Author's Note:

This little piece of chaos is the full story behind my earlier oneshot "Homecoming", though you don't need to have read it first. Don't know how much I'll be updating, but I will do my best to write this thing. Oh, and if anything seems confusing, look at the A.N. on "Homecoming". Most things can be answered there. Enjoy!

Any person who was under the impression that the landscape of Russia was a frigid hellhole of ice and snow and misery was a moron.

Or, at the very least, a fairly intelligent person who had not had the pleasure of seeing the country during the late summer months when it was a wonderland of green grass and warm wind.

Eh, either way.

Prussia was cheerfully strutting down the sidewalks of Moscow, a motion that Hungary had once described as his own personal brand of swag; smelling the fragrant, flower-filled air and taking in the sights around him.

The city was, as was the norm for any late afternoon in early September, bustling.

People dashed around (and nearly collided with on a few occasions) the ivory-headed nation in their rather fruitless attempts to arrive home earlier than they had the previous day.

Prussia could have laughed at them. After all, what was two minutes extra on a commute time?

But today was Friday, so the need to return to a point of origin in order to then go out again and have some fun for once made a bit of sense.

The streets were packed. Cars zipped in and out of lanes in what could only be described as an attempted, real-life remake of any of The Fast and the Furious films.

Though, thankfully, with much fewer explosions.

Children ran past, giggling gleefully at everything around them, while their haggard parents attempted vainly to keep up.

Business men is suits trotted along in that almost robotic, yet still haughty, manner that seemed so prevalent no matter what place they originated.

Students whooped and hollered, reveling in their newfound freedom and young couples kissed in alleyways.

Overall, it was a nice view.

Prussia himself was in absolutely no hurry. Although he too had somewhere to be as much as any of these folks, he felt no need to pick up the pace. His host had given him a rough estimate on when to arrive and Prussia, who liked taking his time when traveling, intended to indulge fully on that little fact.

Crimson colored eyes turned thoughtfully upward to gaze at the heavens, which were, in Prussia's opinion, at their most lovely in the evening. The sky was a luscious azure blue and fluffy wisps of clouds danced across its silken surface.

Perhaps they were trying to get to their weekend plans as well.

Prussia could not help but smile. Moscow might not be one of his cities, but he could still appreciate its beauty nonetheless.

Like his own beloved Berlin, this Russian metropolis was a wonderful mixture of magnificent centuries-old architecture and modern convenience.

True, there were quite a few structures left over from Soviet times that were… shall we say, less than eye catching, but they could easily be ignored in favor of the plethora of plants sprouting up everywhere.

Prussia inhaled deeply and within seconds a colorful pallet of aromas were dancing in his nostrils: baking bread, trees, and a distant, wet smell that might have been the waterway.

The bouquet easily settled in his nose and made themselves at home, as if wanting to come along for the ride. The nation didn't mind; they were pleasant passengers.

Several more blocks, two right turns later, and Prussia had arrived at his destination.

He grinned up at the thing in front of him. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the right place, not only because he had been here so many times before, but because the building was such a monolith it was impossible to mistake for anything else.

The Kremlin was by far the crown jewel of the Moscow skyline.

Another man might have been intimidated about walking toward this fantastical facility, but Prussia had nearly two millennia of life under his metaphorical belt and had been in this very spot when the palace was built.

So he sauntered on over like he owned the joint, all the while confidently whistling Bon Jovi's "Shot through the heart".

The watchman at one of the many gates checked his I.D. but at this point it was more for forms sake than anything else. "Gilbert Beilschmidt", as his pass proclaimed him, was so frequently a visitor that he had become acquainted with all the security officers.

This particular guard was the Wednesday and Friday guy.

A nod and a return of his card later, Prussia was in. The interior of the Kremlin was breathtaking in its elegance and grace, but Prussia barely noticed. He was a man on mission.

Or man in search of TV and booze.

Same thing really.

Many, many people visit Moscow's iconic landmark every day. Whether politicians making decisions for the entire country or fat tourists looking for cheesy new Facebook photos, each unique individual walks the same shining hallways.

