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Chapter Text

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

That was the only noise Third Reich could hear after he crashed his plane straight into Soviet territory. His eyes were shut as he felt his body basically melt into the snow. His once pristine black uniform that was decorated with medals and made him a symbol of the power that Germany had was ripped and covered in blood.

If he could think straight he’d be humiliated. Luckily (Or unluckily) he was barely holding on so he could barely think at all as he stared up from the cold snow to the sky. It was dark but calming as at least he would die under the night sky beneath beautiful stars.

However once he felt maggots crawling around in his skin he realized where he was.

Immediately he tried to pull himself up but he winced and soon realized he had been injured by what seemed to be a giant piece of metal from the crash in the gut and that’s where those tiny brown maggots had been chewing on his bloody flesh that smelt terrible like he was dying which he definitely was.

The pain was like a sudden burst of fire searing through the flesh. The world narrows to a tunnel, and for a moment, nothing else matters except the excruciating pressure that builds in the pit of his stomach. The wound stings, a deep, ache that radiates outward, as if the very core of his body is being twisted.

The snow around him was silent— but not empty. Every drip echoed like a death knell in the dark forest. His ears rang. His heartbeat felt like it was slowing, syncing with the falling blood.

‘So this is it?’ He thought. It was a pathetic way to die for a country that was supposedly a strategic genius. Also quiet pathetic but he couldn’t dwell on that.

Then comes the burning. It’s not just pain— It’s a searing, gnawing sensation that feels like the very acids of the stomach have leaked out into the wound, eating at the flesh, corroding everything it touches. His gut churns, sending waves of nausea that mix with the agony of the injury, a sickening heat spreading up the chest, into the throat. It feels like every breath stokes the flames inside, the burning intensifying with every movement. But he pushes through and pulls himself against a tree.

Time passed in fragments. His body throbbed in waves, each movement a new betrayal. He tasted iron, felt dampness spreading through his coat. Cold air met wet cloth, and the chill set into his bones.

His pride was quieter now. It didn’t shout like it used to. It whispered. ‘Get up. You’re still alive. You’re not done.’

With a grunt, he dug his hands into the snow and pulled. Every inch was a battle. Snow stuck to his gloves. His breath hitched. His side screamed. But he reached a tree and slumped against it, chest heaving, vision blurring around the edges. The pressure in his core was unbearable now, every breath a test of will.

He looked down and wished he had simply shot himself. He was somewhere cold, but it was still Europe. Still ground he recognized. Maybe he could make it back. Berlin may have fallen, but it still existed. A city didn’t vanish. A country didn’t die in a day. He could cauterize the wound. He could live.

Before he could do anything, he saw a red light in the distance— Small but steady and moving. It glowed brighter with every step toward him, and soon, beneath the flickering red, he saw the shape of a man.

A hat. A coat. A presence he once knew as well as his own reflection.

The man stopped in front of him, snow settling silently between them. The familiar shape of the ushanka, the cut of the uniform— It all belonged to a memory, one that felt like it had burned years ago but refused to turn to ash.

”I’m surprised you’re alive… Your country already fell yet you still breathe and you haven’t died from blood loss.” The voice had that memorable accent but there was something underneath all that power and anger. It was a tinge of softness. Third Reich clocked that immediately because despite being in this pathetic state he knew him. They were together at one point.

The voice carried that same Russian lilt he remembered— Harsh but grounded. Yet beneath the stern delivery was something that didn't quite reach hatred. A thread of something older, quieter. Hurt, maybe. A wound left unhealed. That was a voice of someone who didn’t hate him but definitely didn’t forgive him either.

He looked up at him. Usually the German would be mocking him and grinning like a madman yet he had solemn look of acceptance as he spoke up. “So you’ve come to kill me?” The next words shocked him.

”Kill you? Are you insane, Reich? As if. I wouldn’t let you go so easily. Not after what you did to me.”

Chapter Text

It was warm.

Everything felt warm— The kind of warmth that makes your skin feel too tight, like you’ve been wrapped in a blanket that’s far too thick for the season, suffocating and heavy. But this wasn’t a comfort. It was as if the very air itself was weighed down by an unbearable tension. The tall man could feel it in his chest, the pressing weight, like he was carrying not just the crumpled body of the man in his arms, but an entire history of destruction that had followed them both.

He held him. Third Reich. That name, like a curse, a reminder of all the pain, all the loss that had ever been part of their tangled web of hatred and passion. Even as the older country moved swiftly, his legs growing tired, his mind was consumed with flashes— Moments of the past when their paths had crossed, when words had been exchanged, when love had bled into rage. The warmth, the sweat on his brow as he carried the broken figure, it all made his thoughts spiral further.

The blood, red and staining his hands, felt almost like an accusation. It was the blood of someone who had once stood beside him, fought with him, then against him. It didn’t matter now, though. Nothing did. All that mattered was the body in his arms— This broken shell of a man who had been once invincible, once… His equal.

His hands shook as the blood seeped between his fingers, staining the fabric of his gloves, his skin. He didn’t want to think about how this felt. Didn’t want to acknowledge that despite everything, he still cared. That despite the years of animosity, despite the scars (literal and emotional) he still found himself desperate to save this man.

Enemy. Traitor. Lover. The lines blurred, and he hated that. He hated the warmth that seemed to wrap itself around him, suffocating, reminding him that even in this moment, he couldn’t separate what was personal from what was political. His former lover’s blood was staining his hands again, the weight of the relationship a burden he couldn’t escape.

He had never intended for this— Never wanted to be caught in this twisted dance. But somehow, here he was, hurrying through the snow, heart hammering in his chest as if his own life was tied to the rise and fall of the man he was saving.

When they reached his home, the Russian wasted no time. He was in too deep, his mind frantically ticking over options that felt like they were slipping away as the minutes passed. He barely noticed the way the blood felt warmer, almost liquid fire in his hands. The smell of iron hung in the air as he quickly pressed a cloth to the wound, the fabric darkening with every second that ticked by.

The cold of the room didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that there were no doctors here, no one with any real expertise. All that mattered was that the younger male was still breathing, still alive. It wasn’t enough. Not yet.

“Hold on.” He whispered, his voice breaking just a little as he pressed harder on the cloth. The words were meaningless. The other wasn’t conscious to hear them. But still, he needed to say them. He needed to believe in the possibility, even when he was already bracing for the worst.

When the German’s body gave a violent, strained gasp and then went still, his heart skipped a beat. The pain in his chest wasn’t just physical; it was a deep, gnawing feeling that made it hard to breathe. For a moment, it felt like the whole world had stopped. The silence was deafening, thick with the weight of what had been, what could have been, and what was now slipping through his fingers.

He checked for a pulse immediately, his trembling fingers pressing into the side of the other’s neck. The thud of a weak pulse was like a lifeline. Not much, but it was enough.

"Another day." He murmured, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, half-relieved, half-sickened by the feeling of that fragile pulse beneath his fingertips.

He looked up then, his gaze catching the worried faces of his children, who had been watching from the doorway. They were too young to understand the complexity of the world, but they could feel the tension. Their small eyes held a mixture of curiosity and fear, the scent of blood still thick in the air.

“Russia!” He called, his voice hoarse. His long red locks covered his hair. “Bandages. Quick.”

The eldest son grumbled, but dutifully went to fetch what was needed. It wasn’t so much that he hated the fascist; it was more that he hated the reminder of their painful history. But still, he obeyed. That was the way of things. Even the children had learned that much.

As the bandages were applied, the urgency was undeniable. His movements were quick and decisive, though his mind was far from clear. He pressed the cloth deeper into the wound, forcing the bandages tight around Third Reich’s middle to stop the bleeding. His hands were slick with blood, and the foul, bitter warmth of it lingered on his skin long after he’d finished.

There was no time to be gentle now.

When the bandages were securely in place, the male stepped back, looking down at the figure before him. The former Nazi, his former partner in war, his adversary, his love, was unconscious, a ghost of the man he once knew. Soviet’s heart ached. The soft rise and fall of his chest was all that proved he was still alive. Alive, but just barely. He could still hear the faint rasp of breath, but it wasn’t enough. He didn’t know if it ever would be.

He drew a blanket over the his body, the fabric soft against the man’s cold skin.

“Don’t disturb him.” He ordered, his voice low and stern as he turned toward his children, “Go play outside. The snow is good today.”

They didn’t argue. They simply nodded and left, their small, muffled footsteps fading into the quiet. It was only then that the communist allowed himself a moment to breathe. The weight of his emotions threatened to overwhelm him, but he kept them in check, if only for the sake of the children. For their sake, he couldn’t afford to break down.

He turned away and made his way to the kitchen. The scent of borscht filled the air, comforting, familiar. It was a routine, a distraction. A necessary one. But even as he began to prepare the meal, he couldn’t shake the image of the smaller’s pale face, his body still and broken, beneath the blanket.

He sighed, glancing out the window where the snow fell in thick, steady flakes. “Will you make it through this?” He whispered to no one in particular. There was no answer, only the quiet hum of the house, the sound of his own heartbeat, and the faint whisper of wind against the window.

