So this oneshot turned into multiple parts a while ago, but I recently rediscovered the first half of this chapter and decided to finish it. One of the reviewers mentioned something about different Nations in the "waiting room," so here we have it.

The rating's up for more language. I hope you enjoy!

Standing alone in his kitchen, Gilbert skillfully pretended that the knocking in the background was only the neighbor's dog, and willed it to go away.

Of course, it didn't. Growling under his breath, he yanked open the icebox and pulled out a beer, popping the cap with a practiced motion and drinking it straight from the bottle, the glass cold on his lips. The knocking persisted, but suddenly it wasn't as relevant.

I wonder if I can get Lud to come over and cook...

There. That was getting easier. Thinking about his little brother had been hard at first, after all that had happened. He kept half-expecting Ludwig to storm in whenever he played his music too loudly, or raided the kitchen, or passed out on the sofa after too many drinks, but he never did.

Because their bosses had separated them after the war, that last war, great and terrible at the same time. Gilbert had felt so out of place at first, with a gun in his hand instead of a sword, and tanks marching through his streets in the place of cavalry. But eventually it had turned familiar, becoming just like the many, many wars he'd fought before. The new generals, new weapons, and new wounds were insignificant when territory was gained and lost and millions died, just like before.

Only it wasn't the same at all, because unlike before, he hadn't won. His country, his beloved people of Prussia, hadn't fought with the promise of victory and eternal glory before them, only a madman's empty half-truths that quickly became desperate lies.

Of course, he'd believed them at first. Everyone had, because believing meant life would get better and all those aches and pains he'd felt that came with words like economic crisis and demilitarization, unemployment and inflation, Treaty of Versailles and Allied Powers would all disappear.

But most importantly, he'd failed his old man, his mentor, the one who made him strong in the first place. It hadn't been very long ago in the lifetime of a Nation, but it seemed like an eternity, so far removed was that glorious heaven from the painful reality in which he now lived.

At least he didn't have much longer. The others, his once-friends and current treaty-pacified enemies, had said as much. Ivan and Yao and Alfred and Arthur and Francis.

He'd expected Ivan's betrayal from the beginning, but Ludwig hadn't listened, and their boss hadn't listened, making an alliance anyway. It quickly fell apart when the others arrived, winning battles and promising better than Ludwig ever could. In that regard, his personal feelings toward the intimidating Russian hadn't changed. If anything, they'd been made even uglier, thanks to Stalingrad.

Yao he hadn't known very well, not as well as the others. But he and Ludwig had sent ships over, trying to trade, many years ago. Yao hadn't exactly been hospitable at the time, but he was just protecting his own interests, something Gilbert could relate to. He'd seemed like an all-right sort of guy (if a bit conceited), and Gilbert hadn't really expected much of him.

Alfred was still young in his mind, still the boy he'd helped through his revolution and subsequent independence from England, back when Fritz was still alive. Since then, he'd always been that self-proclaimed hero, emerging from his personal crises stronger than ever to "save the world" yet again. Gilbert wondered what the war would have been like if Alfred hadn't sided against him (not that he'd expected anything else); maybe they would have stood more of a chance.

Arthur had been on his side before, back when he was fighting France, but that alliance had quickly ended with bitter feelings on his part once France was defeated. It was much to his own shock that Arthur had sided with Francis in this war, but they did have a common enemy that made it all the easier. Still, they'd actually come close to getting along, which astonished him to no end.

Speaking of Francis, he was still knocking. Ever since their peace treaty, he'd been coming over, trying to get in to talk to Gilbert, but his betrayal had hurt. Gilbert knew he was being childish, because Francis had always, always been his best friend, along with Antonio. Even he, broke as he was, had come over once, asking Gilbert to please let Francis in, because he felt so bad and just wanted to apologize. Gilbert had told him that as long as he still had bandages wrapped around his head from France's attacks, that was not happening.

It didn't matter that Francis was trying to just be Francis and only Francis, no greater France involved, because his muscles were still sore as hell, he still had bandages around most of his body, and he was short on both food and beer. It also didn't matter that most of the time, Gilbert wondered if he should be the one begging forgiveness.

But his country, his beautiful Prussia, was dissolved, just last week at a conference full of pompous military officials and diplomats. He'd seen everyone there, and been reminded of all the things that still haunted his nightmares, things he'd been trying not to remember.

Ludwig had been in worse shape than he, so he hadn't bothered asking him to come over, because the last thing he probably wanted to see was his idiot older brother, who hadn't protected him properly, who had let this happen to him.

So for now, Gilbert stood alone, in his kitchen with a beer in his hand, thinking about his dissolution and waiting for something to happen, just like it had happened to the great Roman empire and a little blond boy Ludwig never stopped reminding him of.

It was almost expected, a fulfillment of some dark premonition, when the insistent knocking faded into the distance, replaced by a piercing headache and a welcome blackness, encroaching on his vision until the bright light of his kitchen was gone, as shattered as the beer bottle that had slipped from his hand onto the cold, tiled floor.

