mephistos faust

Herr Beilschmidt looked at Ludwig, studying him, knowing full well that this question was some kind of trap. Still, as he chewed his food slowly, he contemplated an answer. When he swallowed, he sipped some wine before answering. "My legacy of raising a torn nation out of nothingness and putting her on the global scene. If it weren't for me, many of us would still be speaking French. I don't claim that I defeated Napoleon on my own, of course. But Germany would not be here as she is if I hadn't acted and united us under a common banner."

His attention then turned to his daughter, who was now picking despondently at her plate. When she didn't look up or say anything, he said, "What about you, child?"

Liliane shifted in her seat and shook her head. "Oh, I don't know," she mumbled, "I don't think I have anything."

His expression darkened. "Liliane," he said, his voice now taking on that of a general about to give marching orders. She looked up at him immediately, her eyes wide, her body tense. He stared at her.

"You are the capital of a great nation. You always have been. Do you mean to tell me that you truly do not have a single accomplishment to your name? Are you suggesting that I raised a failure?"

She swallowed. "N-no, sir," she said in a timid voice.

"Precisely. So, I ask you again. What is your greatest accomplishment?"

Liliane put her shaking hands into her lap. Her eyes darted between her father and Ludwig, as though one might offer help to appease the other. But no help came. So she was forced to find some kind of answer. "I-I don't know. I suppose...surviving? Even after everything we've been through. E-even though no one but you wanted me around."

Something in Prussia's expression changed, though it was hard to tell if he had softened or hardened right now. But he did relax, somewhat. "You have more to your name than just survival, child," he said, the edge now gone from his voice. "I want you to think about it more and tell me before you leave."

She nodded. "Yes, Papa."

Beneath the layers of bureaucracy and stiffness, my mind has always been a battlefield of ideas. From the foundation of the seven liberal arts and German Mysticism to the Reformation; from the lofty heights of German Idealism to the gritty critiques of the Frankfurt School, the question of ‘why’ has always been present. I learned to hone my tongue as a weapon for it was all I had at my disposal. Back when I was a collection of fragmented states living under Gilbert’s roof, words were the only way to resist. He had tried to censor me, tried to crack my skull open and pull out any revolutionary thought that questioned his order, but he never quite succeeded.

I turned my attention to Herr Beilschmidt as he spoke. His answer shouldn't have surprised me, and yet, something almost warm spread in my chest. No matter the universe, it seemed that for a Prussia, Germany would always be the crowning achievement of his existence.

Would I have chosen a different path to unification? One that didn't involve such obscene, systematic violence? Yes. Every single time. But history had dragged me through the mud and the blood for better or worse, and hearing him say it made me feel that the suffering hadn't been in vain. It was the answer I had always known, yet one I had never heard from my own brother with such humble clarity.

Then I looked at Lily. She was fidgeting, her eyes darting between us like a trapped animal. I realized then that I’d pushed her into a corner, forcing her to justify her existence between her father and me. She was ‘just’ Berlin, the city that the other Länder made the butt of their jokes. I pulled a brief apologetic face as she struggled to find an answer that was both true and safe.

When Herr Beilschmidt turned his authoritarian gaze back on me, demanding my own tally of success, I set my wine glass down. “The car, of course,” I said in complete seriousness. Then, seeing the look on his face, I let a small, dry smile break through. “Jokes aside.”

I leaned back, my expression darkening. “Finding some scrap of humanity left in me after twelve years of hate, fear, and genocide. But my greatest achievement wasn’t even my doing, really. It was the fact that others, for some reason, chose to accept me. Not forgive, perhaps, but allow me to exist. I still work for that acceptance. I likely always will.”

As I spoke, I reached up and tugged at my tie, loosening the knot just a fraction. I could still feel it sometimes—the phantom pressure of the noose tightening around my neck when they dragged me toward the gallows after the war. For the first time in my long life, I hadn't been sure I would wake up. I would have understood if the world had simply decided I deserved to stay dead. Who would have believed in such a miserable piece of shit? But I survived, too.

I turned to Lily, my voice softening. “Survival is nothing to be ashamed of. It is the ultimate testament to adaptability. Think of the city you represent. A swamp village that became a royal residence. A center of arts and thoughts and science that became an industrial powerhouse. Bombed to the core, broken, and rebuilt twice, only to stand again as the capital of...” I gestured toward her father, “...his greatest achievement.”

"So, you play piano and cello. Those are fine instruments to play," he said, trying to not choke on the compliment he was giving to him.

"Oh he plays piano so well, Papa," said Liliane. "You should ask him to play after dinner too."

Herr Beilschmidt looked at her with an expression that said he was hiding his annoyance at the thought of such a proposal. "Only if he wants to," he finally said. "It would be rude to expect a guest to provide entertainment." Then, he turned back to Ludwig. "I have valued music for a long time, although it was not until Frederick the Great that I learned anything about it myself. I picked up the flute, much like him. It takes discipline and mastery over oneself to learn and keep up with an instrument, and that is what I value."

"I've always loved listening to you play, Papa. It feels like being in a dream. A good dream. Where nothing foul or cruel can touch you." She thought about the nights when she was a child and he had played for her until she fell asleep. He always claimed it was about broadening her mind and teaching her an appreciation for good music. But she sometimes wondered if it wasn't also his way of showing affection back then. Not that she would voice the thought out loud though, and certainly not in front of Ludwig.

"Perhaps we should all play for each other tonight," she continued, as she cut into the pheasant on her plate. "That could be nice."

Prussia's eyebrows rose and then creased as he chewed his food and thought about her idea. He couldn't think of a reason to not do it, other than that he felt his talents would be wasted on the ears of the brute next to him. That would hardly suffice as an answer though, when he was trying to play nice.

"I suppose we might. If that is what our guest wants." He looked at Ludwig with little emotion on his face as he waited for an answer.

I offered Lily a brief, appreciative nod for the compliment. “Thank you. And yes, I suppose I could play. It is no big deal,” I said, keeping my tone as level as possible. I hadn’t made a point of performing for her, but Lily was no stranger to the sight of me at a piano. My preference had always been for those solitary grand pianos that haunted the marble lobbies of international hotels. For me, it offered a legitimate excuse to bypass the aimless, suffocating small talk and the hollow restlessness of waiting. It was a useful barrier, an excellent excuse to look occupied. People were far less likely to bother you with idiotic questions if you appeared to be busy executing a complex sonata.

I raised a brow at the mention of Old Fritz. Honestly, the man before me should be sending daily thank-you notes to history for that particular king. Without Friedrich’s flute and a few well-placed French philosophers, the world would have remembered Prussia as nothing more than a glorified thug with a very efficient filing system. It was a spectacular bit of historical PR that gave him a varnish of culture. Though, his grandfather already stood out as a connoisseur of the arts, lying the foundation of Berlin as a capital.

“In the right hands, the humble flute becomes a great instrument for sure,” I said, watching Herr Beilschmidt try to swallow a compliment directed at me. It was almost as delightful as this dinner.