The man who had once been his greatest adversary, his closest companion, might have just passed the point of no return. But as the minutes stretched on, Soviet didn’t know if he could let go.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The scent of iron filled the air as panzers blazed through the war-torn city of Kiev, their heavy treads grinding into the blood-stained streets, which were already marred by the smoke of bombs and the constant bombardment of Nazi artillery. Buildings, once standing tall and proud, were now mere skeletons, crumbling under the weight of an invasion that had turned everything to rubble. The ground was a broken mosaic of snow, ash, and the remnants of shattered lives.

Soviet stood amidst the ruins, his gaze fixed on the land that had once been his, now consumed by the flames of war. His breath came in short, painful bursts, his body heavy from exhaustion, his mind clouded by the chaos. But it was the emptiness he felt, the crushing, soul-shattering emptiness, that gnawed at him the most. It wasn’t just the destruction of his people. It wasn’t just the way his cities had been reduced to ashes. It was the betrayal.

Why? Why had Third Reich, the man he once fought beside, the one who had whispered ‘I love you’ in the quiet of the night, come here to tear down everything they had built? Why had he come to destroy the very people they had once sworn to protect?

They had been allies. Once. That word echoed in his mind as he trudged through the snow, his boots sinking into the cold ground with each step. He had once trusted this man— Trusted him with his heart, with his life. The memory of their shared smiles, their moments of peace before the storm, tormented him now. How could it have come to this? How could the same man who had kissed him, held him in the dark, now be the one leading this battle of terror against his people?

The Russians were dying in droves. Women, children, old men, civilians. It didn’t matter. The Germans cared for none of them. Soviet’s thoughts flickered to the bodies he had seen earlier in the streets— Young children, their faces frozen in terror, their bodies twisted by hunger or bullet wounds. They had died slowly, painfully, left to freeze in the snow or starve in the ruins. There was no mercy in this war. There never had been.

And yet, through the carnage, he clung to the faintest sliver of hope. There had to be survivors. Somewhere, there had to be someone left to save. Even one life. He had to find them. The thought of his people, his comrades, being completely wiped out by this madness was something he couldn’t bear.

But as the day dragged on, that hope began to fade. With every corner he turned, every empty building he searched, that flicker of possibility grew weaker. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of wandering, the communist came upon the scene. There he was. Third Reich.

The German stood in front of him, seemingly unbothered by the destruction around them, his face twisted into a grin. He didn’t look like a man who had just slaughtered thousands. He didn’t look like the same person who had once whispered sweet words in his ear. He looked… Alive— Alive in the way only someone who had embraced the dark arts of war could be.

“Sovi, you’re late to the party!” The younger’s voice rang out, mocking, a sickening cheer in his tone. "I had a gift to give you."

The words stung like a slap, and before he could fully process them, his hands were around the smaller man’s neck, squeezing with a fury born of years of unspoken rage. His hands were larger, stronger, stronger than they had ever been, and they gripped Third Reich like a vice. The weight of everything (The bloodshed, the betrayal, the love lost— I could go on and on) crashed down on Soviet in that moment.

“Why?” The Russian’s voice cracked, thick with emotion as his thumbs pressed deeper against the other country’s windpipe. “Why did you do it? We had a pact, damn it! We were allies!” His accent, usually firm and commanding, trembled with the rawness of his hurt.

The Nazi, ever the sadist, merely blinked, his face as cold as ever, the sickening grin never leaving. He didn’t struggle or fight back. Instead, he stared at him with a detached amusement, like the scene before them was little more than an afterthought.

“Für den Lebensraum.” He said, the words cutting through Soviet like a knife. He understood enough German to know what that meant— The living space, the justification for this madness, for the death of his people.

His grip faltered for a moment, as the full weight of those words settled into his bones. Living space. A cold, impersonal phrase for the land of his ancestors, the land that had been home to millions of souls who had lived, loved, and struggled.

The realization hit like a blow to the chest. This wasn’t just about war. It wasn’t just about victory. It was about the systematic destruction of everything the older male had ever known. His people, his history— None of it mattered. To him, they were nothing more than pests, obstacles in the way of his empire. He felt something inside him break.

Tears welled up in his eyes. They were tears of rage, sorrow, and helplessness, but before he could stop them, Third Reich smirked, his gaze darkening. "You’re pathetic," He sneered, as if mocking the very emotions that had once been so precious between them. "Don’t tell me you actually believed that I loved you? Of all people, you?" His voice dripped with contempt, the final sting in a relationship that had already been twisted beyond recognition.

The red-haired man reached out with one delicate finger, tracing his neck with a mockingly soft touch. Slowly, with deliberate slowness, his fingers moved toward the Russian’s face, hovering just above his eye.

“They’re so pretty.” He muttered, a twisted smile tugging at his lips. “I’d keep one as a souvenir. Maybe I will...” His words were laced with a sick, almost playful tone.

Soviet’s heart pounded in his chest, but before he could react, the German’s fingers were on his face, pressing against his eye socket. Soviet’s body screamed in agony, but all he could do was gasp as the sharp, unrelenting nails dug into the tender flesh around his eye. The pain was unbearable, a raw, primal fire that consumed his thoughts and made the world spin around him.

Blood. It was all blood. He could taste it in his mouth, feel it dripping down his cheek as his fingers pressed deeper. The agony was so intense that the man with gold eyes (Now eye) couldn’t even process what was happening, his body frozen in shock as his vision swirled with darkness.

The younger chuckled darkly as he twisted his fingers inside the ruined socket, savoring the pain he was causing. The laughter was maddening, as cold as the snow beneath them. He could hear the sound, but it felt like it was coming from a distant place, as if he was detached from his own body.

When the German finally withdrew his fingers, he was left breathless, his vision blurred, his face wet with both blood and tears.

“It’s such a pretty color.” Third Reich commented idly, standing up and holding his hand, covered in the other’s blood. “If I could, I’d frame it.” His voice was softer now, almost reverent in a disturbingly morbid way. His heart hammered in his chest as the full weight of his situation crashed down on him.

"Why didn’t you just kill me?" He managed to choke out, his voice hoarse from both the physical pain and the overwhelming anguish.

Oddly enough his smile faltered before returning. He knelt down beside the older country again, his gaze gleaming with a cruel, twisted pleasure. “I like my prey to run.” He said softly, his words a cold whisper that sent a chill through his spine. “So make this fun for me.”

The words struck the communist to his core, and for a moment, he could do nothing but stare at him in horror. How had it come to this? How had this man, this monster, become the embodiment of his worst nightmare?

Without another word, Soviet turned and fled. His legs ached with every step, but he couldn’t stop. He had to get away. Had to escape, even if only for a moment. He ran through the streets, past the bodies, through the destruction, feeling the weight of it all pulling him down.

Chapter Text

HELLOOOOOO!

I don’t really think anyone is reading this but this will be put on hold for a bit due to the fact I have exams and they’re stressing me out since I have to juggle it with all the clubs, writing and my own free time. If you want you can leave your thoughts on how you want this story to go or just say anything lol. Always open to recommendations.

IF YOU ARE READING THIS THANK YOU THOUGH!

Chapter Text

Third Reich awoke to a haze of shadows flickering on the ceiling. The pain in his gut was dull now, numbed by something— Herbs, medicine, or perhaps just time. A bandage was tight around his middle, soaked slightly with red. The blanket draped over him smelled faintly of smoke, roasted chestnuts and birchwood. It wasn’t unfamiliar. It smelled like him. The Communist.

“I see you’re awake.” He said simply. His voice held no emotion as he spoke to the man that ruined his life and caused his trust in people to vanish.

The younger male swallowed. His voice was filled with contempt and sorrow with a now softened German accent, “You should have let me die.” His arms trembled as his skin was covered in deep ebony cracks— A sign that a country would die.

Soviet didn’t answer at first. He walked over and set down the mug on the bedside table. “I thought about it. Every second. Watching you sleep like a wounded dog didn’t help soften my urges.” There was no venom in his tone. Just truth. That made it worse.

“But?” The male rasped, his deep blue eyes narrowing. He wondered why he was alive and if something way worse awaited him than this. He tried to think. Would he be tortured? Starved? Maybe they’d harm his precious children… No. He remembered that Soviet adored all children like they were his own.

He leaned over him, face close, breathe warm and steady. “But death is a mercy I don’t think you deserve yet.” The Russian’s eyes gleamed a brighter gold as he said those words.

A long silence followed.

“Do you remember Kiev?” He asked, barely above a whisper. That caused the German to look away. Of course he remembered what happened in Kiev— It was where he fully burned his relationship with the love of his life.

“I remember everything.” The male said hoarsely. “Every scream. Every eye that looked up at me, asking why.”

Soviet’s fists clenched. His nails dug into his palms. “Then you know why I should hate you.” He growled. “Why I should burn your corpse and scatter the ashes to the wolves.”

“I know.”

His gaze lingered on the small man. For a moment, his expression wavered— Something sharp and pained behind the cold mask. “So why did you say it? Why did you tell me you loved me and then-”

“Because I had to.” Third Reich interrupted, voice cracking. “And because I was a coward.” That made him freeze. Of course he didn’t expect that since the man he knew wasn’t honest and open. The Russian was confused. It was odd for him to act so sincere.

“I thought I could have both.” The Nazi said, staring at the ceiling now. “Friendship and conquest. I thought I could lie and I wouldn’t face consequences. I was wrong. I lost everything. And I ruined you in the process.”

