cold. He would never get away from the fucking cold.

Though it was better than the basement. Even he had to admit that much. Even though he wasn't sure what the move meant. Was he breaking? Was he accepting it? He was pretty sure it had been a few years since he'd first been brought to Russia's house, but he still wasn't sure what year it was exactly. So he had no idea how much time had passed, no idea what game Russia was playing.

He'd been given a room somewhere in the upstairs of the big house. Chained to the bed, yes. Given a leash and collar get up that still pissed him off, yes. But in a room. And with enough length in the chains to allow him to move around freely. Well, freely enough. He could hang outside the doorway and walk down the hallway a few steps, but he had quickly learned that leaving the room was a bad idea.

Still. It was better than the basement.

Things were boring as hell to the point that he found himself almost waiting for Russia's visits. Waiting expectantly. Like he enjoyed them or something.

Yeah, he was definitely going insane.

Thankfully, he'd managed to get his hands on an empty journal. The Latvia kid may have trembled a lot, as if he was always scared of something – not that Prussia could really blame him after living here for so long – but he had jumped at the offhanded request when Prussia had expressed a want, a need to write things down. So the little blue journal – which was perfect really; it could almost fit right in to the collection he knew still sat in Germany's house – became his escape from the boredom and a tool anytime he needed an outlet.

Currently, he was not writing in the journal, though it sat on the desk next to the closed door. He was sitting on the bed with his back to the door, staring out the window on the opposite side of the room. He couldn't see anything but snow, but he could imagine. He let his thoughts drift. He could think and wonder and worry about his brother, hoping that life was better under the Allies than it was under Russia. Hell, he knew it would be. They would be assholes, for sure, demanding reparations for the war that Germany would be struggling to pay back, but he was pretty sure West wasn't trapped in a house and chained to a bed.

That was the whole reason he had taken the blame. Prussia should have disappeared when the official dissolution of his nation was passed, but he stayed and lived on as East Germany, trapping himself under Russia's roof – a part of him knowing all along what would happen and gladly taking the place of his brother.

"Prussiyah, you are awake, da?"

He tensed at the voice, feeling his breath catch in his throat, and then annoyed at himself for reacting like that just because Ivan was now in the room. He could sense the larger nation behind him now at the entrance and slowly moving closer until the hovering presence was standing next to him beside the bed.

Prussia caught a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye and turned his head to look before he could hold the urge back. In that instant, he forgot how to breathe, and for just a moment he forgot where he was. A flute case, opened and revealing a very old, very special flute.

"You know how to play, da?"

The voice brought him back with a crash and instead of answering the question, he snapped. "Why the hell do you have that?"

Old Fritz...

When Prussia started reaching up to grab the flute from the Russian's tainted hands, Ivan stepped back and pulled away. "I found it. In your ruins. You do know how to play."

"No, I don't!" Gilbert snapped, rushing to his feet, feeling the wounds on his body flare up in sudden and intense pain, screaming at him for moving so quickly. He had to sit back on the bed, groaning but lifting his head to glare at the smiling Russian.

Ivan stared back at him, face a mask so impossible to read. Violet eyes blinked once and then he frowned. "You are lying to me, little bird."

Prussia felt his body tense again, but at the pet name or the dark tone he couldn't tell. Ivan moved forward until he was leaning over Gilbert, one hand reaching out to touch his face, the other precariously balancing the open flute case. Prussia clenched his hands in the sheets, wanting more than anything to punch the Russian, to beat him the way he had been beaten, to take out all his anger and frustration at the man he hated more than anything, but –

His eyes seemed captured by the flute, wincing at the way it seemed to tilt to one side like it was about to fall. If he attacked Ivan now, the flute would fall and he had no guarantee that he would be able to save it before it hit the floor. Ivan was keeping it so far out of reach, too.

His mind pulled him back to focus on the Russian when Ivan spoke again. "If you fight me, I will drop it. I don't think you want that, so do as I say, da?"

Before he could even voice a complaint, Ivan actually kissed him. And he couldn't move. His eyes widened, his arms started to shake in rage, and he wanted nothing more than to bite the invading tongue when it entered, but the threat had been made. And he would die before he let someone break Fritz's flute.