Then Lily spoke, her voice thick with a romanticism that made my skin crawl. A good dream? Where nothing foul or cruel can touch you? I had to lower my head, focusing intently on a piece of pheasant to hide the roll of my eyes. Gosh, Lily, fuck the flute, will you. I washed down the meat with a sip of wine.

“Ähm, yes. Sure,” I responded at her eagerness to play together. I already cataloged my mental library for a piece that could accommodate a piano, violin and the flute. Something slow. Something that wouldn't require us to look at each other too closely. Schubert, perhaps. Or one of the Russians, if we wanted to be particularly brooding.

I set my glass down and reached for the bottle of mineral water. I had to drive back to my own reality eventually; sadly, I couldn't afford to get drunk.

A light scoff escaped his lips. "You cannot fool me into believing this was entirely her own doing. You had some role in this too. These things don't happen only one way. But knowing your nature...how long will it be until you inevitably hurt and break her for your own selfish desires?"

As they entered the house, the warm air enveloped them, but Prussia took no pleasure from it. His mind was still outside in the cold, with the consideration of their garden conversation leaving a deeper frown than usual etched on his features. He was still wearing it as they rejoined Liliane in the living room.

The girl was perched on the edge of the sofa, still tense even as she scrolled through her phone. When she heard footsteps approaching, she looked up, and a smile instantly graced her features as she stood. Even so, her eyes were searching them for some sign of a fight. When she could find none, she walked over to them.

"Papa," she said as she hugged him first, causing his frown to falter. "Ludwig," she said as she hugged him second. "I'm so glad you're both back. You're so cold. You shouldn't have gone out without coats on. But never mind that. Frau Wagner told me that the dinner is ready now. That should warm you up."

"Quite so," said Herr Beilschmidt, more to himself than to either of them. "Come. This way then." He led them to the dining room. As they entered, the warm smells of hearty foods greeted them. Upon the table were placed bowls of vegetables and potatoes and bread. Good wine sat in bottles. And in the center, a golden-brown roast pheasant sat on a silver tray.

Herr Beilschmidt pulled out Liliane's chair for her and pushed it in as she sat. He then took his place at the head of the table. Ludwig, as the guest of honor (a term Herr Beilschmidt found ironic with him) was placed to his right, with Liliane to his left.

After they had served themselves and were eating, Prussia slowly cut his pheasant on his plate. "Tell me, my child, have you ever played your violin for this man here?"

Liliane shook her head. "No, I don't think I have."

"Ah. Then this will be a new experience for you," he said as he looked at Ludwig. "She'll play for us after we eat."

Liliane smiled awkwardly and looked down at her plate as heat rose to her cheeks.

"Don't be so shy, my dear," he said, "You play well, if you've been practicing. You have been practicing, haven't you?"

"Yes, Papa, of course."

As we crossed the threshold back into the house, I allowed my hand to brush his shoulder for the fraction of a second. The gesture so brief it might have been an accident.

“When I’ve figured it out myself,” I murmured, just loud enough for him to hear, “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Inside the house, Lily greeted us at once, her expression cycling through exhaustion and relief before landing on heartfelt gratitude that we had returned from the garden alive, intact and—miraculously—without any visible injuries. Before I could prepare myself, she pulled me into a hug. I froze for a heartbeat, my arms hovering awkwardly before I gave her a singular, stiff pat on the back.

“We’re fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “He was just showing me some of his plants. We had a brief... discussion about breeding and the merits of different fertilizers.”

I could practically feel the Prussian’s frown deepening behind me, but I didn't linger. I retrieved the gift bag from where it had been sidelined and handed the bottle of red wine to Frau Wagner with a polite nod.

The dining room was a pantomime of bourgeoise domesticity. The long table, the silver trays, the scent of roast pheasant. It was all too familiar. I ran a hand down my tie to give my hands something to do before unbuttoning my suit jacket. With a quick move, I took my seat to Herr Beilschmidt’s right. It was a position I had occupied for centuries in various halls of power; I knew the weight of it, the expectations it carried, and exactly how much I would have preferred to be sitting anywhere else.

I offered a clipped ‘Danke’ as the pheasant was served and a small nod to the housekeeper as she poured the wine. I watched the exchange between father and daughter with a detached interest until the subject of music arose.

I had to suppress a crooked smile. If my brother were here, he’d likely growl that if one was going to indulge in such a frivolous pastime, one had better at least play Bach. For all his barbarian posturing, Gilbert had always shown a certain interest in the finer arts. Berlin wasn’t Vienna, but the Hohenzollerns had never lacked a sense of rhythm. Be it with a baton or cane.

Then came the question about my own skill with an instrument, and I nearly choked on my wine, the liquid going down the wrong way as I tried to process the sheer irony of someone seriously asking whether I had any sense for classical music—as if Germany hadn’t unleashed Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, and half the Western canon upon the world.

“Do I?” I repeated, setting my glass down with a faint clink and reaching for my napkin. “Piano, certainly. Cello as well. I spent my summers studying music with Roderich before…” I paused, lips thinning. “Before Gilbert decided that marching songs and gunfire made better accompaniment than Mendelssohn ever could.”

"Hmph. 'Und wenn sie nicht gestorben sind, dann leben sie noch heute.' I know. But Berlin is mine and always will be. I know that she will always come home to me, regardless of what befalls us beforehand." In his mind's eye, he recalled a certain trip to her dacha only a few month's prior to this day. How she had shown him all the memories she'd saved of him. How, even when she had learned the truth of his role in that boy's fate, she had forgiven him and stayed by him. If she could forgive that, she could forgive anything he'd ever done or might do.

He started walking and was soon beside the German. He would not let him lead him back to his own house. As they crossed the garden though, a question nagged at his mind.

“I’m a nation of many centers. Berlin doesn’t hold the same sentimental value it holds for you. Yes, Berlin is my current capital, but my heart beats in Munich and Hamburg and Frankfurt all the same, it beats in the Black Forest, the Ruhr Valley, the Ore Mountains and the Frisian Wadden Sea.”

I glanced at him beside me, weighing his intentions. He was Prussia after all, and Prussia doesn’t do small talk. Every word came with a hook, and I’d be damned if I opened my mouth too wide and let him catch and drag me onto dry land.

“I’m more than a Wessi, and you are certainly more than an Ossi, Preußen. Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence with clinging to such a short period of our histories.” My gaze swept over him; these human labels felt thin and brittle, much like the frost crunching under our leather shoes.

He was still searching for the secret ingredient, wasn't he? Wondering why she’d look twice at a man like me. It was amusing, watching a Prussia try to navigate the messy terrain of ‘caring’. He’d traded his authority for affection and was now shocked to find his influence waning. That’s the problem with finding a heart. It’s an organ made of muscle and blood, not stone. It’s wet. It’s slippery. The more he tried to cuddle his daughter into staying, the more likely she was to slip out of his grasp.