They think they see it all: the amazing artworks, the intricately designed columns, and the absolutely stunningly decorated rooms.

But very few are privy to an apartment just off one of the staircases. This space is petite when put against the rest of the Kremlin, but still fairly large compared to the average domicile.

Prussia trotted over and opened the door as if it was his own, shouting as he entered.

"Hey! Russland! I'm here!"

Prussia shut the door behind him with a hushed whump and wandered over to the kitchen, where his companion was sure to be.

Sure enough, the statuesque man was waiting for him by the refrigerator, alcohol in hand. His right held the usual flask of vodka, but the in other a German lager waited for Prussia.

Ah, now that was a pleasing sight.

Russia's smile was childlike and sweet as ever. "Priyvet, my friend." he said, in that soft, melodious voice of his.

Prussia smiled. Friend.

Indeed that is what they were.

Though the two men had known each other for nearly as long as they had been alive, their contact had almost always been confrontational, starting with that disastrous incident on a lake (thanks to Prussia's incompetence) up to the fiasco of the Berlin Wall.

But lately, their relationship had changed.

Prussia had returned home from his adventures with the Doctor a while back and Russia had helped him gradually get over his grief about the separation. It hadn't been easy, but Russia was a highly patient man.

They began talking more and found they actually rather enjoyed each other's company. So a routine of sorts had evolved: Prussia would come over a couple times a week when neither of them were busy with meetings and they would hang out.

They could have alternated between here and Germany's house, but Prussia had said nein. This was for two reasons, neither which Prussia had shared at all with Russia.

The first was because his brother, rather like the rest of the world, did not trust Russia and would not have liked the northern nation spending copious amounts of time in his home.

The second, more blush-causing reason, was that Germany had the habit of inviting Italy over. And as happy as Prussia was that Germany had gotten together with his childhood love, the two of them had a tendency to be… loud.

So the Kremlin it was.

Russia set down the beer on the counter in front of Prussia. "How has your week been, Prussia?" he asked conversationally.

Prussia lifted up the liquor and took a long draught, relishing in the rich taste. "Alright, I suppose." He answered. "I vent to a few of ze meetings vith Germany, though it vas more for giggles." He swallowed another swig. "Ve never get anyzing done anyvay."

Russia nodded in understanding. "God knows that is the truth." He sighed sadly. "It is a mystery as to why we even bother with them at all."

Prussia knew how little his friend approved of the... shenanigans, for lack of a better word, that occurred at the world conferences. Russia might have appeared to possess the simple-mindedness of a little kid, but in reality he was a brilliant strategist and had no tolerance for the antics of fools.

Then again, compromise was almost unheard of in Russia, so perhaps the lack of productivity in the negotiations could equally be attributed to him.

But Prussia didn't care that much and, thusly, said nothing more on the issue.

"So you vant to watch some Doctor Who tonight?" he queried, changing the subject. Russia looked up at him and smirked, clearly having recognized the tactic.

Shiza. And here I vas thinking I vas smooth.

"Da." He answered, eyes warm. "That sounds lovely." He slipped thoughtfully at his drink. "We were almost done with the ninth Doctor, da?"

Prussia shifted a bit, allowing for more comfort on the hard bar stool. "Ja, we had just finished vith ze empty child arc."

Unconsciously, Prussia shivered slightly. He had had the unfortunate experience of meeting that masked boy in person and it had terrified him. To see a human being, and a child no less, twisted into something so… grotesque and unnatural had been very unnerving.

Some of the old fear must have flittered across his face, because Russia frowned suddenly. "You okay?" he quizzed.

Prussia inwardly banished the unease and outwardly shook his head. "It's nothing. Don't vorry about it." He stood up and stretched languidly like a cat. "Living room?" he asked.

Russia obviously wanted to know more, but he didn't press it. Prussia was well aware that the first rule in Russia was never to ask questions.

Damn you, Stalin.

Prussia wandered into the parlor and flopped down on the space's single couch. Russia followed, politely moving his comrade's long legs aside before sitting down. He picked up the remote off the small, brown coffee table and clicked it. The TV twinkled and glowed gently, returning to wakefulness after its many hours of rest. Doctor Who waited patiently from its home on Netflix.