His breath hitched. The man, despite being older, turned away, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. Or sobbing.

“You know what the worst part is?” Third Reich continued. “I still see your eye. In my dreams. I see it, just as I left it. And I wish you had taken mine too.”

He slowly turned back toward him, voice low and trembling, “I don’t want your eyes. I want you to feel every inch of what you did. To live with it.”

Third Reich met his gaze, and for once, there was no arrogance there. No sneer. Just a hollow man wrapped in gauze and guilt. “Then let me live.” He whispered. “Even if it’s just to suffer.”

The red haired male stepped back, eyes unreadable. “Oh, you will.”

And with that, the Russian turned and left the room, closing the door behind him with the finality of a prison cell locking shut.

Chapter Text

Days had blurred together in a haze of silence and solitude. The weight of his own thoughts pressed on him harder than any physical wound. Every movement felt sluggish, every breath shallow, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the bed. There was a strange sort of comfort in the agony, in the constant ache. He had no desire to live, but Soviet’s refusal to let him die kept him tethered to a world he didn’t belong in anymore.

Sadly the Russian had been kind— Way too kind. He’d offered care, medicine, food, but it all felt like a cruel joke. Every moment of healing, every inch of strength he regained, only meant more time spent in torment. The thought of enduring that same, endless cycle of guilt, pain, and isolation made his chest constrict.

There were no windows in the small room. No view of the sky. No way to measure time except by the shifts in his own body and mind. He had no sense of when the days turned into nights, or how many nights had passed since he first awoke in this place. It didn't matter. Time had no meaning when everything was suffocating.

But then one morning, he heard voices.

It started quietly, as if in the distance. The low hum of laughter, the clink of metal, the rhythmic sound of something stirring. It was a noise unlike any he’d heard in weeks, and it stirred something inside of him— A pull he couldn’t ignore.

He lifted his head, his body aching with the effort, and listened more closely.

The voices weren’t speaking in the sharp tones of command or accusation. They were soft, warm. Playful.

A soft voice rang through his ears like a bell, “Now, Ukraine, what goes next?”

It was Soviet’s voice, but there was no hardness in it. It was light, encouraging, as though he was guiding them through a task with all the patience in the world.

“Flour!” The young country’s voice chimed, his gentler thick with the familiarity of home. The other red haired man continued his words.  “Good job, Ukraine! Russia, what about the eggs?”

“Eggs, eggs! I can do it, Папа!” The boy’s voice was eager, filled with that same raw energy only children seemed to possess.

He could hear the gentle sounds of footsteps, the clink of utensils, the rustle of aprons being adjusted. There was something so mundane, so normal, in their chatter. It was the sound of family. Of life going on despite everything.

And then it hit him like a blow to the chest because he was reminded of his one reason not to blow his brains out. He thought of his own children. East and West.

They were barely four years old. When was the last time he saw them? The thought blurred in his fogged mind, but it stung. The images felt distant, like mist, but there they were. Third Reich saw their chubby hands reaching out for him, their laughter as they ran circles around the house, their tiny faces smeared with chocolate frosting as they baked their favorite Black Forest cake together. He remembered their bright eyes, their joy as they painted the walls with him, as they carefully made marks on paper with crayons, all crooked lines and innocence.

He remembered Kaiser, the German Shepherd. A gift for their second birthday. A small puppy, so awkward with his oversized paws, his floppy ears. The boys had loved him so fiercely, and Kaiser had grown strong, loyal. A protector. His heart clenched painfully at the memory of that dog. They’d loved him like family.

But now, the faces of his sons felt as fragile as memories could be. Were they even real? Had it really been him, the same man he was now, holding them, caring for them? Or had that life been a dream, a long-forgotten fantasy?

The flood of memories drowned him. The sharp pang of loss. The guilt of being a shitty person. The guilt of being the worst lover anyone could ask for. The guilt of failing his children because he was too slow.

It was like an instantaneous hit from a freight train.

The tears came. Slowly at first, then with the weight of a thousand regrets. His breath hitched, ragged. He had no strength to stop them, no will to contain the despair that gnawed at him from the inside.

And then, in the midst of it all, he felt it. A presence.

Something cool and gentle touched his face— Soft fingertips, brushing away the tears with surprising tenderness. He blinked, confused. The room was dim, and his mind was too clouded to recognize who stood before him. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. The Nazi didn’t even try to focus on the face, instead letting himself relax into the touch.

For the briefest of moments, he felt... Human. Not a monster, not a beast but instead something like a person who could still feel warmth, still feel care.

Like a child the German let the hand linger there for a moment longer, allowing himself to believe for a fleeting instant that maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought. Maybe this stranger— Whoever they were was offering him something he didn’t deserve.

His thoughts were paused as he barely registered the soft words spoken, almost a whisper, “Don’t cry.”

The voice was so familiar. But his mind was too muddled to catch the nuances, the accent, the depth of it. He tried to lift his head, but the exhaustion weighed him down. His eyelids felt like lead.

“Who... Who are you?” His voice was thick, raw, as if the very act of speaking tore something inside of him.

The stranger didn’t answer immediately. They simply reached up, carefully wiping away the last of his tears. The softness of the motion— It was almost too much for him to bear. The sensation of tenderness in the air around him felt strange. Alien.

“I… I don’t deserve this.” He croaked, his voice barely a whisper. “I shouldn’t even be alive.”

There was a pause, a long silence. Then the voice spoke again, quieter, but still filled with something unidentifiable. “You still have a chance. You’re not beyond saving. I promise.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. He didn't know why. Perhaps it was the simple truth in them, or the way they cut through his despair with the sharpness of someone who had once known him— Really, truly known him. Someone who had seen the worst of him and still offered the faintest glimmer of hope.

“I don't want to live.” The young male rasped, his throat tight, “Not after everything. Not after what I’ve done.”

The presence was still there, hovering just above him. He couldn’t see their face properly, but he could feel them. Yet he could feel the weight of their gaze, the way they looked at him as though they understood the depths of his self-loathing.

“You will.” the voice said, low but resolute like an immovable object. “Whether you want to or not. You will face everything. You will live with it.”

The words felt like chains. Tightening around his chest. He was too tired to argue, too exhausted to fight anymore.

Whoever it was— Whoever had been there, standing close, wiping his tears with such delicate care… It wasn’t some stranger.

He closed his eyes again, sinking into the softness below, feeling the weight of his own guilt press down on him.

Maybe the person was right. Maybe he did deserve to live through this. The thought lingered like smoke, but it wasn’t the crushing despair it once was. Just a thin thread of something else. Something he couldn’t name.

For now, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning light barely broke through the cracks in the room, its soft glow casting faint shadows over the worn furniture. The Russian laid still, too tired to move but not able to close his eyes for long. His chest rose and fell slowly beneath the weight of a child’s small form. Third Reich, still deeply asleep, was curled against him, his head nestled into Soviet’s chest, seeking warmth, comfort, or perhaps just the closeness he couldn’t remember asking for.

His heart clenched at the sight, at the warmth of it. The closeness was unexpected, unsettling, yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to push someone he loved at one point away. There was something about this quiet, fragile moment that reminded him of what they’d once been— Before the wars, before the conflicts, before everything had fallen apart. Before they were men bound by duty, not emotions.

Like when they were children. When he first met the Nazi after their fathers became close. When they’d play in the palace of the Russian Tsar and try to catch the cats that lived in the rose garden or when he would be forced to stay still as the other used him as a model. Back when they were friends and still innocent to the horrors of being a country.

Obviously he felt a pang of guilt, but he didn’t know how to shake it. This— Whatever this moment was, was dangerous. He couldn’t afford to think about it. They had their places in the world, their roles, and he knew better than anyone that the past was a dangerous thing to cling to.

And yet, as the other red haired man shifted slightly, his small hand curling tighter against his shirt, the older nation found it hard to let go of the softness between them. It was almost like holding onto something lost.

A small giggle broke through the silence, followed by the sound of tiny feet padding across the floor. He turned his head to see Belarus standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with curiosity, her face a mixture of innocence and mischief.

“Папа!” She called out, her voice chipper, oblivious to the quiet tension hanging in the room. “Why is… Why is your guest laying on top of you?” She didn’t know what to call the man, only that he was always around, always a part of the room, and sometimes he and her dad would talk in low voices, speak to each other with strange tones that she didn’t understand.

Soviet’s heart jumped in his throat. He hadn’t expected to be caught in such an intimate moment, not by his children, and certainly not by his only daughter, who was more observant than she let on.

He cleared his throat, keeping his voice steady. “Belarus, go back to your room. My… My acquaintance is just resting. It’s okay.”

She didn’t move, her brow furrowed in the kind of confused seriousness only a child could have. She stood there for a moment, her little hands pressed to her hips, examining the scene as if it were some puzzle she needed to solve. “Dad, you’re not mad at him?”

He blinked, surprised by the question. She didn’t fully understand. No child that young did. They didn’t know the weight of the past, of the alliances and the wars, the battles that had been fought in the name of countries, not fathers and sons. To her, Third Reich, her father’s former lover, was just another figure, a strange one, yes, but not beyond the simple understanding that he was someone who was important, someone who was allowed to be near.