“She is your daughter, after all. You know her better than I do. She can be quite… persistent. A trait I assume she inherited from the side of the family that doesn't know when to quit. Be assured, our relationship was hardly blessed under a lucky star at first. But eventually, we adapted to one another. Call it the magic of friendship, I suppose.”

I let out a breathy chuckle and adjusted my suit jacket, the expensive wool barely keeping me warm against the biting Berlin air.

“Look. For the better part of my adolescence, I was raised by a man of exceptional charm and legendary warmheartedness,” I said, the irony in my voice thick enough to choke on. I didn't need to name Gilbert for the ghost of his grin to hang between us. “Apparently, some of those gentle lessons stuck, and she found the result appealing. Or, more likely, she is simply your daughter—a bullhead of the highest order who treats a ‘no’ as a personal challenge. When she stumbled across me, I suspect I became less of a person and more of a long-term project. She wanted to crack the code, peel back the armor, and see if there was actually a pulse beneath the cold, calculating machinery of Big Bad West Germany.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, a short, sharp scoff escaping my lips. I was well aware of the caricature I occupied in the East German mind: the Nazi monster, the soulless capitalist pig, Uncle Sam pulling the strings... I highly doubted Lily’s upbringing had featured many bedtime stories about my supposed virtues.

"I've had many children in my lifetime. Boys who became mighty generals. Girls who married lords and ran noble houses. But they were all only human. They died, as humans do, and without any heirs. My last wife was able to gift me not one, but two, immortal children. But one of them was snatched from me, and now seems determined to enrage me at every chance he gets. But the other..." He gestured towards the house.

"She's always wanted my approval. Even when she was hardly five years old and saw me for the first time in prison. They both hid behind the Russian's coat at first. But then, she walked forward, while her brother stayed behind. She was the one who came to me, and put her small hand in mine and called me, 'Father.' And for the first time in my long life, that word carried more weight than it ever had before."

His thumb rubbed the head of his cane. "Berlin has always been my heart. But now she was truly mine. No one could or can take that from me." His eyes came back to Ludwig. "I didn't allow radicals or the West to snatch her away. I have always kept her safe, even when it meant playing the villain in everyone else's eyes. I did not let that boy steal her away. I will not let you do it either. I know, you do not have the feelings for her that she has or did have for you. But you still bring her some form of happiness. I am not blind to it."

I saw that same ‘demon’ now, but this one was wearing a father’s grief above all. He claimed her, with the same passion Gilbert had claimed me, wormed himself into my mind until I couldn’t tell the difference between our realities.

“She’s yours. I’m not disrupting that,” I said, my voice sounding thin against the biting Berlin wind. I looked back toward the house, my gaze lingering on the window of her father’s living room where I imagined Lily was still sitting, waiting, hoping we wouldn't kill each other.

A sigh left me when he mentioned her feelings for me—past or present, none but her could tell. I was aware of them, of course. I had seen the way she looked at me, her expression gradually shifting from fear to disgust to tolerance and eventually longing in the course of the past decades. I might have been all to her; the man her father warned her about, the nation she wished to hold her, the human so utterly broken that he couldn’t hold himself. But I couldn't offer her a home when I didn't even know how to inhabit my own skin. If I couldn't find the strength to take responsibility for my own happiness, how was I supposed to be the anchor for hers?

Perhaps that was why she was back here, playing the part of the perfect, submissive daughter. If I wouldn't have her, she had no choice but to crawl back into the shadow of the only other power that claimed her. I had rejected her, and in doing so, I’d driven her right back into the arms of a man who was like poison to her. The irony was almost too much to stomach.

I turned back to Herr Beilschmidt and looked at the hand he held out. His terms were simple: don't steal his heart, don't break his daughter.

“You have my word,” I said, my voice regaining its steady, professional clip. I reached out and took his hand, my grip firm and cold. “I have no intention of taking her away. I have enough crises to manage in my own timeline; I have no desire to annex yours. If she finds some modicum of happiness in my company, I won’t deny her that. But rest assured, I am not looking to play the hero in this story.”

I released his hand, the tension in my shoulders finally beginning to ebb, replaced by a dull, familiar ache of the burden I carried daily.

“I’m glad you two have worked it out,” I added, the corner of my mouth twitching with a trace of my half-smile. “A truly happy, functional family. It’s a lovely sentiment. Though, we both know the German temperament doesn't lend itself to ‘happily ever after’ for very long. Eventually, the pain returns. It’s a family tradition, after all.”

I began walking back toward the house, not waiting to see if he followed. The cold was starting to seep through my suit, and the honesty of the garden was becoming more than I wanted to handle.

Prussia seemed pleased by both her answer, and her little frown at their guest. So, there was some trouble in paradise between them. Or there could be at least. But he would save that card for later.

"You say you lost your appetite for it after the war. I have found it to be the opposite for myself," he said. "I was made for the hunt, for conquering. In lieu of lacking a proper battlefield for that, I find the woods will suffice for now."

There was a moment when he drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair and considered a thought. Then, he stood up.

"Speaking of woods, I would like you come with me. A little brisk, pre-dinner walk."

Liliane rose with Ludwig, but her father shook his head and patted her shoulder.

"No, no. Not you, dear. Just him. I think we need to speak man-to-man, as it were. Just stay here."

Liliane looked both disappointed and concerned. But she wouldn't argue with him. "Oh. Yes, Papa. Of course." She waited until the men left to sit back down though.

Prussia led his guest through the house towards the back without a word. He offered no commentary on the decor or well polished wood that they passed by. Instead, they went straight out the back door and into the currently barren garden outside. All the plants had fallen asleep in the cold, and frost touched the bare branches that remained. He didn't stop upon the patio, but kept walking further, towards a clump of trees further away. Once they were among the trunks and branches, he turned to fully face the German behind him.

When her father stood and commanded me to follow, I caught Lily’s eye. She looked stern, her expression a silent reminder of the promise I’d made to be on my best behavior. I offered her a mute, apologetic look as I stood.

I reached for the back of my neck, scratching lightly as if I could peel the tension away, then caught myself and let my hand fall to her shoulder instead, squeezing once—firm, meant to reassure both of us.

I knew exactly what was expected of me. Don’t cause a scene, smile and play along through the most perfect Christmas dinner anyone has ever seen. I just had to convince myself to believe the lie first.

Growling softly, I followed her father into the garden. The shift from the warm, rustic interior to the garden hit like a slap. I suppressed a hiss and bowed my head to avoid the piercing gust of wind.

“So, are we going hunting now?”

I meant it as a joke, but the words fell flat. His look cut through me, sharper than the cold. For a moment, I was just something in his way—a particular annoying insect he might crush underfoot or ignore until it stopped buzzing. My gaze dropped to his cane, , tracing the polished wood and ornamented handle. I knew about the blade hidden inside it. And I knew if I vanished here, no one would even ask where I’d gone.