Russia selected the next episode from the list and pressed play. The city of Cardiff, Wales came into view. Prussia watched with interest as the Doctor, with his many companions, discussed the need to refuel the TARDIS's engines.

A small pang made its unwelcome, though not uncommon, path through Prussia's heart. Every time he watched an episode of this series, the pale nation always felt an ugly amalgamation of guilt, gloom, and grief slide its way into his stomach.

Not that it stopped him from watching of course.

Russia lifted his hips and pulled out a warm-looking, red blanket, which had been wedged somewhere between his butt and the space between the sofa cushions. He tossed the thing over both of their torsos, snuggling in like a kitten and smiled. "Ah, comfy~" he purred.

Prussia wiggled around until he too was "comfy", leaning against the back couch and took another swig of malt.

Mmm~ A good friend, a good beer, and a good episode.

This was undoubtedly "the life" everyone seemed so fond of talking about.

They watched in companionable silence for a while: nothing needed to be said and the episode was shaping up to be quite the exciting one, with an old enemy making an appearance.

About one fourth of the way done, Russia randomly piped up. "You know who Margaret Blaine reminds me of?" he asked.

Prussia cast a glance at him, curious but not overly so. He was probably going to make a lame joke by saying the name of one of their colleagues. Belgium perhaps. She had a habit of simpering like the slitheen. Or maybe America for the whole weight thing.

"Vho?" he queried.

"A few of the agents my government sent to the West during the Cold War."

Well, of all the potential answers, that would certainly not have been at the top of the list. Prussia stared at his seat-mate, completely flabbergasted. "Und how," he pressed slowly, "did you come to zhat conclusion?"

Russia grinned at him, a look of satisfaction in his eyes that only math teachers and super-villains get when about to explain something complicated and intricate. Like calculus or how exactly they are going to steal that diamond and there is nothing Superman can do about it.

"Because they too wore masks that were almost impossible to see through. They blended in perfectly with the others around them and understood all the cultural nuances so as not to seem suspect in any way. "

Russia, like Italy, had a habit of using his hands when he was talking, particularly when trying to make an important point. Prussia had to stop himself from chuckling.

"What's more, she made the mistake a few of those spies made, too." Russia's rather large palms were being held at a slight angle, so his friend could tell he was not yet finished. And he wanted Prussia to ask him what that mistake was.

Well, the other nation had nothing better going on. He would do his comradely duty.

"Und vhat vas zhat, Russia?" he questioned.

Russia's eyes had taken on a gentle sort of quality.

"Many of them, too, fell in love with the people they lived with."

Prussia smiled and leaned his arm against the soft pillows. "Really?" he inquired. "They vound up staying zhere?"

Russia nodded. "Da. My agents' missions ended in one of three ways: one, they would fail and be captured by the authorities of whatever land they were in. Two, they would succeed and return home with valuable information for my government. Or three, they would completely lose track of their mission and become the person they pretended to be, disappearing forever." Russia hummed sadly. "I envied some of them."

Prussia cocked his head to side like the bird Hungary was so certain he was. "Vhy is zat?"

"Because they had a chance to escape the misery that was my life during the Soviet Union."

Prussia took this in with the same speed and reaction he had for England's cooking: slowly and unhappily.

Russia almost never talked about his time as a communist. It was been an event that had impacted everything worldwide, even if it had lasted less than a century.

Prussia understood pieces of it; after all, he too had been under the boot of the totalitarian powers.

But nobody had had it worse off than Russia himself. He had been where the nightmare started and, thusly, where the worst of the damage had been done.

Prussia trembled a bit in old fear. The Soviet Union's control had been like having everything that he was sucked out of him.

Culture, food, laughter, dancing.

All had limits put on them in a vain attempt to create a perfect social system.

But this attempt had backfired and had inversely made a man-eating state: a colorless, authoritative horror that would turn a unique human being into a cookie-cutter puppet of the Party.

Prussia was well aware that his current political setup was far from perfect, and the good Lord knew he had had worse than it before.

