#rationalstaat talking

@Mauerfrau

There were many things Gilbert carried from the past into the present—traditions, habits, games he had perfected centuries ago—only to discover that not much had changed. Much to his very delight. Just like during the age of the great cabinet wars, he gathered a small circle of power-hungry men (and on rare occasion women) to keep him company, to entertain him, to be inspected for their future potential. A collection of fine art, carefully curated, arranged around a dining table every first Tuesday of the month at Borchardt. On the first floor, behind the velvet curtain of a private belegtage, he held one of his petits soupers—a tradition he was carrying forth since Old Fritz.

The Borchardt was perfect. It allowed spectacle and secrecy in equal measure. The polite applause when Gilbert entered, the way heads turned to watch his departure—these little ceremonies fed his legend. Yet behind the curtain, nobody knew what was truly said, only guessed.

Ludwig hated these nights. Always had. To him, they had been vanity, theater for men drunk on their own importance. Gilbert had once thought his brother might learn something if he sat at his side—watch and listen while the adults discussed politics. Instead, the boy had often managed to smash all the chinaware with a single remark that cut far too deep to still be disguised as diplomacy. Outrageous, yes. Insubordinate, yes. And yet, Gilbert had sometimes caught himself grinning into his wine as self-important men lost all composure before a boy who had struck their egos at just the right angle. His dog had needed more training for sure—but when he bit, he drew blood, and that had been a sight Gilbert could always revel in.

The suppers stood in Gilbert’s calendar, not hidden but public. He wanted Ludwig to see. Wanted him to know that he, too, was still part of the game, that he too pulled the reins of the state in his own right. Perhaps not with Ludwig’s titles, not with his speeches, but with the quiet hand that moved the pieces before anyone else realized the board had shifted.

Tonight’s collection was carefully chosen. Businessmen with restless ambition, journalists who liked to think themselves cleverer than their readers, and a handful of young CDU politicians hungry enough to sell their souls for a step upward. Gilbert liked fresh blood. New pieces were the easiest to arrange in just the right order, easiest to break in without them noticing the leash snapping around their throats.

He sat at the center of the table, white-grey hair stark against the sea of dark suits. They looked at him and thought themselves powerful, until his red gaze flicked over them and reminded them of their place. He never ruled over them like a monarch; that was too obvious, too gauche. Instead, he laughed with them, drank with them, teased them into believing for a moment that they were his equals. Primus inter pares. The first among others. The severus servorum of the state.

When he leaned in, his voice dropped to that conspiratorial hush that suggested forbidden truths. He owned them. A half-spoken promise of contracts, a whispered word about new fleets, a suggestion of alliances that could outlive them all. He fed them what they craved most: recognition, importance, the illusion of being necessary. And they followed. They always followed.

Behind the sharp gleam of his eyes there was calculation. The restaurant was his battlefield, the clink of glass his musket fire, the signatures that would later follow his trophies. Somewhere, yes, Germany would benefit. Ludwig’s nation would grow stronger, steadier. But Gilbert never did it for Ludwig’s sake alone, and certainly not for his approval. He did it because this was his duty. Because without him, Germany would be naked, fumbling, soft. Gilbert would not let that happen. Not now, not ever. Not while he still drew breath.

Gilbert swirled the last of his wine before downing it in a single swallow. He rose smoothly to his feet, knocking his knuckles against the polished table. “Meine Herren,” he said, voice cutting through the hum of conversation, “as always, a pleasure. You’ve got my number should you ever need a priest to hear your confessions.”

The room erupted in laughter, too loud, too eager. Gilbert smirked, waved his hand in mock courtesy, and with a swift turn pulled the curtain aside.

On the staircase, a young CDU politician hurried after him, breath quick, ambition outpacing his restraint. “Herr Beilschmidt,” he called, hand brushing Gilbert’s shoulder.