Gott verdamt! I can't do anything. I can't do anything. I can't-

A gasp escaped him when a hand ran its way down his chest and poked into his pants. Instantly, he started pushing back, pulling away – lifting a foot to push at Ivan, trying to force him back. "Fuck you, no!"

With a frown, Ivan brought the flute closer. He looked as if he were about to say something and then changed his mind. "So, you will play for me, da?" He asked, standing back up to his full height and looking down at the panting albino beneath him.

Gilbert glared up at him, full of seething hatred as he readied his response. "I told you, I don't -" It must have been something in Russia's eyes, or something in the twitching fingers, or maybe the case really did tilt sideways as if to dump the flute out of its safe haven. With a curse, Prussia hung his head and gave in. "Fine. I'll play."

Russia laughed, closing the flute case with a snap and then petting Prussia's hair like he was some kind of dog. It pissed him off. "Good boy." And that pissed him off more, but he held his tongue, even if he had to bite the inside of his cheek to swallow the raging comments. Fritz, he has your flute; I can't do anything 'cause he has your flute.

When Ivan finally stopped petting his hair and moved away, Prussia lifted his head to look up at him, trying to keep his eyes from showing his defeat. He watched as Ivan set the flute case on the desk along with a sheet of paper. "My boss is visiting tomorrow. You will play the Soviet National Anthem for us."

There was no question to that. Just a statement. An order.

Which, of course, Prussia growled at. "I don't know the fucking-"

"That is why I am leaving the music for you, da? You have remarkable determination; I am sure you can learn it in a day."

It was a veiled threat, a threat behind a compliment of all things. Prussia found himself narrowing his eyes and meeting that gaze with a glare, something none of the other satellite states could do, something that usually got him into trouble. Ivan was not fond of defiance. But Prussia was stupidly stubborn, beyond defiant when all he could think of when he saw Russia was hatred. How much he hated the communist nation – though technically he supposed he was communist now, too.

"I'm not playing your communist bullshit," he spat. Whatever his own government was now, he didn't care; he would not taint Fritz's flute with such music.

Without a word, Ivan made his way back to Prussia's side, the violet eyes closing as he smiled, but that was most definitely the thin smile that made Gilbert shiver. He knew he was in trouble before the blow even hit him. The iron pipe materialized out of the long coat and slammed down into his bootless foot. He clenched his teeth and hissed between them, fighting the scream with all his being, leaning forward instinctively at the pain. A hand gripped his hair and pulled his head back and then another blow came – straight in the gut, making him want to curl in on himself but also leaving him out of breath.

There were more attacks, naturally. Ivan was never finished quickly once enraged. Through the haze of pain, Gilbert eventually realized the shackles on his wrists had been connected to the bed's headboard, and he was lying on his back with his arms above him, exposing everything. He was shirtless, Ivan was above him, and he did not want to think any further than that.

"I could break your fingers." Russia murmured, voice right at his ear. "So you would never play again."

Eyes widening, Prussia had to fight back the panic. He started breathing faster, trying to think up the most smartass remark he could make that would also make Ivan back off. After all, breaks can heal – as long as they heal properly, I can always play.

He almost said as much but then he felt Ivan's fingers on his own, stretching them, toying with them. His breath caught in his throat and he shut his eyes, fighting the scared whimper. Let him break them. They'll heal eventually and he loses the chance to make me play for him. It'd be better if he broke them now and left me alone.

"Still not enough?" Russia said. The sound of a pocket knife being snapped free made him open his eyes and glance upwards as if he could see what the commie bastard was doing above him. "I can cut them off completely – and then melt the flute down to make it useful."

"No!" The shout escaped his lips before he could stop it. "Please, no!" The very idea of losing Old Fritz's flute forever hurt worse than the thought of losing his fingers. He saw Russia smile out of the corner of his eye and cursed the man for everything he was worth, closing his eyes as if he could escape the shame of giving in. "I'll do it. I'll fucking play your fucking song."

His fingers were released and the next thing he felt was Russia's fingers on his chest and stomach, making circles and other designs. "Good boy," Ivan said, making Gilbert clench his teeth and shut his eyes tightly when he realized that Russia was petting him like a dog.