(Hitler was rotting in the worst pit Hell had to offer)

But at least it tried.

It accepted the fact that nothing human-made, house nor cake nor politics, would be perfect and the only thing one could do is work their hardest to make the next day brighter. It took the good aspects of socialism, such as universal healthcare and equal rights for everyone regardless of social class or gender, and mixed it with the creativity and ingenuity of capitalism.

Overall, Prussia was happy.

Russia… well, Prussia could never tell when he was happy or not.

He always tried to project an air of cheerful contentedness, but, like many supposed traits of Russia's, it could have been an act.

Prussia did know that he was happy when they spend their fun Friday nights together, that much was obvious.

But the rest? That was a mystery deeper than Lake Baikal.

Prussia rolled his shoulders, an old habit of his for clearing away unpleasant thoughts.

No moping, PreuBen.

He finished off the final drops of his beer and stood up, heading into the kitchen for another. After digging around in Russia's overcrowded fridge (how much borscht could a man eat?!) he found his prize and trotted back to the living room, already drinking it like a babe with a bottle. Russia crooked his lips at him, clearly amused.

"You and that lady drink of your's, Prussia."

Prussia's cardinal-colored eyes narrowed. There were three things you didn't insult a German about: his wurst, his woman, and, most importantly, his beer.

"Und just vhat is zat supposed to mean?" he growled. Russia continued to torment him with that un-fazable smirk.

"I'm just saying that it is sort of a… weaker link on the alcohol family tree." He dramatically opened his flask. "Now, vodka, that's a man's drink." He took a big gulp of the so called manlier stuff, swallowing without so much as twitch at the strong taste.

Prussia glared at him. He liked to think of himself as champion of all things intoxicant (though his relatives and Hungary usually preferred the term "alcoholic" but screw them and their inability to party as hard as the awesome Prussia!).

So to have his most favorite kind of hooch, his baby, be called weak and ineffective at getting its drinker drunk?!

Russia was cruisin' for a bruisin', as America liked it say.

"Vould you like to make a little bet?" He asked.

Russia smiled, like a parent whose child had said something cute. "What are the terms?"

Prussia stood up straighter in front of him, like his old days as a military commander. "Ve will switch drinks vith each other und see vho lasts longer. Ze winner gets bragging right und the loser has to listen."

It wasn't a very elaborate reward/ punishment system, but who cares? Both parties were gonna be inebriated out of their minds anyway.

Russia seemed to be thinking this too, if his nodding in agreement was anything to go by.

"Da, okay." He said. "Sounds fun." He handed Prussia his flask, while his competitor did the same with his bottle.

Prussia looked down at the object held tightly in his fingers, the teensiest bit nervous. He had had the Russian beverage before and had not liked it much. It was… too hot somehow.

Maybe this was a bad- NEIN!

He was not about to show himself up in front of Russia!

That show was only for his brother, Hungary, and any of the hundreds of his own people attending Oktoberfest.

Let's do zhis!

He tipped his head back and downed a sizeable portion of the drink. Immediately, a grimace of pain took up residence on his thin face.

Vodka wasn't called firewater for nothing: the liquid burned its way down his throat like a clear, dancing flame, spreading into his chest and stomach. Prussia fought the urge to cough.

Russia watched the whole thing with only idle curiosity before chugging a good half of the beer he had been given. Much to the relief of Prussia's (overly large) ego, he, too, had a sour expression to make.

"Ich! It's like a mouthful of yeast!"

Prussia laughed. "Ha! At least I didn't say anyzhing after I drank!" He grinned with pride. "Now vhich is zhe veaker booze?"

Russia rolled his eyes at his friend's complete disregard for good sportsmanship. "You're a dork. And the bet is not over yet." He took another swig.

Prussia followed suit and was relieved that the vodka was less bad on the second go-around.

Maybe he could win this thing after all.

The two watched the rest of the episode without talking, the quiet only interrupted by the sounds of swallowing spirits. When everything was over and Blaine had gotten turned into an egg (what the bloody fuck was that about?), Prussia was sure of two things. One, the next episode was going to be really fucking sad. And two, he was very drunk.