“No, I’m not mad at him.” The older male replied softly, stroking her hair as she leaned in closer, her tiny hands trying to lift the edge of his blanket, still too young to grasp the complexity of the situation. His tone was gentle and kind but still had a strong Slavic accent, “But you need to let him sleep. We don’t want to wake him.”

Despite the reassurance the little girl narrowed her green eyes, her gaze shifting back and forth between her father and the German who was still nestled in his arms. “Why does he sleep next to you?” Her voice was small, unsure.

Weirdly enough he blushed but after recollecting his composure he sighed. “It’s just the way things are, sweetheart. He’s resting.”

But Belarus wasn’t satisfied. She cocked her head, clearly perplexed by the situation. “But you two don’t live together. And you told me once that you’re not friends anymore.”

He froze, caught off guard by her innocent but pointed remark. She was right. They didn’t live together anymore, not in the way they once had. But no child could understand that kind of history— Not yet, not with their innocence still so pure, so untouched by the complexities of the world. She was asking questions he couldn’t answer.

Before he could respond, the room was filled with the shrill sound of Ukraine’s voice from the hallway. “Dad! Russia says I broke it! I didn’t mean to!” A small voice yelled.

His hand tightened instinctively, though he didn’t move, and the other remained blissfully unaware of the chaos around them. Ukraine appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and filled with that unique mix of fear and embarrassment only a child under ten could have. His small hands clutched the broken toy car like it was the most important thing in the world.

“Dad!” The young country wailed, his lip quivering. “I didn’t break it on purpose! It just fell! It’s just broken!”

Like a good father he smiled softly, despite the underlying tension, and reached out to take the toy car from Ukraine’s hands. “It’s alright, little one. Let me see it.”

The male sniffled, looking at his older brother, who was now standing in the doorway, arms crossed and looking impatient.

“Dad, I’m telling you, he did it. He broke it.” The eldest said, his tone an exaggerated whine, as though he had been waiting for an excuse to point out Ukraine’s mistake. “Why do you always defend him?”

He sighed, not in anger, but in the weary way only a parent could after dealing with a squabble that had no real consequence. “Because he’s still learning, Russia. And you don’t need to be so hard on him.” That caused Russia to huff, clearly unimpressed, but he didn’t press the matter further. Instead, he turned his attention to the bed, to the still-sleeping figure of Third Reich. “You know.” He began in a quieter tone, his eyes narrowing, “He really should be awake by now. He’s been sleeping a long time.”

The man shot his son a quick, sharp look with his gold eyes  but the younger nation simply shrugged and rolled his eyes. “I mean, I get it, dad. You want him to stay close, but honestly, the guy is still your ex. You don’t have to pretend things are fine between you. It’s just... Weird.”

His chest tightened, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to snap at his son or simply remain silent. But before he could respond, his daughter— Still standing in the middle of the room had interjected.

“He doesn’t want to be with him!” She said, pointing a tiny, accusatory finger at Third Reich. “Dad’s just tired. He needs to rest, too.”

He blinked, surprised by the sudden outburst from his youngest. He glanced down at the smaller male, still unconscious against his chest, and then back at his children. They didn’t understand the weight of the past, the pain that clung to the remnants of their father’s old bond. To them, it was just a fight, a disagreement between two adults that was now out of sight, out of mind.

For a moment, his heart ached, but he couldn’t explain the complexity of it to them. He couldn’t explain that the feelings, however much he denied them, still lingered. Not for them. Not while they were still children.

But maybe, just maybe, they’d understand one day.

The older boy, who had been watching quietly, finally turned and began to leave the room. “Fine. I’ll go help Ukraine figure out how to fix his toy.” His tone softened, and before he left, then he spoke up. “Just don’t wait too long. He’s not a child….”

As the door clicked shut behind Russia, he was left alone again with his children. The Nazi country shifted slightly in his arms, but remained asleep.

Soviet looked down at his former lover, at the boy who was still so young, so innocent, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to be caught in the quiet, in the warmth of the moment. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t everything. But for now, it was enough. For them. For him.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to keep them all going.

Chapter Text

The German surfaced from unconsciousness the way some people rise from drowning— Not all at once, not gasping, but slow, uncertain, unsure if the air above will be any better than the water below. Everything hurt but he was warm.

That was the first alarm.

The floor was never warm. The cot even less so. But there was heat behind him, beneath his spine, against his ribs. Steady. Breathing. He opened his eyes, just slightly.

Soviet.

Of course he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His first instinct was to recoil, to throw himself off the man who’d become equal parts captor and caretaker but his body refused. Too weak. Or maybe, he admitted grimly, too tired of fighting battles that went nowhere.

So he laid there. In silence. Tense but unmoving.

After a long time (It was like twenty minutes) the communist shifted just enough to let him sit up.

The movement was not rough, not harsh. But it was clinical. Like repositioning a tool that had fallen out of alignment. He leaned forward, hands braced on his knees, head bowed. The cold air hit the side of his face. Reality settled in, slow and unkind.

He said nothing.

“Heart rate’s normal….” The other said quietly as he rubbed those cold fingers above his bandages. “Better than yesterday.”

He stared at the floor. One tile was chipped near the corner. So the red-haired male fixed his eyes on it, focusing on that imperfection instead of the man beside him.

He didn’t ask what had happened. He knew the drill: Blood pressure drop, likely from the sedatives. Collapse. The other man intervenes. Again.

He despised that part. That inevitability. That helplessness.

“You’re still processing.” He said, almost like a doctor noting something on a chart. “You’re not as numb. That’s progress.”

He made a faint noise in the back of his throat, half laugh, half scoff. “Spare me the therapy.”

Weirdly enough the Russian didn’t reply right away. Then with an unsaid finality in his voice he spoke up his tone softer than the usual, “They’re alive.”

The words landed without ceremony. No build-up. No softening. No warning.

Third Reich’s jaw clenched instinctively. His spine locked straight, but his gaze never lifted from the floor. It was like something unseen had struck him across the chest.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Your children.” He added, quieter this time. “Both.”

Surprisingly the younger still didn’t respond. But his hands, subtly at first, started to tremble in his lap.

He pressed them down hard against his knees. Hard enough that his knuckles whitened. As if he could will the shake out of himself.

So the other waited for him. The country didn’t speak again. He didn’t intrude. He gave the silence the dignity of space.

And eventually, Third Reich’s voice emerged— It was flat, cold, trying too hard not to tremble but it was obvious he was holding back a sob. “I saw them burn.” He said.

“They didn’t.”

“I saw the house.” He hissed, still refusing to look up. “There was blood. There was screaming—”

“And someone pulled them out before the building collapsed.” The man said with a calm yet knowing tone but his accent engulfed the words making it seem harsher than it actually was, “They were hidden. Smuggled west. They’re safe.”

He finally looked up.

And for a moment, just a second, the wall cracked.

His eyes were wide. Shining. Mouth slightly open, like he couldn’t form the right words. He stared at Soviet, and in that silence, all the things he never let himself feel surged to the surface.

But he didn’t cry.

Instead, he turned his face away sharply. Like a dog licking its wounds in the dark. Like he could shove the grief back down where it belonged if he just looked away.

His breathing grew shallow. Unsteady. Each breath was a shaky inhale through clenched teeth. He pressed the heel of his palm to his mouth, trying to focus on the pressure. Anything to anchor him.

Soviet spoke again with a quieter and gentler voice, “They’re being brought here. You’ll see them soon.”

That was the breaking point. Not the idea of safety. Not the idea of survival.

But seeing them.

The flood hit like a knife to the ribs. Not a sob— But the sudden silence before one. The breath caught in his throat and refused to leave. His whole body folded inward, shoulders curling forward as if physically protecting his heart from rupturing.

Still he didn’t make a sound.

He wouldn’t.

His hand dragged down his face— Roughly, angrily, as if punishing himself for even letting emotion show. His eyes squeezed shut. A single tear slipped out and was quickly wiped away with the cuff of his sleeve.

No one mentioned it.

“They ask about you.” He said. “They’ve been told you’re alive.”

The German whispered, like the words tasted like rust in his mouth, “They shouldn’t.”

“They’re your children.”

“They’re innocent.”

“So were you at one point.”

He flinched at that. Actually flinched. Like a blow landed. Then silence. The kind that hurts you physically. It was cold but it was what the other country needed.

His voice, when it returned, was hoarse. “I don’t know how to see them.”

“Start by standing up.”

“I don’t deserve—”

“You’re not here to deserve it.” The Russian said, sharper now. “You’re their father are you not? That’s all that matters to them.”

He sat motionless. A war waging behind his eyes. Everything the Nazi had done, everything he had become, collided with the fragile memory of two little hands grabbing his coat, two heads resting on his shoulder, two voices saying Papa.

The man who was holding onto that memory had almost vanished.

Almost.

But not yet.

He dragged a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

“Give me an hour.”

“You have thirty minutes.”

He stepped away, but paused at the door. His voice softened once more, “They don’t care what you look like.” The older man said. “They just want to be held.”

Then he left but Third Reich didn’t move for a long time.

When he finally did, it wasn’t with strength. It was with the slow, crumbling exhaustion of someone who had just been reminded that hope was still alive but had no idea what to do with it.

However something worth dying for was also worth living for.

Chapter Text

They came early which was weird because they were usually late.