But as he began to speak, the immediate threat of violence seemed to simmer down into something more emotional. He had dropped his facade, so I allowed mine to slip as well. What caught me off guard, however, was the genuine flicker of protectiveness in his tone. He actually cared for her—or, at the very least, he feared losing his grip on her. There was a grim irony in it: that my mere presence had been the catalyst for his sudden devotion to fatherhood these past months. Apparently, even in an alternate universe, I have a knack for provoking a reformation through the most inconvenient means possible.

“She kept nagging me about giving you a second chance,” I said finally, shoving my hands deep into my pockets to shield them from the cold. “Your sudden change of heart—after stabbing your own daughter to death, no less—convinced her that you’re a reformed man. Whether your feelings are genuine or out of self-interest is your business, not mine.”

I kicked at the frozen earth, my breath ghosting in the air between us.

“I’m here because she asked me to be. And damn me, perhaps it was the 'spirit of Christmas' or perhaps I'm just a fool, but I eventually agreed. That is the only reason I am standing in your garden instead of being halfway back to my own world.”

I looked him dead in the eye, mirroring his own intensity.

Herr Beilschmidt sipped his water slowly, his eyes never leaving Ludwig. He seemed to be weighing options of remarks to say. Then, he set the glass to the side.

"I know what you think of me. I know what the majority of my so-called family thinks of me as well. That I am some kind of relic, an antique meant for display only. A museum piece. But that's wrong, and I think you know that as well as I. My influence cannot and will not be forgotten or escaped from. I live on, despite everyone's best efforts at the opposite. If I were truly without purpose anymore, I would have ceased to exist, like so many before us. So, I play my role, even when it calls for being everyone's favorite villain. I will not let what I've built fall apart again."

Liliane had kept her gaze down on her water, but when he finished speaking, she looked up and over at him. "Papa," she said in a soft voice, "I don't see you as a villain."

As he met her eyes, there was the faintest of smiles tugging at Prussia's lips. "You...have often been an exception to many things, my dear."

Liliane blinked and felt warmth rising in her cheeks. Before she could say anything though, he had returned his attention to Ludwig. This time, a slight grin had come upon his face.

"So. What I'm hearing from you then is, even in another universe, Bavaria is insufferable? Ha. How fitting. I do not envy you of that dinner then. And you," he said, turning back to Liliane, "had better not bring that Bavaria here. God knows the one we have is more than enough."

The Berliner smiled, encouraged by the rare joke from her father. "Oh, Papa, I would never. I know better than to ever do that. I don't have a death wish."

I took a slow sip of water, listening to his justifications. Whatever role he played in this universe was his business; I had no desire to have a say in it., I told myself mantra-like. One Prussia was more than enough for any man’s lifetime. Yet, as much as I cursed Gilbert and his unorthodox, often maddening methods, he was effective. Even though a cold knot formed in my gut every time he headed toward the Bendlerblock, a part of me still trusted him to want the best for Germany—for us. He might be a relic, an anachronism with his name erased from the map, but his spirit still resonated in every marching order and every bureaucratic stamp hammered onto a form. And perhaps he was right, and I would have fallen apart at the seams if it weren’t for him.

My gaze flicked from my glass to Lily. She responded like a well-trained parrot, echoing whatever truth her father had fed her. If that fantasy helped her sleep at night, I wasn't going to be the one to crush it. Not again. If I wanted to fight demons, I had plenty waiting for me at home; there was no need to bloody my hands on foreign soil, battling ghosts that didn’t belong to me—no matter how unsettling it was to have those crimson eyes staring me down.

I met his grin with a stiff, formal smile of my own when he mentioned Bavaria, giving a sharp nod of confirmation.

“He’s going through what I would generously call a mid-life crisis,” I said. “Though he isn’t alone. Half the family is acting… anxious. It’s a familiar sentiment that, unfortunately, tends to rub off on me. I feel like we all need a break to get our priorities straight.”

The smile turned wary. In the back of my mind, I could hear my brother’s voice screaming that nations don’t get breaks. We adapt, we endure, we move. There is no stop button, no reset. We simply play the same games over and over until the board is cleared.

“Hunting as a hobby? No,” I replied to his question. “Not unless I have to.”

I’d endured plenty of occasions where men who called themselves ‘family entrepreneurs’—the wealthiest five percent of the country—had wrapped an arm around my shoulders and dragged me into the woods to prove their 'manhood' through the theater of killing.

“As a boy that was different, though. I used to be a very good hunter. And an excellent sharpshooter.” I emptied the glass, trying to wash down the phantom, stale taste of gunpowder and rot that always seemed to linger when the subject came up. “I simply lost the appetite for it after the war, if you know what I mean. I prefer watching Biathlon these days. It’s… less savage.”

Liliane sat on the side of the couch closer to her father, so that she was now in between him and Ludwig, playing the part of being a buffer, or so she hoped. She smiled again at Ludwig.

"Hmm, yesterday was...adequate," said Herr Beilschmidt, "Although it could have been better all the same. I'll spare you all the details, but suffice it to say that my degenerate son will not be coming into my house again for a long time."

"Alex brought a pair of swingers that he's dating," whispered Liliane. She glanced at her father who was frowning at her. "Well he might as well know, Papa. Better to hear it from us than the rest of the family, right?"

Herr Beilschmidt closed his eyes and sighed loudly, then opened his eyes again. "I suppose. But he hardly needs to know the details of our dinner last night," he said, giving her a stern warning in both look and tone of voice.

"Yes, Papa," she said softly, looking down at her hands.

He stared at her a moment longer, then returned his attention to Ludwig. "And you? Do you also gather your family under one roof to renew some familial bonds once a year? Does your brother host it?"

Alex never called me back, though. A pity. The amount of chaos we could have unleashed together, just to see the look on his father's—

No, Ludwig. Stop. I reigned in the thought immediately. I wasn't fourteen anymore, and I had promised Lily I would behave like a functioning, responsible adult.

“Die Jugend von heute...,” I murmured with a practiced, vague nod, as if I were commiserating with Herr Beilschmidt’s disappointment. I ran a hand down my tie—a gold silk with a subtle herringbone pattern—which I’d carefully paired with a navy suit and matching brown leather shoes and belt. Realizing I was fidgeting, I forced my hands to go still, folding them in my lap in an exact mimicry of Lily’s posture.

We must have looked like two children summoned before the patriarch to be told we were being written out of the will. It was a miserable, familiar feeling.

“My brother?” I blinked, the question dragging me out of my internal monologue. A dry, bitter laugh nearly escaped me. The last time my brother had truly ‘hosted’ a family dinner was Christmas 1914. While entire generations were being ground into the mud of the trenches, he had insisted we endure the ‘temporary’ hardships for the sake of the inevitable win. Back then, I couldn’t swallow the roast and pudding fast enough to keep up with the lies he was feeding me.

“No, we rotate the responsibility between the representatives of the existing regions—,” I paused, biting my lip as I realized how that sounded to a man who represented a state that no longer officially existed. “In my world, that is. By no means do I wish to imply that your own position is... obsolete.”

I offered another stiff, forced smile and a clipped “Danke” as Frau Wagner set down the water. Lily served us with a quiet, diligent grace that felt almost out of place in a room this tense.