"I miss you, Doctor!" he lamented into the now-empty flask. "Vhy did you leave me here on zhis-hic!- boring rock!"

Russia glared at him through hazy heliotrope eyes. "Boring rock, my fat ass!" He slurred. "This place is great!" He waved one of his arms for emphasis.

Huh.

Apparently Russia can get drunk.

Go figure.

Prussia would have to tell Germany that tomorrow. If he remembered, that is.

And at this point, that was getting less and less likely.

"Zhis place is boring!" He rebutted. "You ever seen a star explode or swam in an ocean zhat covered an entire planet? Zhat shiza is great."

Russia smiled at him stupidly. "You're great." He teased.

Prussia giggled back in joviality, but for some reason the blush on his cheeks was real.

Must be the alcohol.

"Und you're drunk, Russia. You should go lie down somevhere und sleep it off." Prussia made a sort of flopping gesture with his hand that was meant to convey sleeping, but didn't seem to be conveying quite right.

Bad hand, he outta fire that dumb thing and hire a new one.

But Russia seemed to have gotten the message nonetheless.

"Okay," he said. "I'm gonna sleep it off right here." He dropped sideways onto Prussia's legs like a tree that had been felled.

Timber!

Russia laid his head on Prussia's lap, giggling like a little kid. Prussia himself marveled at how warm his drinking buddy's body was.

Seriously, who said Russia was cold? This fucker was like a heated up boulder.

It's not a boulder! It's a rock! A rock!

Russia peered up at him. "You're not a boulder."

Shiza! Did I say that out loud?!

Russia leveled him a relatively flat look. "Da, you did. And that one, too."

Prussia leaned his head back against the armrest and groaned dramatically. "Fuck! I can't keep mein thoughts in mein head!"

"Nope." Russia replied bluntly. He patted Prussia's knee. "But that's okay. You're still awesome."

"Damn right I am…" Prussia mumbled. Russia climbed up higher and leaned against his neck, muttering something about badgers.

Prussia, for some reason he couldn't quite explain even to himself, pressed his nose to Russia's champagne-colored locks, inhaling his scent.

He smelled like pine forests, clean, cozy blankets, and crisp, cold mountain air.

Not a bad perfume in the least.

No doubt having felt Prussia's nose on him, Russia looked up at him in confusion and for the first time Prussia realized just how close their proximity was.

When had that happened?

Violet orbs met garnet ones, their respective owners neither blinking nor breathing, both waiting for whatever happened next.

Years later, when asked, the two men would not be able to say who leaned in first, but they both agreed that it didn't matter much in the longer run.

Because the next thing they knew, two sets of lips had met and were kissing softly.

Prussia held very, very still against Russia, like a startled animal, not sure of what to do.

Why was this happening?

Who gave anybody the notice that this was a good idea?

Russia?!

But then a strange sort of calm settled over Prussia's whole body. It was relaxing and gentle, like an ocean swell. Or, more accurately, a Russian summer breeze.

It was relief is what it was.

Prussia pulled Russia a bit closer, tangling his fingers in flaxen follicles. Russia deepened the kiss and he could taste the unholy cocktail of beer and vodka that was undoubtedly coating his own mouth. Russia pressed a silken tongue against the edge of his lips and his friend reflexively opened wider.

A new haze had begun to cover Prussia's mind; he was getting drunk all over again, but this time not on alcohol. Warmth seemed to be spreading everywhere. The room was spinning and he was floating somewhere between floor and ceiling.

But he had no complaints.

Prussia awoke to sunlight in his eyes and pounding in his head.

"Ugggh…" he groaned.

His temple was throbbing to the beat of an American rap song and something very heavy was on his chest.

Vhat zhe hell…?

Prussia blearily blinked his bloodshot blinkers and tilted his chin to look down.

And seconds later wished that he had not.

There was Russia, splayed across his torso, completely passed out and snoring the snore of the drunk and tired.

Prussia's heart must have decided that his ribcage was getting to be kind of a rough neighborhood because it now seemed to have taken up residence in his mouth.