The quiet in the sitting room wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of silence that came after an argument no one wanted to admit had happened.

France sat with perfect posture, legs crossed, a satin-gloved hand resting elegantly over one knee. Her other hand idly fiddled with the edge of a velvet ribbon tied into her chignon. Her lips were pursed, eyes sharp. She looked calm. She looked in control. But the slight tremor in her ankle gave her away.

Britain sat beside her, one arm draped loosely over the back of the couch behind her shoulders. His fingers tapped restlessly on the upholstery, the same rhythm he used to keep time during war councils. He looked as if he were thinking about lighting a cigarette. Again.

America was pacing.

He’d done three laps already, once behind the couch, twice past the fireplace, and now he stood planted in front of the rug, shifting from foot to foot like an overcharged wire. His eyes kept flicking between the staircase and the twins, who sat side by side on the couch with their arms hugging their knees.

Of course he paid no attention to the bumbling fool. The communist stood by the window. Arms crossed. Unmoving.

He watched the twins protectively. They were on opposite ends of the couch like two magnets forced together backwards. Neither spoke. Neither looked at the other. The cold between them was not just emotional— It had a gravitational pull.

Everyone had said yes to this meeting.

No one had said it would be easy.

The boys, red-haired, pale that were nearly mirror images of him, were too quiet for children their age. Four, maybe Five. Both still wore coats too large for their thin frames, collars turned up to their cheeks. They clutched the sleeves like anchors. One of them kept glancing toward the stairs with a look too old for his face.

The other just stared at the floor, mouthing something silently. A prayer? A name?

Then the footsteps came.

Heavy yet slow. Each step down the stairs like it was carrying a mountain. No one moved— Except America, who froze mid-step, half-turned, as if bracing for something bad.

And then he appeared.

The terror of Europe, the iron fist of Germany, the Nazi, the man who was the absolute epitome of classism also known as Third Reich. No longer a myth. No longer a ghost. No longer the shadow burned into the wall of history.

He stood on the bottom step like he wasn’t sure he had the right to be there. His clothes were plain. Black sweater, gray trousers and plain black shoes. The circles under his eyes were darker than the shadows in the room; his hair, once pristine and perfect, had now grown unruly. There was a tightness in his shoulders, but his face was calm— An eerie, hollow kind of calm.

He didn’t look at anyone. Not yet. But the twins saw him.

And the silence broke.

They didn’t walk. They ran. But instead of away from the man who was called a monster they ran to him.

“Papa!” The youngest, East, yelled as his little gold eyes teared up.

The scream hit him like a blow to the chest. For a moment, the man didn’t move— Almost like he thought it wasn’t real. But then two small bodies collided with him and whatever dam he’d built to keep himself distant cracked.

The young country dropped to his knees without thinking.

Arms came around him. Thin, bird-boned arms. One around his neck. One around his ribs. One face pressed into his shoulder. The other against his chest. They sobbed into his clothes like they'd been holding it in for years.

And he… He hugged them back. Tight.

Without hesitation. Without calculation. Without shame. He didn’t cry, but his arms didn’t loosen. Not once.

Gently the German pressed his face into one of their heads, breathed them in, like he couldn’t believe they were real. West of them was whispering, rapid-fire German, too fast to understand. The other just kept saying in a soft yet undeniably scared yet hopeful tone, “Papa, Papa, Papa…” Like he thought if he stopped, the man might vanish again.

Across the room, the effect was instant.

France’s mouth had parted slightly, eyes wide, and she blinked once then twice— As if trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Britain had actually straightened. His usual tight-lipped skepticism faltered. Even America had stopped moving.

“I’ll be damned.” He muttered as the southern drawl came out, barely above a breath.

Soviet, still by the window, had a glint his eyes. This wasn’t the man the others remembered. This wasn’t the weapon. The machine. The villain.

This was something else.

They had assumed the twins were being brought out of pity. Or diplomacy. Or some psychological experiment to see what fatherhood did to monsters. They had not expected love.

Real love.

With the gentleness of a she-wolf the man finally pulled back just enough to look at them. His hands came up, gentle and reverent, as he touched each of their faces. His voice, when it came, was raw gravel. “You’ve grown.” He whispered.

One of them sniffled. “We missed you.”

“I know.” He said, voice almost breaking. “I know. I’m here.”

They clung tighter. As if he was a lifeline that tethered them to reality. No one spoke for a long time. This wasn’t their place to speak.

Of course, the Russian was the first to break the silence. “I told you.” He said, almost to himself.

France turned to him, sharp. “This doesn’t mean—”

“It means,” He interrupted with a sharp tone graced by that accent. “That the part of him you thought was dead is still alive. That matters.” The older twin finally glanced at East, lips parting. But he refused to look back. Both were scared to be taken away from their father.

“Is it real?” America asked, still staring.

“More than most things.” Britain murmured.

Eventually, Third Reich stood, one twin in each arm. They clung like ivy, unwilling to let go. And this time, when he looked up, he met each of their eyes. Not ashamed. Not angry.

Just there.

Solid. Present. Human. Just like the rest of them.

And no one, not even France, had anything to say. Because sometimes, even the worst men still held pieces worth saving.

And sometimes, children know it first.

Chapter Text

After hearing the news he immediately left Berlin.

He had barely crossed the outskirts of Brandenburg when the smoke hit his lungs, choking him. At first, it seemed distant, a thin veil that lingered on the horizon. He pushed the horse harder, faster, his heart pounding in his ears. The closer he got, the thicker the smoke grew, until it swirled around him like a living thing.

When he saw the mansion, it was no longer the proud home he once knew.

It was a carcass.

The fire had already claimed the top floors, and the great columns that once stood strong now bent under the heat like broken trees. The flames leaped higher than the roofline, a violent, greedy blaze that consumed the heart of everything he’d built. The marble statues lining the garden, the rose bushes his children had played in, the walls that held the memories of everything they’d done together— Burned. Gone. Disintegrated. It was like deja vu…

He didn’t think. He didn’t stop.

His feet pounded against the gravel, one step after another, until he was at the door— The one that used to be there, now reduced to charred beams. He stepped over the debris, his hand on the smoldering frame, and pushed forward. The smoke burned his eyes, but he didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Where were they? Where were his boys? The one thing that kept him from dying.

He didn’t dare call their names aloud. They would hear him. They had to hear him. They had to be alive.

But everything around him was destruction— Ruined architecture, twisted wood, the smell of burning oil and blood, the distant echoes of soldiers laughing in the distance, but nothing else. No soft whispers. No small footsteps.

The sound of something cracking beneath him. He didn’t look. Couldn’t look. Not yet.

He took the stairs two at a time, but the upper floor was already gone. Half of it had crumpled in on itself, the weight of the burning debris collapsing with a finality that was almost cruel. He didn’t hesitate. He shoved his way through the remaining wreckage, the thick smoke clouding his lungs, the air growing heavier with each breath.

He reached the corridor where their rooms had been.

And that’s when he saw it.

A body. One that was small with gentle yet bloodied hands.

At first, it didn’t register. It couldn’t. He knelt beside it— No, he didn’t kneel, he dropped to the ground, his hand outstretched, fingers trembling. The flames were close now, licking at the edges of the room, but all he saw was the small form on the floor.

Charred. Broken. A figure too small to belong to a soldier. One wearing burnt clothing with only its hands being recognizable.

He flipped the body over, heart stopping, breath caught in his throat.

A little hand— Likely East’s, clutched something, a small object. Silver, with a ruby-red gem at its center. It gleamed in the firelight, but there was something haunting about it now, something fragile that made his stomach turn.

It was that fucking ring.

It was a promise ring that the German had been given a while back. One his son always wore and was usually tied to a leather string around his neck. His son’s lucky charm. He gave it to the boy on his birthday because he wanted his son to have a piece of him…. East was always clingy.

‘No.’ His mouth went dry. ‘No. No. No. No.. NO!’ He was muttering that like a mantra but didn’t even notice.

He ripped the ring from the string still grasped in the hand, holding it in his palm like it might somehow bring his son back, like it might save him from the horror of what he knew.

But he couldn’t stop it.

The flames crackled louder now, and somewhere behind him, he could hear the distant calls of the Soviet soldiers— Searching, advancing. But none of it mattered.

Not the soldiers. Not the fire. Not the things that had once been so precious to him.

What mattered, what mattered more than anything else, was the weight of that ring in his hand.

And the crushing certainty that his children were gone.

The world seemed to stop moving around him. Time thickened, turning everything to slow motion— His thoughts, his heart, his very breath. His mouth was dry, but he couldn’t swallow. He could barely think. His knees shook beneath him, his hands trembled, but he didn’t fall. He couldn’t.

He sat there, unmoving. The fire growing closer. The ring, a simple silver thing, now burned with the evidence of a life extinguished far too soon.

The thought of running. Of searching for more bodies. Of calling out their names. He couldn’t do it. Because the truth was already there, suffocating him.

But still, he held onto the ring. The only piece of them left, now forever marked by fire and ash.

Chapter Text

The mansion loomed ahead as a hollow, ruined shell, its charred skeleton still exhaling thin wisps of smoke that curled languidly in the soft glow of the early afternoon sun. The fire had devoured it from the inside out— Walls fractured and blackened like scorched bones, windows shattered into jagged shards resembling broken teeth, and rubble strewn in a chaotic sprawl across the once-grand floors. He and America stepped gingerly through the debris, their boots crunching softly against broken tiles and splintered beams, each footfall echoing the weight of history and loss embedded in the ruins.