“It was Max’s turn this year. Bavaria,” I continued, taking a sip of the sparkling water. “It was... a delightful dinner.”

That was a lie. It had been an administrative nightmare. Max had enforced a strict 'no-veggie crap' rule that had sent Berlin into a fury. Between the two of them hurling insults and bratwurst across the table, and Saxony choosing that exact moment to start a screaming match with the Ruhr Valley over industrial subsidies, it was a miracle no one left with a black eye. Compared to them, Gilbert had been a saint that evening. I was surprised he even came; usually, he avoided Bavaria like the plague.

When Ludwig knocked on the great estate door, it was not long before it was opened. He was not greeted by the master of the house, however, but by the housekeeper. An austere, middle-aged woman looked him straight in the eyes. Her hair was in a tight bun, and her dress was as pressed as a military uniform. For the brief seconds in which neither spoke, she seemed to be assessing if he was worthy to enter the grand house.

"Dr. Dr. Beilschmidt, I presume?" she said, though it wasn't a question. Of course she knew. She stood aside to let him in, taking his coat once he had taken it off, and hung it neatly in the closet with the others.

"They are in the living room. Follow me." With proud strides, she led him through the house, past closed doors, and towards an open area. Two voices could be heard conversing, though what they were saying was unclear. As Frau Wagner entered the living room, the voices ceased.

"Dr. Dr. Beilschmidt is here," she announced, standing to the side so Ludwig could enter. When he did, he would see two familiar faces looking at him, one smiling excitedly, though nervously too, and the other in a perpetual frown.

Liliane sat perched on the edge of the couch. She wore a long, deep blue skirt, a cream blouse, and a silvery cardigan over it. Her hair was simple, with a silver headband that held diamonds and sapphires. Her earrings and necklace matched. She rose to greet the guest.

"Ludwig! It's so nice that you're here now." She walked over to him and took his hand, leading him around the couch towards where her father sat in his armchair. She quickly dropped Ludwig's hand as they approached the Prussian. "Ludwig, you remember my father. Papa, you remember Ludwig." She smiled nervously at her father. "It's good that he's here now, yes?"

Prussia's eyes narrowed as he observed Ludwig's every manner and movement, as though looking for a twitch that would betray some ill-intentioned thought or nefarious plot. Then, he rose from his chair, smoothing out the creases on his dark blue suit, and walked over to Ludwig. He kept staring him in the eye, daring him to say or do something stupid. But then, he held out his hand to the German.

I pulled my Benz into the nearest parking lot, rolled the window down, and took a deep breath. Hooking a finger between my tie and collar, I loosened the silk just enough to breathe before resting my forehead against the steering wheel, silently cursing every single second of this journey.

The Holy Spirit of Christmas, my ass.

Once I was sure my lunch would stay down, I pulled back onto the street and followed the address Lily had given me. Another half hour later, I parked in front of a pleasant house in Pankow-Schönhausen, not far from the palace. Compared to the suffocating, nature of the countryside estates I grew up in, this place almost managed a cozy atmosphere. Judging by its architecture, it was originally built for a well-to-do bourgeois family, only to be flipped for millions on the modern real estate market as a so-called Stadtvilla with atmosphere and developmental potential. I’ll spare everyone the commentary on double standards for now; obviously, if you’re going to hire a professional chef, you’d better have a kitchen that matches the portfolio.

At five minutes to one, a heavy door creaked open to reveal a sturdy older woman. Her outfit was a stylistic choice—somewhere between the BDM and the NVA. She scrutinized me as if I were some wayward youth intent on kidnapping the daughter of the house for a scandalous night out. It made my skin prickle. Perhaps it was because her eyes reminded me far too much of Maria’s; the unspoken question—'Are you about to cause trouble, boy?’—hung thick in the air.

“Just Ludwig,” I countered when she attempted to greet me by my full surname and academic titles. I forced a smile and stepped inside, finding the interior surprisingly more rustic than the façade suggested. “I heard the owner of this estate is a passionate hunter,” I remarked, shedding my coat while my gaze drifted over the walls.

When my eyes met a mirror, I caught sight of my disheveled tie and hastily straightened it. The housekeeper gave me a look of pure stone, handing back the gift bag I’d brought. I took it with a clipped ‘Danke’ and followed her into what appeared to be the living room.

When she announced my arrival—once again insisting on the full litany of last names and degrees—I opened my mouth to correct her with another ‘Just Ludwig,’ but the words died against her commanding tone. She stepped aside, revealing Lily and her father.

Wonderful, I thought, as Herr Beilschmidt met my gaze, his expression just as welcoming as the housekeeper’s. This had to be the most joyful household in all of Berlin. I could already imagine the riveting one-line conversations ‘Papa’ shared with Frau No-Nonsense. Ha, and I always thought that there was a tense atmosphere once Gilbert and I shared a room.

Lily rose from the couch, dressed like a Disney princess. She swirled toward me and snatched my hand, unbothered by the stifling air.

“For you, it’s Dr. Dr. Beilschmidt,” I said sternly—until a smile betrayed me. Instantly, I felt the dual 'stare of death' from Prussia and the housekeeper, and I cleared my throat as heat crept up my neck.

“Frohe Weihnachten, and thanks for having me,” I said, accepting Herr Beilschmidt’s hand. I returned the handshake with a firm, professional squeeze. His eyes—a blood-red so reminiscent of my brother’s—still unsettled me. It took a conscious effort to release his hand and let go of the tension coiling between my shoulder blades.

“Sparkling water, thank you.” I sat on the edge of the couch, placing the gift bag on the floor by my feet.

I frowned as I thought about what he was saying, and then shook my head. "No, I do need to do it. We need to do it. All three of us, that is. We need to make things better." I have to make things better, I thought. "It will be fine. As long as neither of us says anything stupid this time. Or pretends like we're dating," I added, just almost grinning. At the very least, the corner of my lips rose, albeit awkwardly.

As soon as the last cookie was coated, I closed the box and turned to the sink to wash the items I had used. As I scrubbed the bowls clean, I glanced over my shoulder at Ludwig. "It will be fine. I'm mostly sure of it. Listen, don't breathe a word about this to anyone, but...I feel like, well, things are changing for the better. I wouldn't say he's growing soft or anything, but he's..." I frowned to myself, trying to find the right words to describe what I wanted to say.

"Well, it's just, he lets me call him, 'Papa' now, instead of, 'Herr Beilschmidt,' or, 'Herr Vater,' or, 'sir.' He lets me hug him much more now. Sometimes, just sometimes, I think he likes it more than he'll admit to even himself. Of course I know that that doesn't suddenly make him a perfect father. But what I mean is that something has changed for the better, I think, or at least I hope. If I can appeal to him in the right way, he'll make this work, I think."

I looked at Ludwig sternly then. "But, as I said, don't you dare say so much as a word about that to anyone. Especially my father himself."