He held his breath to keep himself from panicking, a trick from his centuries of combat training.

What had happened?!

His booze-beseeched brain began backpedaling backwards in search of answers.

The poor little guy must have had to make so many phone calls…

But finally, his exhausted mind pulled up a few blurry images of Doctor Who, alcohol, kissing, and then…

Prussia blushed reflexively. The last few memories were even more mangled and seemed to contain only an assortment of clashing mouths and sliding bodies.

Well, shit.

Prussia took stock of the situation. He was naked, very hung-over, and there was a man asleep on him who he was fairly sure he had slept with. Also, he was quite terrified. The key thing to do here was to make a plan.

The frightened nation tried to stay calm, if only because that was his only good option right now.

What should he do?

Should he wait until Russia woke up and then go from there.

Because that wouldn't be awkward at all…

Should he bolt and run home?

But that would require getting up.

Prussia wiggled a bit and found he could not move. Russia's bear-like form was acting as barrier too heavy to move out from under.

The trapped man cursed under his breath. This was not good. Oh, he had been is slightly similar situations (one did not get to be leader of the Bad Touch Trio without quite a few flings here and there), but he had never been physically stuck and never with someone like Russia.

Dear God, Russia?!

Of all the nations he could have gotten very drunk and/ or had sex with, why did it have to be him?!

Russia was… well, Russia!

The big creepy guy who scared the ever-loving piss out of everyone he came in contact with!

Why in the fuck had he… fucked him?!

Prussia decided that his many misdeeds as a country where finally catching up to him and God had lured him into a hopeless trap with his two favorite things (besides fighting): beer and Doctor Who.

Zhat bastard! "HE loves us all", mein ass!

Prussia had just started categorizing all the bad shit he had done since he was a newborn nation, when he felt something stir against him.

Russia was slowly waking up, twitching a bit and growling.

Prussia seemed to have spontaneously become a statue.

Maybe he had seen a Basilisk and had been petrified, like in those books of England's.

Or that chick with the snakes on her head (what was it with snakes and turning people to stone?) from Mama Greece's legends.

What was her name?

Medusa. That was it.

Russia must not have noticed that his pseudo-pillow had become a pillar because he yawned contently and opened his eyes like nothing was wrong.

He peered up at Prussia, sleepy and somewhat confused.

"Privet, Prussiya." He said. "What…" He looked around the room, taking in the empty beer bottles, the clothes strewn all over the place, and his flask, having fallen forlornly to the floor.

"Good morning?" he finished.

Prussia's heart sank all the way from his mouth, past its rightful place in his chest, and landed in his stomach with a thud.

Russia was actually attempting to try and make this seem normal.

Well, Prussia would give him an A for effort.

"Hallo." Prussia answered. His tongue felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper.

Russia peeled himself off Prussia, his face red enough to make a tomato jealous.

He must have finally realized the horrible momentum of this occasion.

Prussia got up off the couch, body stiff and stinging in places. He grabbed his discarded garments from the previous night and hurriedly began putting them on. A quick glance out of the corner of his eye showed Russia doing the same.

He began tying the laces on his old tennis shoes, fingers trembling with haste. Russia hovered awkwardly about a foot away.

"Would you like some coffee? Or breakfast?" he asked, voice low and a little pained.

Prussia could see what he was trying to do, but his… whatever they were now was really not in the mood.

"Nein." He stood up. "I need to go." He said bluntly.

Russia looked like a puppy who had been kicked.

"Okay." He trembled.

Prussia nodded and made his way to the front door, giving Russia a half-hearted wave as he exited. He found his path out of the Kremlin by instinct alone and trotted down the steps to the early-morning Moscow streets. A few people were out, mostly old couples enjoying their Saturday sunrise.

Prussia paid them no attention as he traversed through the city.

He moved at a brisk pace, but was no longer fearful.

Instead, his heart was filled with sorrow and hatred at his own stupidity.

In a single evening, he had ruined one of the best friendships he had ever had.

He was grateful nobody was around, so they didn't have to see the silent tears streaming down his face.