Around the perimeter, their soldiers kept a silent, vigilant watch. This was no desperate assault, no hasty raid into hostile territory. The mansion was theirs now, claimed by circumstance and conquest. Yet for them, every measured step felt like wading through the heavy gravity of memory and war, a somber reminder of what had been lost and what still lingered in the shadows.

The American stretched, his yawn exaggerated and casual, but his eyes betrayed an unease as they swept over the ruin. “Places like this always get under my skin.” He said, voice light but tinged with a nervous edge. “Burned and broken, but somehow still standing. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for someone who’s never coming back. It freaks me the fuck out.”

Of course his jaw clenched tightly. He said nothing, but the familiar edge in the Southerner’s voice sent a flicker of something painful through him. He forced his gaze back to the crumbling walls. “It’s just ruins.” He said flatly his accent unwavering.

“But ruins hold stories.” America countered with a faint grin, crouching low to examine a pile of scorched debris. “I bet this place has seen things— Things it’s trying to keep locked away.”

His shoulders tightened as if bracing against a ghost only he could see, but he didn’t look at the other. They slipped through a warped doorway, its hinges blackened and hanging loose, stepping into what had once been the mansion’s library. Rows of shelves sagged under the weight of burned and old books, their pages curling and brittle, emitting a dry, choking scent of smoke and dust that seemed to settle deep into their lungs with every breath.

The older male trained his flashlight on a fallen tome, its cover scorched and crumbling. “No one was reading these before the flames took them.”

He crouched beside him, his gloved hand brushing ash off a cover, fingers lingering on the brittle paper as if trying to grasp something lost. “Stories outlive the people who tell them. Even us countries will die. Our stories won’t as long as people remember us.” The Russian said quietly, voice steady, but his eyes held a flicker of something unresolved.

He nudged a torn map with the tip of his boot, eyes narrowing. “Wonder if any of these show secret hideouts or escape routes. You know, spy stuff.”

As usual the red-haired male didn’t answer immediately, instead scanning the dim room with sharp eyes that missed nothing. Then the American’s flashlight flickered over something pinned beneath a broken glass frame— A child’s drawing.

“Look at this.” He murmured, carefully lifting the fragile paper. Crude stick figures stood hand in hand beneath a bright, crayon-sketched sun, simple and innocent against the backdrop of ruin. “Looks like a kid lived here once.”

With a sort of hidden unrest Soviet’s expression darkened, the briefest shadow crossing his face. He swallowed and looked away, keeping his features neutral. 

They moved on through the house, arriving at the drawing room where the once-majestic fireplace was cracked and blackened by fire. The air hung heavy and oppressive as they sifted through the remnants of furniture, shattered porcelain, and fragments of a life interrupted.

His flashlight fell on scraps of paper scattered near the hearth. Ignoring America he picked one up with care, its edges brittle and stained, the handwriting trembling and uneven.

“Mentions children.” He muttered quietly after a quick read. Despite everything he still was once the lover of the Nazi so he knew some German. “No one knew.”

He whistled softly, brows knitting in surprise. “Thought this guy cared only about war and power.” He muttered, the drawl softening his words.

His hand tightened into a fist, his voice low and hard like Medusa’s gaze, “People hide what they don’t want found.”

Near a shattered cabinet, the capitalist spotted a pile of charred toys— A melted doll, wooden blocks blackened but still recognizable beneath the ash. The doll held two baby dolls in his arm. The two babies were safe but the doll itself? Burnt to a crisp.

“Toys…” The blue-eyes male said softly. “Kids don’t belong in places like this.”

With a slight gulp the communist’s jaw tightened further as he stared down at the melted doll. It reminded him of something long buried, a memory half-scorched like the toy itself. He didn’t dare pick it up. For a long moment, his face was unreadable— Stoic, but beneath it a storm. “Innocence should not be caught in the flames.” He said finally, voice distant, as if recalling something he wished he could forget.

They continued in silence down the hallway, the weight of their discoveries settling between them like a heavy fog. Finally, they reached a door hanging from broken hinges— Likely the children’s bedroom.

Inside, small beds lay half-collapsed beneath scorched sheets tangled in ruin, while a dresser lay toppled on its side, drawers gaping open to spill clothes across the floor. There were tiny shirts, socks, and atop them all, a delicate string necklace from which a small silver ring glittered faintly in the American’s flashlight beam.

He picked it up, turning it over slowly in his hand. “Fancy for a kid’s room.”

Soviet’s eyes narrowed, sharp with recognition. His fingers twitched slightly. “That ring… He wore it.”

America arched an eyebrow. “You know him well?”

With a faint scoff he spoke up. The man’s voice was flat, clipped, but something unspoken trembled beneath the surface, “I did.”

He studied the ring a moment longer, then shrugged. “If he had kids… well, that explains a lot.”

Of course the Russian said nothing, but his gaze lingered on the scattered toys, the faded drawings, the half-burned clothes, and for a fleeting second, his mask cracked, revealing a flicker of pain that he quickly smothered.

“How do you hide kids during a war?” The older male finally asked, voice low, hesitant.

He shook his head slowly, eyes distant. “Some things are kept hidden to protect them… Even if it means hiding the truth from yourself.”

America glanced at him, noticing the rare softness, and something heavier, in his golden eyes, a burden he refused to voice.

They moved toward the basement door at the end of the hall, its heavy wooden slab scarred and blackened by smoke and time.

With slow, cautious steps, they descended the stone staircase, the air growing colder and damp, thick with the smell of earth and decay.

At the bottom, their flashlights swept over crates, old equipment, forgotten relics frozen in time.

Then, in a shadowed corner, two small figures sat huddled together. They were pale and dirt-streaked, their eyes wide and shining gold in the dim light.

Two twins. Both children of Third Reich.

The boys clung to each other, silent and trembling.

The western country lowered his rifle slowly, hands raised in peace. “Hey. We’re not here to hurt you.” He said. His voice was much gentler than the deep and brooding voice of the Slavic man.

No response.

Despite everything he stood for the younger knelt beside them, voice steady but quiet, a fragile tenderness barely breaking through his stoicism. “You’re safe now.”

West shifted, moving protectively in front of East, a fragile shield.

Neither spoke.

America tried again, softer this time. “We just want to help.”

Still silence.

He swallowed hard, a distant ache stirring deep in his chest as memories of what they had lost, together and apart, pressed down on him. The boys’ silence was a fragile wall.

The American gave a small, nervous smile, reaching out a hand. The twins remained frozen, eyes wide and unblinking, clinging tightly to one another.

Eventually they took the hand offered to them.

He rose slowly, the weight of everything pressing down like a stone. He stole a brief glance at the capitalist, who met it with a glance that spoke volumes— Of past regrets and silent questions neither was ready to answer.

They made their way back up the stairs, leaving the quiet basement and its haunting secrets behind.

Outside, the mansion stood broken and burned. The last faint traces of a hidden family erased by war and fire.

The silver ring burned heavy in Soviet’s pocket, a silent reminder of promises broken, lives destroyed, and the invisible scars that neither war nor time could heal.

The sky darkened, shadows lingering over the ruins as the world moved on, indifferent.

Chapter Text

The car (It was one of those jeeps that only have one really long seat at the front and no seats at the back) glided over cracked asphalt, the steady drone of the engine filling the small space like a soft, persistent pulse. Outside, the world was gray and blurring with the slow march of evening, but inside, the air felt thick and heavy— Dense with silence and unspoken tension.

In the middle seat, East and West sat pressed close, their small frames wrapped tightly in threadbare coats that hung awkwardly on their slender shoulders. Their golden eyes, striking and vivid against their pale skin, flicked cautiously toward the window but never met America’s gaze. Speaking of the brash man… He was sitting beside them, tried again and again with soft words and quiet smiles, but the children’s silence was absolute. A wall that would not yet fall.

His voice was soft but insistent with that distinct southern drawl. “You hungry? I’ve got some crackers and juice here, if you want.” He shifted, reaching into a battered bag, but the twins only pulled their coats tighter, their silence a fragile, impenetrable shield.

The Russian, sitting stiffly in the front passenger seat, watched them in the rearview mirror, his own gold eyes mirroring the sharp, haunted glow of the twins’. For a long moment, he simply looked, really looked, at the small, frightened boys curled together in the back of a car that was carrying them away from everything they’d ever known.

A sudden, sharp pang twisted in his chest— A cruel echo of a wish he barely dared to admit: ‘What if they were mine?’ What if these two fragile, silent boys were the children he might have had with Third Reich, the life that could have been?

But the thought cut deep, and he swallowed it hard. No. Not yet. Not ever. Because beneath that flicker of longing burned a darker flame— The raw, bitter fire of betrayal. The past was still fresh, still jagged. Trust shattered like broken glass, and the ghosts of promises torn apart whispered too loudly in the corners of his mind.

Soviet forced his gaze back to the road ahead, tightening his grip on the silver ring resting heavy in his palm. The weight of it grounded him, a reminder of history, of pain, and of fragile hope.