Go away. Go away. Just fucking go away! I gave in and said I'd do it so leave me alone!

"You will love me back one day soon, I think," Ivan cooed, his hand moving lower to sneak under the waistband of Prussia's pants.

Fucking hell, leave me alone! You fucking insane bastard!

He was bleeding and he hurt all over. He knew he was starting to break down; it was obvious now. Russia was taking everything from him. He'd thought he'd at least have the old memories to fall back on in his mind, but even those were being tainted by Ivan's touch. Now Ivan had leverage over him, something physical that he could threaten to destroy, and Gilbert knew it was the beginning of his undoing.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

And to make it worse, the damn bastard had to start forcing other even more personal things on him, light feathery touches that made him squirm. Even as he fought to get free, arms trembling in their awkward somewhat painful position, he had to listen to Ivan whispering gently to him, telling him he needed this, telling him it would be okay if he would only relax and accept it.

Fucking bi-polar insane bastard; I swear I'll kill him one day.

One day...

~!~

Latvia was the first one in his room the next day, carrying a tray of breakfast foods, as usual minus the fact that he was super early. Gilbert opened his eyes at the sound of the tray hitting the desk rather loudly, coming awake with aches and pains to remind him of last night. He groaned, closing his eyes again when he realized his arms were still trapped above him...and he felt sticky...and cold as hell. Besides the fact that hell wasn't supposed to be cold.

"Gilbert?" Raivis whispered, his voice indicating he was standing beside the bed, and using his human name instead of his nation name; everyone else in this house refused to call him Prussia, because technically Prussia was no more, but they wouldn't call him by East Germany or the German Democratic Republic, either, because they seemed to recognize how much he hated the idea of being a part of Russia's Soviet Union.

He groaned and opened his eyes as a response, staring up at the ceiling, not wanting to look the boy in the face right now, too ashamed to even ask for help. I have to play that song today and I haven't even seen the music yet...

"Are you – Do you want – Uhm -" Stuttering and mumbling as always, Latvia seemed as uncomfortable by Prussia's condition as Prussia himself did.

Gilbert sighed, closing his eyelids slowly as if he could disappear just as easily as he could make the world disappear from view. "Just unhook me."

"Ah – uhm – yes – yes, I can do that." Raivis said, getting Prussia free rather quickly. "Actually, R-Russia sent me with a dress uniform for you – to wear for the performance today, he said."

Prussia grunted as he was set free of the shackles, rubbing his raw wrists, enjoying the no doubt little time he would have to be free of the chains. Moving his arms felt painfully wonderful and he could only breathe in relief when he saw that, yes, he was still decently clothed, even if his shirt was lying crumpled on the floor, and everything else was matted in blood. He grimaced at the pain as he sat up, mostly because things that normally would have healed much faster were taking forever because whatever-country-he-was-now was in bad shape.

"Ah – I brought some breakfast for you," Latvia mumbled from beside the bed, eyes wide and obviously afraid to ask what had happened – or maybe he knew what happened and he was afraid that Prussia would start throwing things in his usual frustrated anger.

Without looking at the kid, Gilbert made himself get up and basically stumble his way over to the desk, plopping down in the chair as soon as he could. He noted the different but obviously German influenced military dress uniform draped over the chair, and he kept himself from leaning back in the chair for the sole purpose of not getting blood on the uniform. It wasn't a gesture to please Russia so much as a gesture to always keep his military uniforms as neat as possible. A weird habit when West was the OCD one.

He pulled the breakfast tray to one side and started eating off of it, feeling famished and finding Raivis' food to be quite satisfying. Something else was occupying his thoughts though. Reaching out with his other hand, he pulled out the paper Ivan had set down last night. He let out a great big sigh of relief when he discovered that the damnable Soviet anthem wouldn't be too difficult to pick up.

Not that he was actually going to play it when the time came, but it wouldn't be a bad thing to have at the ready.

"Gil?" At the familiar female voice, he frowned, looking up to see Hungary hanging in his doorway.

What is she doing walking freely around the house? She should be just as stubborn and defiant as I am. Or is Russia just giving me all the special attention?