_V~-~-~V_

He woke, which was something he hadn't expected. If death was that consuming blackness, why was the world suddenly bright again?

It also was a strange world, just an office even tinier, cleaner, and more boring than Ludwig's (something which impressed Gilbert in and of itself). The walls were bare and white, covered with dozens of identical filing cabinets, and the only furniture was a large desk and chair. He looked around for a way out, finding himself already standing, and found no doors.

He sighed. "Anyone here?" he called, not really expecting an answer, and there wasn't one. He glanced at the chair. It seemed forbidden, all black leather and official-looking, but if no one was here, who was to tell him no?

Glancing around again, he thought aloud, "If I'm going to have to wait in this stupid place, the wait might as well be comfortable." Again, there was no reply. Making his way behind the desk, he plopped down in the chair, which turned out to be very comfortable indeed. He hadn't been comfortable in a long while. Humming in satisfaction, he leaned back and propped his feet up on the desk.

"Please remove your shoes from my furniture, Mr. Bielschmidt."

Gilbert jumped, yanking his feet off the desk in pure surprise. Spinning, he came face-to-face with a young man, about his height, wearing a stiff black suit and simple tie that Ludwig would have approved of.

"Scheisse, man, you startled me!" he swore. The young man merely smiled, his dark eyes peering out from beneath black bangs as he casually pushed his glasses up his nose.

"My apologies, Mr. Bielschmidt, but I do like to keep my things clean," he replied, emphasizing the my. He gestured to the opposite side of the desk. "If you would?"

Gilbert stood his ground, narrowing crimson eyes and glaring in a way he knew intimidated people. "Why? And who are you, anyway?"

Unperturbed, the man merely continued to smile. "The question, I believe, is who you are, Mr. Bielschmidt."

"I'm the Kingdom of Prussia," he retorted, "and that wasn't the question at all!"

"Ah," the man said, sitting now, though Gilbert couldn't remember seeing him move. "I thought we'd hit that little snag."

"What snag?" Gilbert all but yelled, his annoyance with this man reaching new heights.

"You see, the Kingdom of Prussia, or Königreich Preußen, was dissolved on February 25th. It is no longer in existence, and as the personification of the land and people of Prussia, neither are you."

Gilbert's stomach dropped, and he swore again under his breath. "So I'm dead," he said dryly. "Fucking fantastic. What happens now? Angels or fiery agony and all that shit?"

The man almost laughed. Or at least, Gilbert thought he almost did, but it was hard to be sure when he had a face as unreadable as a brick wall.

"I'm afraid I don't know," he said, still smiling. "I have never been to the next world. It's my job to reside here, in the waiting room, between your world and what comes after."

"So whaddaya do, just say hi, nice to meet you, now have fun being dead? Pretty cushy job."

The man shook his head. "Not always. As I said, this is an in-between place. You've been here before, as have all of your friends. You simply don't remember."

Gilbert found that not quite as hard to believe as he thought he would. After all, he'd suffered some pretty serious injuries before, only to wake up after the fact with either someone hovering over him or a battlefield of corpses, not remembering how it had happened.

He shuddered. Battlefields of corpses were not what he wanted to be thinking about.

"So I've died before without being dead?" he asked, distracting himself as much as continuing his line of questioning.

"More or less," was the reply. "It's all in your file, if you want to look." He waved at the wall to his left, and Gilbert followed the sweeping gesture, filled with a sort of morbid curiosity. Stepping closer, he realized that there was a window on the wall too, in a gap between the filing cabinets. Peering out, he came to the conclusion that there was nothing outside (if it could even be considered "outside"), just a white light that probably should have hurt his eyes but didn't.

Pulling his gaze away, he examined the cabinets instead. They all had little names on them, written by hand. Edelstein, Roderich the nearest one read. The urge to open the pompous Austrian's folder was powerful, but Ludwig's voice suddenly spoke in his head, reminding him of the virtues of privacy and why he should respect them. Gilbert growled a mental retort and moved on.

His own drawer wasn't far, but as he opened it he found himself wondering what the point was of reading those pages (all crisp and white, seemingly having escaped age, tucked neatly between the edges of manila folders). He'd died in battle more times than he could keep track of, especially back when he was an idealistic young Teutonic Knight.

"Hell, I know everything in here anyway," he scoffed with bravado he couldn't feel, slamming the filing drawer shut with a loud metallic bang that diffused all too quickly in the stark room.

"So you do," the man agreed, and his smile was getting creepy. "Then you will know that it was internal bleeding left unchecked and a potentially fatal head injury coupled with copious quantities of alcohol overloading your system that caused your recent unfortunate demise."

Gilbert's brow furrowed. If the man didn't have the impassivity of a small mossy boulder, Gilbert might've interpreted his words as sarcasm. "I thought we couldn't die from things like that so easily. I was healing like normal!"