He turned his voice low, steady, breaking the silence with something softer than usual. “This ring was a gift for one of you from your father, right? I gave it to him when we were children.”

Their doe-like eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, curiosity quietly stirring beneath their wariness.

“He lived in a palace. His father was the German Empire so of course he did.” He said, voice almost wistful now. “Big rooms with high ceilings and chandeliers like frozen stars. No neighbors, no streets— Only walls that I swear whispered secrets and gardens so vast you could get lost in them. He was like a prince, really.” If love prevailed then would he have been Third Reich’s knight in shining armor?

The younger of the two shifted slightly, inching toward his brother as if the stories wrapped around them like a fragile shield.

Soviet’s usually harsh expression softened imperceptibly. “Your father was always full of silly ideas. Like the time he tried to teach me a ‘battle dance.’ It was less dancing and more stomping and flailing arms, and he laughed when I told him I was too stiff— Like a statue. He also taught me some fancy dances like the waltz.”

West’s lips twitched, barely a smile, but enough to let the older man know he was listening.

“Then there was the secret tunnel…” The red-haired man continued with a faint smirk, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “He was convinced the palace had hidden tunnels for midnight escapes and secret feasts. We spent hours crawling on the floor pretending to be spies. Of course, there were no tunnels, just dusty stone and old books.”

The boys shifted again, their bodies relaxing just a bit more. East leaned his head lightly against the seat, and the other boy’s hand reached out, fingers brushing Soviet’s coat sleeve— A silent thread of trust forming in the quiet.

With a slight from adorning his face the man’s voice dropped lower, laced with something almost like tenderness, “He loved those stories, even the dumb ones. He believed there was magic in them. A way to make the world less cold and broken.”

The car rolled steadily onward through the fading light, but inside the small space, the warmth of connection grew.

The Russian looked to the right and lifted the ring and gently pressed it into both their palms. “This is for you. To remind you that even when everything burns down, there is something strong inside that can’t be destroyed.”

As the boys’ fingers closed carefully around the ring, Soviet’s gaze lingered on them— Those golden eyes that were a reflection of his own, sharp and bright, shining with fragile hope.

A bitter shadow crossed his face. ‘They should have been mine.’ He thought again, before shutting down the thought with practiced coldness. The past was a scar too deep to heal overnight.

He looked forward again, voice quieter now, almost a whisper, “Maybe one day, you’ll tell your own stories. Maybe you’ll find laughter even in the dark.”

The American glanced at the younger man from the corner of his eye and gave a slow nod, the unspoken weight of history settling between them like dust.

The car moved on, carrying with it the fragile beginning of trust. A trust built on false hope but trust nonetheless.

Chapter Text

The heavy metal door groaned open with a reluctant squeal, its old hinges protesting like they hadn’t moved in years. The room inside was stark, cold, and flooded with the harsh light of a single, flickering bulb overhead. The concrete walls, scarred and worn, seemed to close in on the group like a cage. The air felt thick, distant from warmth, and the only sound was the echo of footsteps on the bare floor.

At the center of the room stood the figures of three nations— Each an embodiment of tension. Britain stood rigid, his posture as sharp as his cold eyes. Every inch of him radiated the commanding presence of a soldier who demanded order and truth. France leaned against the wall, arms folded in quiet reserve, her calm exterior belying the sharp calculation in her gaze. The American country on the other hand paced back and forth, hands clenched, energy crackling in the space like a storm ready to break.

Behind the tall Russian, two small figures hesitantly stepped inside, looking out of place in the oppressive room. East clung to his brother’s sleeve, the younger nation’s small frame stiff with fear. His eyes darted nervously, taking in the strangers around him. West, although just a little older, held a similar uncertainty in his posture. His golden eyes blinked up at the adults with a strange mix of wonder and confusion, taking in the cold, sterile space as if trying to make sense of it. Their clothes were oversized, their black coats hanging heavily around their small bodies, a stark contrast to the severe atmosphere in the room.

The youngest of the allied powers didn’t want them here. He wanted them far away from the war and instead somewhere safe like in his home. Yet the others insisted and he had to relent so that they’d ease up of him and not drag the children into the War.

Britain’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp and dismissive. “What are we supposed to do with these children? What are they even doing here?”

America had stopped his erratic pacing when Soviet entered. As he spoke up he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “We’ve already told you. They’re Third Reich’s kids. We found them in his place— Everything else burned to the ground. There was nothing left but ashes. They survived the fire.”

France stepped forward with a concerned look, her voice gentle yet firm. “They’re so young. Too young to understand what’s going on, Angelterre.”

Her lover’s lips curled into a cruel sneer, dismissing her words. “They may be young, but their father’s legacy will follow them. He was no hero. He was a monster.”

The two twins stood silently, their hands clutching each other, bodies tense. They looked around the room, eyes filled with uncertainty, until Soviet knelt beside them. His voice was soft, steady, reassuring. “You don’t need to be afraid. You’re safe here just like you were in your own home.”

The smaller one looked up at him, his eyes wide, unsure whether to trust the stranger. Slowly, after a moment of hesitation, he nodded, as if deciding to take him at his word. He smiled warmly at the children of the man he once loved. “Where were you before this?”

East’s voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “Our home... It burned.” He paused, eyes shifting to the side, and then added. “Papa didn’t come.”

The word hung in the air like a fragile thread. His heart tightened at the subtle pain that laced the child’s voice. The twins didn’t seem to have any clear idea of who was supposed to be with them. They only knew their father as the one who protected them, who loved them, who kept the world at bay. The man who was no longer there to protect them.

Britain sneered, his voice sharp and biting as usual. “Safe? You call this safe, Soviet? Their home is ashes. Their father was a monster.”

He sighed expecting such remarks from the older country. He looked at him with narrowed gold eyes, his expression unreadable. “They don’t understand that yet. They only know their father as he was to them.”

Th younger child’s hands tightened around West’s sleeve as the other twin looked up at the man with wide, trusting eyes. “He was kind to us.” West whispered, as if speaking a truth too fragile to be challenged.

Soviet’s gaze softened as he looked at the children. “Tell me more about him. What did he do?”

East’s face lit up as memories flooded back, his voice growing more animated. “He made cakes.” He said with a grin, the simple joy of the memory lifting his spirits. “Big ones, with lots of sugar. He said sugar makes you happy. He always said that. We made them when there were storms.” His eyes glazed over for a moment, the memory clear in his mind. “Storms made everyone sad.” He added softly, the unspoken truth clear. It was bombings but the Nazi tried hiding that.

The Russian’s heart clenched as he listened to the boy’s words. The innocent joy of the cakes, the small acts of comfort, contrasted sharply with the destruction of everything they’d known. He tried not to let his emotions show, but it was hard. After all he was the man’s lover at one point. He knew how loving the man could be despite pushing everyone away like a stray cat. He didn’t know whether he wanted him dead in a sea of snow or alive in his arms.

“He painted pictures too…” West mentioned despite not liking the atmosphere of the room. His brother continued, his voice full of excitement. “Right! He painted flowers and stars. He showed me how to hold the brush.” The boy giggled lightly, a sound that felt almost out of place in the grim room. “He said I was good at it.”

With a faint smile, the man’s gaze fixed on the children. “Did he ever talk to you about the world?”

He nodded eagerly. “He said we were strong and we should be brave. He said we would be safe because papa was the strongest and best person.” It was obvious the younger twin wasn’t as cautious as his brother. He was blabbering so adorably without a care in the world.

That caused his expression softened, the weight of the boy’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. These children didn’t know their father as a monster like everyone else. To them, he was someone who had loved them, who had protected them in his own way. They still clung to the hope that he would return, that they would see him again. Soviet wanted to protect that.

A British voice broke through the moment like a blade. “You really think those little stories make a difference? Your father was no better than the men who’ve destroyed this world.”

His eyes hardened as he turned toward the man. “They’re children, Britain. All they know is love. All they know is what he was to them.” The communist country said blankly.

Britain sneered, his eyes cold. “And you think you can replace him? You’re not their father, Soviet.”

The words hit harder than he was prepared for. He stood silently, the weight of those words pressing on his chest. He knew what Britain was implying, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue. Not now. Not with the children looking up at him as though he was something more than a stranger.

West looked up at Soviet Union with wide, trusting eyes, his small voice cutting through the tension. “You’re our dad too...” He whispered softly.

The room froze. It was as though the air itself had thickened, and time slowed. Soviet blinked, his breath catching in his throat. He looked at the twins, unable to comprehend the words for a moment.

“Why do you say that?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper yet his accent was still as strong as the vodka he drunk. His mind raced, trying to understand.

East smiled pridefully, his eyes full of innocence and trust. “Because you have the same eyes and you love us!” Unlike his brother he was very extroverted but both of them saw him as their dad. As another man who could protect them. He wasn’t a replacement for Third Reich but an equal.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest. The words, simple and pure, shattered something inside him. In that moment, he realized how much they had already attached to him, how much they wanted him to be what they needed. He couldn’t bring himself to deny them, not completely.

“You’re right. I am your dad.” He said quietly, his voice steady but heavy with an emotion he wasn’t ready to confront.

Britain’s voice cut through the silence like a jagged knife. “You’re not their father.”