Ignoring his glare, she came into the room and stepped over to the desk, interrupting his breakfast and snatching a piece of the bread stuff for herself, much to his chagrin. "What's this?" She asked, brow furrowing as she read the sheet music in his hand. "Isn't that the Soviet National Anthem? Why do you -"

"I'm playing it."

"Why would you-"

"No choice."

She didn't press further, for which he was thankful. She didn't toss him the pity card, either, for which he was doubly thankful. Even if they had an interesting childhood – friends, sweethearts, enemies, whatever they were – the two of them knew each other well enough to know what was important and what was better left unsaid.

Kind of like the same reason he didn't bring up her apparent free state as opposed to his own collared-like-a-pet state. If she had given in early, then it was her business. After all, Gilbert was discovering for himself the little ways Ivan could get to people, the little things he knew that could twist and break you, all in the name of his insane sense of love and growing his family.

After a moment of awkward silence between them, she sighed and turned away. "Good luck," she said before leaving the room.

A word of encouragement for whatever daring act of defiance he planned to do today. Hah! She really did know him. It was all he needed to be ready for the day. Yes, he would learn the damnable anthem. Yes, he would play for Russia and his boss. No, he would not do it with an obedient bow. And, yes, he was going to get himself into trouble again.

But so be it.

~!~

Russia was glaring daggers at him. He could feel it, but he didn't care. He hadn't been specifically asked to play the Soviet National Anthem. He'd just been told to "play something."

So of course he decided to play them a flute melody version of the Prussian National Anthem.

He wondered if Russia's boss would even recognize it. Or if he would care. It would be hilarious to watch Ivan get berated by his boss; in fact, he wanted to see it so badly he was pushing his own luck.

Sadly, though, the song ended without a problem, and he lowered the flute with a resigned look on his face, though he was quite sure that his eyes were sparkling in laughter because Ivan looked so mad. In the silence, he stared right back at those angry violet eyes, putting the flute in his lap and leaning back against the chair he'd been allowed to sit in because of his injured foot. A grin spread on his face as he kicked back and waited for the human's comments.

As the awkward silence wrapped the air, Latvia – poor kid – chose this moment to enter from the door, a tray set with two cups of tea. No one looked up at him as he set the drinks out. Gilbert and Ivan were locked in a staring contest and Russia's boss barely gave any recognition to the boy.

The human did finally say something, though, after taking a drink. "Wonderfully played, but I'm afraid I don't know that tune." He turned to Russia, and Gilbert saw a strange, almost malicious glare from the nation's boss– even if he only saw it out of the corner of his eye because he was a little focused on Ivan. "But does he know anything Russian?"

Prussia felt the smirk spread across his face freely now and he leaned back in his chair, two of the chair's legs sticking up slightly. So, he was a little annoyed at not being asked the question directly, but the look on Ivan's face was priceless – and worth it. Until the Russian nation stood up, scarf sliding along the table, and he smiled.

And it was that smile. "It seems I must have a few moments to talk with him."

The boss man nodded, but Prussia hardly registered the mortal, hastily letting his chair fall back to having four legs on the ground. Ivan rushed by him without a word, snatching the leash to the collar and forcing him to follow. He kept the flute in his hand, and then realized that was a dumb idea the minute Russia stole it from him.

Once outside the room, he was shoved up against the wall, releasing a surprised yelp, and the flute was shoved into his mouth, forcing tears from his eyes as he fought not to gag. The hand on his leash tugged, pulling his neck and head down, making the flute scrape against the roof of his mouth, causing him to gag whether he wanted to or not, a trail of spittle leaking down his chin. And all he could think was Gott, please don't let the flute be ruined.

"Normally the expression is 'I will make you eat your words,'" Russia said, his voice calm and quiet and so meticulously pronounced that it sent shivers down his spine. "But I think I will change that to 'make you eat your music.' You understand, da?"

He didn't realize what his own hands were doing – shackled as they were – until he felt another tug on the leash and he almost lost his balance and fell completely forward. Then he could tell that he had a grip around one of Ivan's arms, as if he were trying to twist himself free from the Russian's clutches. Of course it wasn't working or having any effect whatsoever.

