This is a companion fic to Fools We Are, part two of my Persephone series, and is essentially a quick moment in time that centres on Prussia dealing with his inevitable death, complete with some comfort between old enemies. This fic can stand alone, but reading Fools We Are might clarify some things and help with the understanding.

Spoilers for the new updates.

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Requiem of a Soldier

It wasn't so bad, this dying stuff. Sure, he'd been a bit freaked out at first, but he got over it because that was what his awesome self did. He didn't curl up and cry, he didn't start yelling and throwing inanimate objects, and he didn't most certainly didn't ask anyone for help, deciding that this was a problem better solved by himself. He had merely spent a day or two in his room, thinking, before he had emerged with his priorities sorted and his goals clear, sauntering down to the reading room, whistling in a way he knew would annoy the third occupant of the house.

He hadn't counted on the little master being observant for once in his life, and it figured that the one time Prussia didn't want Austria to notice him would the one time he did. Yet something unexpected had come of this, something that Prussia had craved in his subconscious mind since before the hard-won war that had granted him custody of Germany, something he had fought and wounded and maimed for. Austria had looked at him, had seen him, had not taken the easy way out even though Prussia had offered it to him. He had accepted Prussia's pleas, soothing his worries with promises that he would watch out for West, and Prussia could remember the razor-sharp relief that had lanced through him at that, unfamiliar feelings of gratitude washing over him for this nation who had been his enemy for so long, and who had been the centre of his world for almost as long as Germany had been.

And then Austria had let him kiss him, let him lay with him, and Prussia knew that even the little master wasn't cruel enough to be doing this all out of pity or some misguided sense of duty to help ease the dying man on his way out. The priss may have been stripped of the power he had held onto for so long, but he still had the bearings of a Habsburg through and through.

Prussia smirked at the thought, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared out the window, his eyes focusing on everything and nothing. These sleepless nights were becoming more and more frequent, and the smirk slowly slid from his face as thoughts of oblivion entered his mind, making him drag a weary hand across his face. When his hand returned to his side the expression on his face was bleak again, and he wondered what would happen to him. Would he disappear, just as Rome had? Like the little master had said the Holy Roman Empire had? Was there a God to greet fallen nations, welcoming them into His embrace, or was he doomed to spiral into nothingness, survived only by a legacy that people had already forgotten?

He choked back a bark of hysterical laughter, his breathing accelerating even as he tried to calm himself down, bitterly wishing he had the little master's ability to push everything down in a nicely locked box. He'd have to tell France and Spain, he thought, trying to distract himself from thoughts of nothingness. He'd have to tell them, and he wondered what they'd say, if they'd even care. France remembered Rome, he knew. As one of the oldest of the European nations that hardly came as a surprise, and even now remnants of Rome's building projects could be see dotting the landscape. Maybe France knew what awaited him in the abyss. Maybe Spain knew. Maybe they'd care when he was gone.

Miss him a little.

Prussia laughed shakily, but a light touch to his wrist distracted him, and he stiffened before turning, holding the little master's gaze for a long, tense moment before he looked away. The hand around his wrist slid up to his shoulder as Austria stepped forward to stand beside him, clad only in the large dress shirt he'd fallen asleep in. Prussia said nothing as Austria's hands—and oh, he remembered those hands only too well, remembered them playing piano, remembered them clutching sceptres of gold and precious metals, remembered them holding and being held, remembered them stained with blood and wielding a blade, no traces of a ring in sight—moved, sliding across the front of his unbuttoned white shirt, across his chest, and he realised, with an odd sort of clarity, that the little master was taller than him.

Austria said nothing, but he didn't need to. This wasn't the first time he had woken up to find Prussia not curled up behind him but standing by the same window, and Prussia had stopped being defensive after the first couple of times Austria had tried to tell him to go back to sleep.

So they stood there, the two of them, bathed in the light of nothingness, for there was no moon tonight. He could barely see Austria's expression in the gloom, but when he reached up to the little master's face he could feel that the former empire's eyes were closed.

"Hey, little master?" he ventured, exhaling as Austria's eyes fluttered open, feeling dark lashes against his fingertips and hearing an answering sound from the mouth that was but a few centimetres away. "You think they'll remember me?" And it was hard to say whom he spoke of, for he didn't know himself. Did he mean the other nations, the men and women he had fought with and against, or the world that had already forgotten? Would France and Spain remember him, remember banding together to fight against the very nation who stood before him in the darkness now, the only thing keeping the fear of oblivion at bay? Would Austria remember him?

Would Germany?

The little master was silent, and Prussia cursed himself for speaking in the first place, breaking the unspoken pattern of the last few weeks, but then Austria sighed, the one that meant he was thinking and not the one that meant what a ridiculous thing to say, you fool.

"We always remember," he said, his voice calm and professional but with an edge of sadness that Prussia had long since learned to pick up on. He rested his forehead on Austria's shoulder, hearing a sharp intake of breath by his ear, and smirked. "Fool," Austria murmured, and Prussia couldn't help but laugh lowly at that, his arms moving wrap around Austria's slim waist, holding him close. In the darkness his weakness didn't matter anymore and he allowed himself to draw comfort from where he could. It was unconventional, and there were still so many unspoken things between them, old bitterness and anger for deeds that could not be undone, but the grudging respect had given way to something that neither of them were prepared to name, and Prussia was realistic enough (or perhaps bitter enough) to realise that they likely never would.

But he could do one thing, and before he could lose his nerve he pushed away from Austria, rushing to the old flute case he still kept in his room, the original one with its faded velvet and musty smell, unlike the newer one he had given to West to hold the transverse flute that he had cherished for so long. He found what he was looking for right where he left it, and for a moment his chest hurt, seeing what he had willingly reduced one of his old steel swords to. He hurried back to Austria before he could talk himself out of it, grasping the other man's hand in a way he had done so many times before, both in violence and in some messed up manner of peace.

"Just to ensure you don't forget me, little master," he said, sliding the steel ring onto the ring finger of Austria's left hand. "Put it anywhere you want after I'm gone, but I know how much stock you Habsburgs put into these damn things."

Austria's breathing had stilled, his hand cold and unresponsive in Prussia's, and for a moment Prussia feared he would shake his head, that the disdain from days of old would come back full-force and that he would remove the steel ornament, so different from the gold he had once prized. But Austria did no such thing. Instead he drew Prussia forward, and he could feel the press of cold lips against his forehead.

"You great fool," Austria said quietly, "I couldn't forget you even if I wanted to."

It made Prussia snort, another small bark of laughter leaving him, less hysterical and more confident than before. He allowed himself to think again of the potential oblivion that awaited him, and knew, as a soldier who had seen many battles knew, that the fear was not gone completely. But it was abated, and he felt for all the world like the last piece of an invisible bridge had been laid across the chasm that had separated himself and Austria for centuries.

"My awesome self is pretty hard to forget," he crowed, though he kept his volume low, oddly aware of the level of his own voice for once. Austria sighed, but Prussia could feel the other nation's hand curling around his own, could feel the rapidly warming temperature of the steel ring against his skin, and he brushed his finger wordlessly over the band.

It was enough.