"Normally," the man said, agreeing again with a nod. "But when your Nation status is in question, it's not so simple anymore."

Oh. There was a few breaths' pause before Gilbert spoke again.

"So I'm dead for real after all. Way to screw with me, can I go now? And your face is creepy as hell."

"I would let you go on, but are you certain you want to?"

Yes, he wanted to say. Yes he was, because that was the only way he could get any peace, because here his body didn't hurt and he couldn't be made to feel guilty about things that weren't entirely his fault.

Because if he went on, maybe his old man would be waiting.

He opened his mouth, but snapped it shut just as abruptly. Because unbidden, there was Ludwig, the stiff little amnesiac kid he'd found in a field a century and then some back. The kid who'd looked up to him as a big brother and still did, despite everything he'd screwed up.

Antonio, and even Francis, friends he'd had for forever despite how unlikely such a friendship would be between their respective countries, both paled in comparison to his stupid little brother.

What would Ludwig do without an older sibling to guide him?

He's strong enough, a nagging voice replied, he can handle his own. Didn't you see how close he came to destroying Europe?

Not his fault, another voice replied. Ludwig wouldn't hurt anything alone if you hadn't been there to encourage him.

But left unspoken was the fact that his little brother would be saddled with the burden of a broken Europe all alone, and would probably still be repenting decades from now, if not as a Nation, then as a person, because that's just the sort of thing he would do.

And surely, if he was even being given a choice, the world still had some need of the awesomeness that is (was) Prussia.

In the end, facing the calm black eyes of the waiting room attendant in his pressed black suit, Gilbert wondered if it was really such a hard decision at all.

_V~-~-~V_

He opened his eyes just a fraction, peering through eyelashes cracked just wide enough to see black-and-white tile in front of his face. Shiny, light-reflecting tiles and glinting broken glass that made everything much too bright and his headache worse, so he closed his eyes again.

"Gil, Gil... do you think he just blinked?"

"Gilbert? Prusse, are you there mon ami?"

Suddenly something slapped his cheek, leaving a stinging sensation and exacerbating the headache he'd only just noticed. The ground was hard beneath his back, but solidity surely meant something...?

"Don't hit him, you idiot! Can't you see he's injured?!"

"Hehe... sorry Gil, mi amigo, you know I didn't mean that. But if you are awake, blink, por favor?"

That was Antonio, but it couldn't be, because Antonio wasn't dead. But to the best of Gilbert's knowledge, neither was he.

Why did I think I was dead?

He cracked his eyes open, squinting as the light alerted him again to the pounding sensation in his forehead. Above him he could see the fuzzy outlines of his two best friends, and wasn't it a relief to see them at all, except Francis was not supposed to be there, hovering in concern. He wasn't supposed to be on speaking terms with the guy.

"What... Antonio?"

"Si, and Francis too! Are you okay, Gilbert?"

"What...?" he repeated, still not feeling up to coherence yet.

"I was knocking for so long that I broke down your door instead." Francis spoke this time, sounding vaguely apologetic but mostly worried. "I understand that you did not wish to see me, but... I found you unconscious and called Antonio."

Their faces had resolved themselves into something clearer, and Gilbert hauled himself into a sitting position, leaning against a leg of his kitchen table and praying he didn't open any wounds along the way.

"S'fine... but what happened to the filing cabinets?"

The pair exchanged glances, and it was Antonio who spoke, albeit uncertainly. "You have no filing cabinets, Gil. You, er... sent all your papers away to... to Ludwig, last week."

"Still doesn't explain why I'm not..." He paused. There had been a choice, something deep and intrinsically important, but he couldn't for the life of him recall his decision.

"...Never mind."

"Are you sure?" Francis asked, and he was still too concerned for Gilbert's liking.

"Of course I'm sure. Scheisse, man, you'd think I'd never gotten hit in the head before." He stood, ignoring the agony in his muscles as he tried to pass off the way he leaned heavily on the table for casual behavior.

Still, Francis pressed on. "Are you... Do you need anything? Food, beer?" He glanced at the broken glass on the floor a bit warily, but asked anyway.

Gilbert's stomach flip-flopped at the mention of alcohol. "No, no beer. But my cupboards are empty… you can start by fixing that."

"Start?" Francis repeated, and his voice was agonizingly hopeful. Gilbert just gave him a lopsided half-grin.

Was there really ever a point to not forgiving?

"That's what I said, moron. And you'd better start fast, you've got a lot of ground to cover." Except it wasn't really a lot at all, because Francis and Antonio were both smiling, and land or no land, he couldn't help but feel that the tenuous grip he'd had on life had somehow gotten just a little stronger.

V/~-~-~\V

So that's that. Depending on what inspiration strikes, there may be more. Eventually. It's a dandy little headcanon expansion, if I do say so myself.

As always, any questions or comments are appreciated, so if you have the time, please don't hesitate to review! Thanks for reading!