With the last utensil now clean, I dried my hands and took off the apron I had been wearing and set it aside, neatly folded. I walked up to Ludwig, looked at him for a moment, and then wrapped my arms around him and leaned my head on his shoulder. "It will be fine. You'll see. Things will get better with this." I lingered for a moment, then stepped back, smiling at him.

I glanced at the clock on the microwave and turned to pick up my box of baked bribery. Before I left, though, I looked at him one more time. "Thank you, Ludwig. For being a nice guy sometimes. Maybe even more than sometimes. I'll see you soon then."

Papa. I roll the word around in my mind, finding it entirely incompatible with the man I know. To me, Prussia is a shadow that stretches across the most fractured decades of my recent history; to her, he is someone who finally allows a hug. It is a dangerous kind of hope she is nurturing—as if a fucking hug could ever account for all the pain he’s caused.

But then again, who am I to speak? If I refuse to believe in the possibility of a second chance, then my entire current existence is a lie.

I look at the flour-dusted kitchen and the empty mug of Glühwein, and for once, I don't have the stomach for my own cynicism—not toward her, and perhaps not even toward myself. If she needs to believe in a version of her world that isn't broken, I will let her. I will go to the dinner. I will play the part. And I will even keep my mouth shut about this newly discovered parental love, even if the mere thought of it already makes my skin crawl.

A sharp, insistent beep-beep-beep jolts me.

“Verdammt,” I mutter, pushing away from the counter. The timer.

I tug on the oven mitts and move fast, hauling the tray of Zimtrollen free just as the first breath of over-caramelized sugar reaches the air. Perfect—golden spirals of butter and spice against a world that won't stop spinning.

A wet nose presses against my calf, followed by the frantic percussion of a tail against the kitchen island. Frieda looks up at me with expectant, soulful eyes, her entire body wiggling with the demand for her own dinner and the evening walk.

“I know, I know,” I sigh, setting the tray on the cooling rack.

Outside the window, the Berlin skyline dissolves into the gray twilight of the third Advent. The 'Cookie Strategy Meeting' is officially over. Yet there’s still a dog to feed, rolls to frost, and more work waiting to be finished before tomorrow.

After feeding Frieda, I trade my Birks for boots and shrug into a thick wool coat. I grab the remaining cigarettes—three left—and clip on the leash, deciding to merge necessity with indulgence as I head out toward the nearest Späti.

"I'll text you the details then, after I talk to him. And I promise, it will be just us three. I doubt he would want to agree to anyone else anyway. He's not exactly on the best terms with Alex or my aunt, or, most of the family really. I think just getting him to agree to hosting you will be challenge enough."

I pulled out a bowl to pour some powdered sugar into and started coating the cooled cookies, then placing them into a white box I had brought along for this very purpose. As I did so, my mind raced with the details and possible paths this lunch could take.

Ludwig swore he wouldn't try to hurt my father, but could I get my father to agree to the same promise? Even if I did, what if one or both of them went back on their word? What if I messed this up again somehow? What if I really was pushing my luck with this idea in the first place? Was it better to mess with the established relationships, in the hopes of improving them? Or would it have been better to simply let the status quo live on? Was my father going to kill me again for so much as even thinking of this plan? I could back out of it now, and he'd be none the wiser.

My hands slowed their steady pace of coating cookies and my eyes stared into nothingness. All the "what ifs" filled my head, and I felt like I was drowning. I didn't even notice that I was coating the same Pfeffernüsse over and over again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement, and it startled me enough to gasp for air and jerk my shoulder. When I realized it was just Ludwig, I blinked, finally, and came out of my catastrophizing thoughts. I looked at him, hoping he hadn't seen all that go down, but knowing he probably had. So, I quickly looked down at my hands in the bowl, realized what I had been doing to the cookie in my hand, and swiftly put it in the box and grabbed another.

I’m already aching for that hollow, quiet space zwischen den Jahren—the gray, suspended stretch between Christmas and New Year’s. I want to vanish between plates of Rouladen and the smoke of fireworks. Just for a few hours, I want to pretend I don’t exist. No obligations, no drama, no nothing.

Then hits me: I’m still missing a gift for Gilbert. What do you get a man who’s lived with nothing for decades and claims I owe him everything?

I turn the heat down low and refill my mug when an idea strikes me, Lily lives with a version of Prussia; perhaps she has a perspective I’m missing. I can’t keep buying him a new Leuchtturm journal every year, just so he can use it as an excuse to pull out the old one and read my failures back to me, then ask what Knecht Ruprecht thinks I deserve.

“Say, Lily,” I start, leaning back against the counter. “If you had to get—hypothetically, of course—but if you had to get a gift for—”

The words die in my throat. My frown deepens. Lily isn't just baking anymore; she’s trapped in a manic delirium, coating the same Pfeffernuss over and over until the cookie is buried under a mountain of glaze, her eyes fixed on a point miles away from this kitchen.

Concern cuts through my cynicism. I start to reach out, to place a hand on her shoulder, but she startles violently before I can touch her. She gasps for air as if she’s been underwater, her eyes wide and searching as they lock onto mine. I give her a long, silent look—the kind that asks 'Is everything alright?' without needing the words.

She tries to deflect, complimenting the smell of the Zimtrollen, but the mask is slipping. I set my mug down on the counter with a soft thud.

“You know,” I say. “I didn't agree to that Christmas dinner because I have any desire to see your father again. I agreed because you asked me. I’m trying, for once, to be the 'nice guy' you seem to think I am.”

As I prepared the wire rack to hold the baked cookies when done, and then prepped some more dough balls in the bowl, I started to strategize what I would say to my father if Ludwig agreed to this. I had to go about it logically. I had to appeal to his sense of honor and duty. Perhaps pointing out that having a truce between worlds could open things up for better things for both worlds in the future? Perhaps that having Germanies united across universes would strengthen us against potential threats later on? Or that, at the very least, he wouldn't have to expend energy and resources trying to kill Ludwig any time he entered our universe, and wouldn't have to worry about Ludwig killing him either.

I blew a puff of air up to clear some hair from my face. Honestly, the last option sounded like the most likely to win him over. It was tangible and immediate, not some vague promise for the future. I would start there.

Ludwig's voice cut through my thoughts like a bullet. I almost snapped to attention at his commanding tone. But when he agreed to lunch, I smiled.

"13:00, on the 26th. I'll see to it that he agrees. Do you need a ride to his home?" My timer went off and I swiftly turned it off and pulled my first batch out of the oven. I sniffed the air around them and scrutinized them. They seemed good enough for now. Once they were on the wire rack and the next batch was in with a timer set, I looked back to Ludwig.

"I'll see what I can do about the Rouladen. It's not something he typically has served anyway. He likes to have something he or I have hunted on the table instead." I shrugged. "So, I don't know, expect game fowl or venison or boar. If I find out what it is ahead of time, I'll let you know so you can find the right wine."