Gilbert stopped cold. The look he gave made the young man recoil, hand dropping as if burned. Still, the young man pressed on, words tumbling out. “I keep thinking about what Schwarzer said… about Germany’s weakness. We’ve grown timid. Always apologizing, always bending. Maybe what we need isn’t alliances anymore, but strength. A push. Some vigor to remind Europe—and the world—”

Gilbert moved before he finished, slipping an arm around the young politician’s shoulders and dragging him close, voice dropping low: “Yes. Germany has made mistakes. He stumbles. He’s not perfect.” His grip tightened.. “But no one—no one—speaks of him like that but me. You want vigor? You want a push? Then listen closely: keep my brother’s name out of your mouth unless you’re singing it.”

The pat on the back came sudden and hard, more shove than gesture. The young man stumbled, slipped, and tumbled the last few stairs, sprawling across the marble in front of a startled waiter. Glass shattered as the tray clattered to the ground, liquid spilling, splinters scattering like shrapnel. Gilbert straightened his jacket as though nothing had happened, stepping neatly over the young man.

At the reception, his gaze caught on a familiar silhouette at the bar. Lily sat there, scrolling idly on her phone, nursing a drink. Gilbert’s mouth curved into something between amusement and annoyance.

------

Night drags on—too long, even for a man like him. The kind of night that settles into your bones and reminds you you’ve been dead for too long.

Prussia stands under the scalding stream of the shower, water pounding against his back like distant artillery. He leans his forehead against the cold tiles, steam curling around his shoulders. It doesn't wash the feeling off. It never does. Not twenty years of silence. Not two decades in the dark, buried in treaties and textbooks, while his so-called little brother paraded around the world like the prodigal son of Europe.

Unity, Germany called it. That sweet little lie. One nation. One future. One flag. But Prussia knows better. He built that boy from broken kingdoms and blood—dragged him up by the collar and taught him how to walk like an empire. And how does the he repay him? By pissing on Prussia’s legacy as if he owns him nothing. When left unchecked, he still rules like this smug little priest-king presiding over a temple of dysfunction. Holy, Roman, and about as imperial as a broken vending machine.

Prussia had hoped a little tough love would fix the brat. Straighten his back. Remind him who made him. But Germany is rotten in places soap can’t reach. Same hubris, same old script. He burned the world twice, and now he's lighting the match a third time, convinced the smoke is someone else’s fault.

Prussia growls and shuts off the water. He steps out, water dripping from lean muscle and scars that no longer fade. He’s been putting on mass lately—not for vanity, but out of spite. Turns out dead men can get bored. And lifting iron feels good. Clean. Nothing like the dirty compromises of Brussels and Berlin. And with the way Germany is letting himself go—dark circles under his eyes, bad posture, apologetic handshakes—someone has to keep up appearances.

He stares into the mirror. Crimson eyes meet their reflection. A cold smirk curls on his lips—the kind that once sent battalions into retreat and made Austria drink himself to a stupor. He runs a towel over his hair and throws it over his shoulder.

As he heads down the stairs, bare feet on cold wood, he hears footsteps, coming from the living room area downstairs.

“Did you miss me so much you’re skipping work for—”

He stops mid-motion.

Not his brother.

A young woman stands in the living room. She’s holding a pile of documents—slightly wide-eyed, slightly stunned, definitely not prepared for this. Her eyes snap to him, and naturally, they stay there. Understandable. He does look damn good after all. His eyes flick from her to the slightly ajar door leading to his brother’s home office, then back to her.

She stammers something, but he’s already grinning. The kind of grin that looks like trouble in every time zone. He finishes walking down the stairs and enters the stage like a man who’s never had to say "please."

“Oh,” he says, drying his face slowly, giving her time to admire the full landscape of a formerly dead Prussian war god in all his glory. Only once her gaze has taken the full tour does he lazily wrap the towel around his hips—like a mercy. Or a tease.

“How thoughtful of him,” he drawls. “So what’s the setup here, hmm? You sneak into the boss’s office to steal state secrets, but he shows up early—naked, obviously. This is German porn, after all.” He gives her the once-over again, and that wolfish smile returns, settling like a blade at the corner of his mouth.