He choked at the forward tug this time and tears freely escaped as he breathed through his nose and prayed to everything he could think of – any god or luck or fate or anything – that Old Fritz's flute was okay even with it being shoved down his throat like this. "I said, do you understand?" Ivan repeated, his voice entering an even more dangerous level.

Seeing as he couldn't exactly talk with a musical instrument in his mouth, Prussia did what he could to nod, feeling his head bobbing around the flute, making his face heat at the lewd mental image it gave him, no matter how inappropriate it was for this moment. Finally Ivan pulled the flute out and tugged on the leash just enough to make Prussia fall to his knees, hand clutching the part of his throat that wasn't covered by the metal collar as he coughed and fought to breathe through his mouth again.

Russia put a hand on his head, fingers clutching at the white hair, pulling at it, making him cringe in pain even as he continued to fight for breath. "You will recover here, and then you will go back in there and play the music I gave you."

There was no question. No "do you understand?" No"da?" It was a simple statement of fact. An order.

To which Prussia found himself nodding, knowing another part of him had been snatched away even as he did so. "Good boy." This time, Russia's voice sounded sweet and the fingers in his hair changed from pulling to soothing.

But even so, he winced.

The flute was placed gently on the floor in front of him and it looked to be okay at first glance – soaked in spit and a little blood but otherwise okay. Prussia rubbed at his throat and coughed but he managed a good breath. And then another one. But the next words from Russia made his heart skip a beat.

"Don't make us wait, Prussiya. I do love to hear my little bird chirping so beautifully even in the middle of winter, da?"

He grimaced and fought the urge to scream or rail against the nickname. Instead, he reached out for the flute and started to clean it against his new military dress uniform – the uniform of the German Democratic Republic. As he cleaned the instrument and checked it for anything out of place, he could almost feel the cracks forming in his symbolic stubborn wall. He was breaking. He could feel it.

And he hated himself for it.

~!~

A/N: Okay I'm going to go cry now. The idea hit a long time ago. When I sat down to write it, it was rough at first and then characters completely took over. To the point where I felt like I was watching it happen more than I was creating it. My sister can attest to this: I pulled my hands from the keyboard and put my hand over my mouth or gasped or had to stop several times and breathe.

On another note, I really feel like I'll get flames for making Russia an asshole (I've come across so many rants about it that I almost feel bad for doing it). Problem is, my view of the character personalities works like that, and I can't see Russia as a nice person during this specific period of time. (Maybe that's cause I'm American and we're all taught that Russians are scary and evil? I don't know. Maybe?)

After writing it and re-reading it, I feel more confident about Prussia's character, too, but still ~ The biggest thing I worry about is flames about OOC-ness. Which may be weird, but characters are so important to me.

I have no idea if Latvia is right. (And, yes, I used Latvia and not Lithuania because...well, honestly, the character insisted...but that's such a lame reason, no one would believe me).

I think for the little we see Hungary, I like her. She comes in, is very straight and to the point, and leaves without any kind of affection besides, well, lack of pity – which I can see Prussia super appreciating, for whatever reason.

I debated on coming out and saying that Russia's boss would be Joseph Stalin, but, really, it wasn't an important detail to the plot. If you know the year is 1951 (which you don't because Prussia doesn't), then you would know who is Russia's boss. I intentionally left it vague. (Well, I did just tell you but that's Author Notes after the fact so ~)

Why is the flute a big deal? First off, I'm a musician (clarinet, though, not flute), and I went positively ecstatic in my Music History class upon discovering that Prussia's favorite fucking King played and -composed- baroque flute music. Honestly, like, I probably made my friend (who is not a huge Hetalia fangirl like me) annoyed for mentioning it so much. I knew one of these days I would have to write something about Prussia and Old Fritz and the flute. My headcanon has developed to the point that Fritz taught Prussia how to play, then Fritz died and left his flute in Prussia's care, and Prussia treats it like a super-super-important piece of his memories of his favorite-fucking-king (and lover if you go for that pairing). So, yes, should Russia find out and get his hands on it, I think he would be able to use it to break Prussia into submission.

And that leaves me with my longest after-the-fact Author Notes ever.

~~Thank you for every alert/favorite/review~~

~Reda