Images of that night flash through my mind; of Lily’s world, her apartment, and the ‘well-meaning’ invitation that turned into a disaster because her father was sitting at that table. Unexpected. I acted on my temper, and the situation escalated into a literal bloodbath. It was mostly my fault, even if I had warned her beforehand that I don’t like surprises. But then, looking at her now, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by her persistence. She is Prussia’s daughter, after all. She inherited the stubbornness and the ego that the entire German family is famous for. Crossing boundaries as she sees fit seems more like a birthright than just a nuisance.

“When you give me the address, I think I might manage to reach his place on my own,” I say, my voice level. I prefer to have my own exit strategy. “Just send me the location of the nearest dimensional rift close to my home.”

I put the last Zimtrolle onto the baking sheet and walk over to the oven while Lily tends to the Pfeffernüsse. “You’ll have my word, if you promise me one thing in return: don't invite any more people to his place. It’s him. It’s you. And whatever game he has put on the table. That’s it. No more, no less.” I give her a stern look, then close the oven door.

I reach into the pocket of my joggers and slide my phone out, checking for new messages out of habit before remembering that I need to set the timer instead. I slide it back in, a bad feeling lingering in the pit of my stomach. It wouldn't be the first time I've been forced to sit through a dinner where one wrong word could trigger a diplomatic crisis, but in this case, I try to tell myself there are no stakes.

I looked up at him as I set the mixer down, though I did not let go of it yet. As he spoke, my grip on it tightened. My eyes narrowed at him. My expression hardened. In my gut, I felt an old creature stirring, one that used to be so common, yet I hadn't felt around him in a long time.

"Don't call me a 'failure,'" I muttered, my voice low, barely audible, but I knew he still heard me.

I let go of the mixer and now both my hands were clenched on the counter. I kept his gaze with my own. My lip curled up. "If I met a version of myself like that, I'd be happy for her," I said. I didn't entirely believe it. But there was some grain of truth to it. "But I would also know that she isn't me, and I'm not her. I am who I am meant to be. I am who history shaped me into. If that version of me exists, good for her. But I doubt she could handle the burdens that I have."

My hands loosened, though only slightly. I tilted my head just a bit to the side. "And you, Ludwig? You already are who you're supposed to be. You are not a failure either. You are strong, and kind, and what Germany needs. You are enough," I said, echoing back the words he once told me. "If you did meet another version of yourself who had everything you wanted, you would see that he is not you. He is not who you are meant to be. He could share your face, but he couldn't be the same person as you. And people love you as you are."

I huffed quietly and looked away for a moment. This was getting too sentimental now. Honestly, I shouldn't have to help a grown nation-man learn to love himself. But, as the creature in my gut settled back to sleep, I knew that I would be there to help him, no matter how much he tried to stop me or refused to listen.

I looked down at the dough before me. It was mixed well enough by now anyway, so I pulled a pan over and started to form the dough into balls. "Besides," I said, not looking up yet, "I am not asking you to go find that version of yourself. I am asking you to make peace with another fucked up world. And to stop trying to drag down everyone with your pessimism. It's not healthy, for you or anyone else." I placed the first ball of dough on the pan and looked up at him again.

"I know my father is a difficult person to get along with if you aren't already in his good graces. And I know how stubborn and proud you both are. I realize you are not going to hold hands and sing, 'Kumbaya' together. But if you were able to bury the hatchet and have a peaceful coexistence..." I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. I just don't want to be in the middle of this fight anymore. And I'm not going to stop loving either of you. Besides, it would also be nice if you were able to just come into my world and not be on edge all the time."

The words trail off the moment our eyes meet. My correction falters, unspoken. I want to tell her I wasn’t calling her a failure—that the resentment was never meant for anyone but the man staring back at me in the mirror. But I stop myself. Explaining would only drag the focus back to my own self-loathing, and isn’t that just another kind of selfishness? Some might argue I’ve spent years perfecting the art of moral masochism, wallowing in my flaws to avoid the messy, difficult work of change. Maybe they’re right. If I make this about my guilt again, I’ll only prove her point: that I can’t set myself aside long enough to hold her pain.

So I stay silent. I let her anger wash over me, listening as it softens into a tone that is far too soft, far too caring.

I chew the inside of my cheek, my brow furrowed as I mentally dissect the phrase ‘people love you as you are’. To me, it sounds like an impossible mathematical equation, a theorem with no logical proof. The words don't land. They hit the armor of my cynicism, and I do what I do—I run.

When Lily turns back to the Pfeffernüsse, I take the opportunity. I grab my phone and the cigarettes from the dining table and slip out onto the terrace. The cold Berlin air is a relief. I light up, leaning against the railing as the smoke curls into the gray afternoon. I turn over her words—how her world is just as fucked up as mine. Maybe she’s right. Maybe, just once, I should stop playing the martyr and do her this favor. I’ll go to her father’s. She’ll see for herself that some people are simply incompatible, that they can’t  coexist without the threat of mutual destruction. Case closed.

My phone buzzes. Three more messages from France, one from Sophie, and a reply from Theresa, the Mercedes board member. A faint smile tugs at my lips as I type back. Then Lily’s voice cuts through again: You are enough. I doubt it. People love the idea of me, or the power I represent, or the stability I provide. The real me? I’m still trying to find him under the wreckage of the last century.

I stub out the cigarette and head inside.

“Fine,” I say, my voice sounding more like a command than an agreement. It’s the only way I’ll actually follow through. I wash the smoke from my hands at the sink before returning to the kitchen counter, finally rolling up the Zimtrollen. “The 25th is family dinner here. If I get out of that unscratched, I will come. The 26th. Lunch. 13:00 sharp.”

I had to wonder further, how much like my father was he? They shared histories and legacies and pride, but did they share more than that? When young Ludwig had nightmares, could he go to his brother's office and sit on his lap until he fell asleep again like I did with my father? What shape did Gilbert's punishments take? Did he ever give Ludwig the smiles he so deeply yearned for? Did Gilbert ever make Ludwig kill a lover just so he could hold onto him more?

I almost didn't hear everything Ludwig was saying. But as he spoke, I sighed loudly and paused in my mixing to look him in the eyes. "Have you ever tried to love people on opposite sides of a war? Do you understand how tiring it is? Do you know what it's like to maintain different personas for my father and you and Gilbert? I care about both sides and I'm not going to stop, but it's very exhausting to be the in-between all the time. At least during the Cold War I just had my one side to worry about. Now I have to care about all kinds of sides and worlds, and it would just be nice if some small bit of that could join together in a good way. I don't see why you couldn't all just swallow your prides even a little and try to be diplomatic together. You might even accomplish better things for both worlds if you did."

A part of me wants to retreat into my schedule. I am a busy man. I have work to do, keeping a continent from fraying at the seams; why should I bother with the whims of a father from another universe? If I haven’t bothered to ‘get along’ with her side of the family for years, why force the issue now? And why, for the love of God, does she insist on dragging Gilbert into the center of this equation?

I look past her, my gaze landing on the dining area adjacent to the kitchen. There sits the large wooden table, a piece of furniture built to host at least a dozen guests. For the most part, however, it has only ever known two: Gilbert and me.