“I like my paperwork spread out,” he says, nodding toward the long table. “Why don’t you give me a little tour of all your assets in stock.” He walks past her toward the open kitchen, moving like he owns the place. Because in some way, he does. Europe just doesn’t know it yet.

He slides a capsule into the Nespresso machine. A hiss, a rumble, the sharp scent of caffeine.

This world is weaker. Softer. But Prussia?

A/N: A short story to set the tone of Prussia's glorious return on the world stage during the early stages of the Euro Crisis. For those having read my other stuff... Lud and Gil don't really get along... that well. It's a very complicated history. So... Lud put him six feet under in 1990 as he tried to burry his past shadows. But Prussia did leave a number on Germany after all. And eventually it was only a matter of time until old ghosts catch up. Prussia's POV, third person

------

It started like all warnings do—ignored by everyone except a few sneaky Wall Street bastards who had long forgotten what real consequences looked like. But numbers didn’t lie. Not for long. When the first cracks appeared, it took only minutes for the suits to start packing up their little kingdom. Boxes full of worthless paper shuffled out of glass towers in the sticky heat of the New York noon. The real estate bubble burst, and with it, the illusion. America staggered, coughing up bad credit and broken dreams.

Europe watched. And Frankfurt held its breath. They prayed the storm wouldn’t cross the Atlantic. But storms didn’t listen to mere humans praying to the golden calf.

When it hit, it hit deep. But where Germany swayed, the South was crushed. Portugal, Italy, Greece, Spain—names on headlines, numbers on balance sheets. Easy to ignore. Easier to blame. But the foundation shook. The Euro, that delicate web spun from compromise and bad faith, began to fray.

Germany found himself at the heart of it—again. The so-called responsible one. The sober accountant of Europe, standing at the ruins of a legacy he never fully owned but always had to pay for. Some said the Southern members forged their books, lived beyond their means, and then turned to Germany with outstretched palms and desperate eyes. Others claimed he brought it on himself—used the weakened Euro to fuel his rise, pushed exports like a pusher feeds a junkie, built an empire of dependencies that now demanded support.

And Prussia watched. Listened. Grinned.

He had known Germany better than anyone. Had raised him once from fractured states and false hopes. Had shaped him in his own image, though the boy had never really thanked him for it. And now the brat was whining about fairness, about burden-sharing, about everyone being so mean to him.

Pathetic.

But something stirred when he heard that cry. Not pity—Prussia didn’t do pity. No, it was duty. Twisted, bitter, inescapable duty. The kind only old ghosts felt when they still haunted their past lives. And Prussia was a ghost—had been, for two decades. Forgotten. Buried under the 2+4 treaty that led to reunification. But ghosts didn’t sleep forever.

He came back on a cold October day—October 3rd, 2009. The irony of the date was not lost on him. Germany saw him first as a shadow, a shape at the edge of reason. Then, over weeks, Prussia began to take form again. Flesh, bones, a familiar sneer. Crimson eyes that hadn’t dulled with time. Long hands, lean frame, silver-white hair like the sword he had once used to carve his kingdom with. He looked like himself. He felt like himself. But older. Sharper.

He wasn’t here to play nice.

He read the papers, watched the talking heads on TV foam at the mouth. Everyone was shouting: austerity, bailout, moral hazard, solidarity. He laughed. Those fools had no idea what kind of monster they had woken.

“Well, well,” he muttered, stepping back into the land that had buried him. “Look who broke his toys again.”

He brushed the dust from his uniform and put on his boots. The same ones he had once marched across Europe in. Time to get to work. Germany wouldn’t like it, but Germany had never liked the medicine.

“Get me the numbers. The ledgers. The lies dressed up as budgets. Let’s see what mess you’ve made this time, boy.”

Because Prussia knew this much: without him, Germany was nothing. And deep down, even that presumptuous stiff-necked fool knew it too.

The bond between them was ugly. Undesirable but inseparable. Codependent. Eternal. Love? No. Brotherhood? Maybe. A mutual sentence, more like.