My fingers drum a restless rhythm against the mug. Images of the past flash behind my eyes—like ghosts sitting at that table. I have always had a tendency to get lost in dreams, trying to architect a reality where life isn't a burden loaded with unfulfilled expectations. But in my world, those dreams are always short-lived. I can almost hear the phantom sound of a hand slamming onto the wood, followed by Gilbert’s snarl, a sharp insult thrown at me or at whoever had earned his resentment that day, waking me from any romanticized fantasy I tried to hide in.

For Lily, the possibility of another universe represents an escape, a call to adventure perhaps. For me, it is a horror. Another universe bears the terrifying danger of being better than my reality. It means facing the ‘what-ifs’ my own history never allowed me to experience. A reality where Prussia was gentle and caring—the brother I always sought but never found. A reality where I could face a better version of myself: a Germany that wasn't a constant, walking disappointment to everyone around him.

I should feel some relief that her father offers no such utopia, but the weight in my chest only grows heavier. As long as she is here with me, I can maintain the illusion that this is normal—that she simply belongs in my world. Period. But to look across the threshold into another reality is to stand in a room of infinite mirrors. It’s the realization that I am not the only Ludwig, and he is not the only Gilbert. I don't want to know the versions of us that got it right. It would only manifest what I already know deep down: that my own reality is a mistake.

I let out a long, heavy sigh and set my mug down on the island with a sharp clack. I reach over and pull the plug of the mixer, the sudden silence in the kitchen drowning the noise in my head.

“You chose my world, Lily. And now you demand that I turn it upside down so you can have the family you never had?” My voice vibrates with a repressed energy. “But you never asked if I wanted that. You talk about 'swallowing one’s pride' as if it’s a cure-all, but tell me—what would you do if you entered a universe and found a version of yourself that wasn't a liability? A version where you weren't a burden or a failure?”

I step closer, pushing some of the ingredients aside before leaning against the flour-dusted counter.

"Well, at least you learned eventually. Out of curiosity, can Gilbert cook or bake?" I asked without thinking. My ears went warm, but I don't think he noticed, even as he slid the cardamom towards me. Anyway, it wasn't like he suspected anything between us. There wasn't really much between us to suspect either. We'd had sex (in Ludwig's house, yes), but that had been it so far.

I almost didn't hear his question, so deep in thought as I was. I looked up, blinking a few times as my brain finally processed his words. "That? Oh, yes, that was my father's doing. He...well, he invited Gilbert over for lunch. He was curious about this 'other Prussia,' I suppose. You can imagine how well those two egos clashed. Well I...I told Gilbert off for insulting us, and we got into a fist fight and...well the next thing I knew, my father was stabbing him." I decided to leave out the part where Frau Wagner and I had to throw his body in the dumpster and discard his wallet and phone though.

“Gilbert?” I let out a dry, breathy huff of a laugh. “He knows his way around a pan well enough to make Pfannkuchen or an omelet, but he never quite mastered the art of not breaking one too many eggs in the process.”

I pause on the image, mug touching my lips as my mind drifts back to the specific, abrasive way Gilbert used to take care of me. It was never through words of encouragement; in our house, praise is a luxury that borders on a sin. Instead, his care was expressed in the weight of a heavy hand pushing me back down into the pillows when I tried to rise with a fever, or the silent, aggressive way he’d press a cold cloth to my forehead., or the smell of a freshly cooked chicken soup with just the right amount of vegetables. He always claimed he just needed me to heal faster so I could function and fulfill my role, but looking back, I realize his touch carried a frantic sort of concern he could never put into words.

“He has the mouth of Gordon Ramsay,” I add, returning to the present with a small smirk, “but unfortunately, he lacks the Michelin stars to back it up. Still... it tastes like...” I trail off, the word Heimat caught in my throat. I clear it instead. "It tastes alright, at least."

I drain the mug, the dregs of the spices stinging my tongue, and walk over to the stove to ladle myself a refill.

“So he brought it upon himself. That explains why he’s been avoiding me like the plague; he’s too prideful to admit he lost a fight to your father.—and apparently to you, too.” I let out a low chuckle before the mug meets my lips again to give its content a gentle blow. “As much as a part of me would have paid to witness the spectacle of those two egos colliding, no thank you. I can barely manage one Prussia at a time; dealing with two in the same room is a recipe for a diplomatic disaster I don’t have the budget for.”

I turn back to the counter, watching her work with that fierce, inherited precision. She mentions us ‘getting along’, and I feel a familiar, cynical weight settle in my guts.

I was beyond grateful that my face was turned away from him when he said I wasn't dating a Prussia. Well, I suppose that much was true for now, but at the same time...Okay, I needed to focus on my task at hand to keep my face calm and without blush.

"Alright, fine, they're for my father. And yes, they are his favorite, and he's particular about them too. So if you do anything to mess these up or, I don't know, try to poison them or something, I'll..." I paused, squinting at him, and then smirked. "I'll make sure your coffee gives you a wretched stomach ache for a month." Would I really? Probably. But only if he made the first move, so it was totally fair.

I nodded along to his story. I laughed a bit towards the end as he mimicked Austria. "I learned how to cook and bake from our cook before I went to live on my own. She was very strict. It was like being in training all over again. But she also appreciated when some creative thinking led to a better outcome than the original plan would have. She didn't have any kids of her own, so I think she was secretly glad of the chance to have someone else to teach. And she always made the best dumplings."

“As much as I am tempted to hide thumbtacks in the dough... I suppose a truce is less messy,” I say, offering her a wary, thin-lipped smile. The memory of my last encounter with her father flickers behind my eyes—the flash of the blade, the metallic scent of blood, the horrific weight of her temporary death. I had justified it to myself as a necessity, but the bitter truth remains: it was my ego that reached for the knife. I shake my head again, trying to dislodge the ghost of the memory.

“Why does that not surprise me? A Junker stays a Junker, even in a Worker’s Nation. Hiring a cook? Classy-cist.” I remark, my attention shifting back to my own task. I begin spreading the cinnamon filling onto long strips of dough for the Zimtrollen.

“I used to tell myself I’d mastered the craft during field kitchen duty, but apparently, dishwater with a few sad potato skins doesn't pass for fine dining.” A faint, unbidden heat creeps up my neck. I think back to the 1960s, a time when I finally broke down and bought a cookbook. “Loreley had pity on me. She realized my fridge wasn't empty because the Marshall Plan payments were late, but because I was fundamentally incapable of feeding myself.”

I glance over my shoulder, my eyes scanning her setup. She’s precise, but I notice a missing element. Reaching into a nearby cupboard, I pull out a small tin of cardamom and slide it across the flour-dusted counter toward her.

“No poison, I swear,” I say, and take a long swallow of the Glühwein before the curiosity I’ve been suppressing finally wins out. “Apropos of poison—I mean, Preußen—That stabbing wound my brother carried with such silent, clenched-teeth pride a few weeks ago... that was your father’s doing, wasn’t it?”