Of course he didn’t respond. He simply stood there, gazing down at the twins, who were looking at him as though he held the key to their world. For the briefest of moments, he wasn’t sure if he could walk away from that.

Chapter Text

The room was colder than it should’ve been for early spring.

The heavy curtains had been drawn tightly, the chandelier above dimmed to its lowest glow. The long table, carved from black-stained oak, seemed to stretch endlessly— Like a  trench that none of them were brave enough to cross. Shadows clung to corners, and tension stained the air like smoke after artillery fire.

It was Soviet’s house. He had chosen the setting deliberately: Neutral territory draped in old grandeur. The ghosts here were his, and for once, they served as warning, not defense.

Seated at the head, the communist appeared carved from granite, posture composed, every movement deliberate. His gloved fingers steepled together, motionless. A statue, a sentinel. But inside, fire coiled like a forge— Controlled, not extinguished.

A certain Nazi sat to his left, like a storm bottled into a porcelain frame. Arms crossed, jaw tight, mouth pulled into a permanent sneer. If rudeness were a weapon, he had it sharpened and ready. He didn’t trust the calm. He didn’t trust the company. And above all, he didn’t trust the Russian— His ex, his jailer, his... Something else.

To his right, the twins sat curled against each other like two leaves bracing against wind. They had new coats that were brown, small hands tucked in sleeves. Their golden eyes flicked between the adults, silent and alert. East pressed into his shoulder, and West gripped his brother’s hand like a lifeline.

France sat with poise near the far end of the table, dignified, lips pressed thin. America leaned forward, elbows on the table, one knee bouncing, unable to sit still. Britain sat opposite the gold-eyed man— Straight-backed, arms crossed, jaw locked like a steel vault.

Soviet was first to speak.

“They stay with me.”

His voice rang like iron struck in a forge. It was calm and absolute with an uncanny sort of finality. His voice was a reminder of power.

The others turned toward him.

“Not only are the children in my care, but so is their father. Their protection is not optional. They will remain here under my supervision. With him.” He gestured slightly to the German, who scowled in response.

With a scoff the British man leaned forward. “You mean to keep them together? After everything?”

“Especially after everything.” The Russian replied which caused the German to roll his eyes. “Oh, how noble.” He said, voice dripping sarcasm and slight annoyance. “The mighty Soviet Union plays family counselor. How quaint.”

He’d dealt with the younger country before. He didn’t flinch. “They need stability. If not peace, then at least proximity to what comforts them.”

Britain’s gaze narrowed. “Comfort? That man.” He gestured to Third Reich with contempt. When he spoke his voice was dark like he was planning something, “Is a relic of a regime that turned comfort into cruelty.”

He leaned back, one eyebrow arching. “Oh please, don’t act like your hands are clean, Albion. You just had better PR.” The man with a German accent blurted bluntly.

America sighed. “Can we not do this? The kids are right here.” After saying those words he ran a calloused hand through his white locks.

“Exactly,” France murmured. “Enough of this. Let us focus on what matters: the boys.”

Despite that the British man ignored them, eyes still locked on the communist country. “You speak of guardianship, of keeping them together. But what happens when the father they adore becomes the man we knew again? When history repeats itself?”

Soviet tone turned to granite. “Then I will deal with it. As I always have.” Despite being younger than most countries he commanded respect and could likely beat most of the other countries. He wasn’t a pushover. Not anymore.

Britain’s mouth curled slightly, his voice quieter— But deadlier. “You always say that. But if he slips again, if we see even a flicker of what he once was— I’ll make sure his punishment is not just diplomatic. I will have him shackled in a hole so deep the sun forgets his name. You remember what we did to Austria-Hungary no? We had him executed in front of his children. I’ll have the children taken from him, re-educated, scrubbed clean of any trace of his blood. Do you understand me?” His threat was solid. After all WW1 was a war like no other (Til WW2) and that caused the punishment to be extremely severe for those who started it.

There was a pause after those words causing no one to move.

And then something subtle shifted.

Third Reich, who had thus far laughed at threats, blinked. The defiance in his eyes flickered, not gone but cracked. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers clenched at the table's edge, knuckles pale. Just for a second, barely more than a breath, he trembled.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

“Papa?” The youngest child whispered. His voice was small, uncertain. “You’re... shaking.”

The entire room stilled.

West’s eyes turned sharply toward his father, his gaze darting like a bird startled from a wire. Then, slowly, they slid to the Russian. He reached out without looking, tugging gently at his sleeve.

“He’s scared.” He said softly, his voice thinner than usual. “Don’t let them take him. Don’t let them make him disappear again.”

His chest rose, slowly. Measured. He didn’t speak right away. When he turned to the twins, his eyes had softened— But only for them. The steel in him didn’t bend. It simply made space.

“I won’t.” He said.

Then, without warning, he stood.

Every chair creaked— Like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Soviet walked calmly, too calmly, around the table. The air grew heavier with each step. His boots made no sound on the rug, but somehow, their silence was louder than thunder. He moved with the deliberation of someone who had already decided what would happen next.

He stopped in front of Britain’s chair.

“Stand up.” He said. The smile on his face was clearly a ploy.

The Englishman didn’t move. His fingers twitched once on the table’s edge. His spine stiffened, chin tilting up slightly, as if defiance could protect him.

“I said,” He growled, voice dropping to something low and dangerous. “Stand up and look me in the eye when you threaten a man in front of his children.” This time, the weight of it left no room for resistance.

Britain stood and the other seized his tie.

The fabric jerked taut between his fingers, and he yanked him close, dragging him into a breathless space of heat and warning, forehead nearly touching his.

“You threaten him in front of his children again.” The red-haired man hissed, his voice like steel grinding on stone, “And I will remind you why your empire has been shrinking since the war. I won’t kill you but I’ll strip you down until you are nothing more than a memory. Not feared. Not respected. Just forgotten.” That wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

He stared at him, unblinking. “You’re letting sentiment get in the way.” He said tightly, like the words were meant to wound more than warn.

“Maybe,” He said, voice quieter but no less firm. “But at least I have something left to feel. I am choosing to let humanity in even if it costs me something.”

With that, he released the tie. Britain staggered back half a step, adjusting it with a grimace— Though not out of vanity, but to hide how close he’d come to swallowing his own pride.

The American let out a low whistle, the sound slipping into the silence like a match in a cold room. “Yeesh—” He muttered to France who had a measured detachment to the whole issue. “Remind me never to piss him off.”

The German hadn’t moved. He stared at him with something unreadable in his expression. Suspicion? Confusion? Memory? Something ancient and wounded.

He didn’t thank him. Of course he didn’t. That wasn’t who he was.

But West and East rushed to him, hugging his leg, small arms trembling. The tremor in their grip betrayed the tension they’d been carrying, like a dam finally cracking.

“Thank you, Dad.” The elder boy whispered.

The communist stiffened just slightly— But didn’t correct them. He didn’t flinch, didn’t push them away. Instead, he placed a hand on each of their heads. His palm lingered longer than necessary.

“They’re staying.” He said to the room again, voice colder now. “And so is he. Under my roof. Under my terms. And no one lays a hand on them without going through me first.”

“And if he relapses?” The woman asked gently, voice careful, like he already knew the weight of the answer.

“Then I’ll handle it. I always do.” He said it with a quiet finality, as if this battle is one he’s fought too many times to count. The weight of it presses down on him, but his resolve doesn’t waver.

Despite the earlier interactions the former Nazi bristled. His lip curled, a familiar sneer pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t need your belief. I’m not some redemption project you get to parade around.”

“You don’t.” He agreed accent still thick with the slightest protectiveness. “But they do. Those boys need to believe in something, even if it’s not you. Even if it’s just the idea of you getting better.”

There was silence again as the chandelier still glowed softly as if the room refused to acknowledge the change in atmosphere.

Outside, a breeze stirred the curtains, an old house breathing again after a long time under ice. The room no longer felt cold— Only quiet. Fragile. Like something held together by hope and stubbornness.

Eventually, France rose. “Then it’s settled. For now.”

America nodded slowly. “Guess so. One less fire to put out today.” He was just glad not to have to do paperwork.

Britain on the other hand? He didn’t respond. He simply adjusted his tie, his fingers quick and sharp, and left the room without a word. The door closed behind him like the end of a chapter no one wanted to reread.

The Russian stood still for a moment, then gently peeled the twins off his leg. “Go play in the other room.” He said, his voice softer than it had been all night. “I’ll join you soon. Just give me a minute.”

They hesitated. East looked at his father, then the other man. His voice wavered on the question. “Will Papa stay?”

“Yes.” With a gentle smile he spoke up once more. “He stays.”

The boys nodded, then walked quietly out— Still not entirely convinced, but willing to believe in the answer for now.

Only the two men remained now.

Third Reich finally broke the silence. “You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to risk that fight. Not for me.”

“No.” He said. “I wanted to. I meant every word.”

There was a pause.

“Why?” He asked, eyes narrowed. “Because of them? Because they look at me like I’m still worth something?” His accent was thick with something other than contempt.

He met his eyes. “Yes. Because of them. Because they still see someone worth protecting. And maybe.. Just maybe… They’re not wrong.”

But what he didn’t say, what he couldn’t say, was that it wasn’t just for the children.

It had never been just for the children.

Chapter Text

The library was quieter than usual.

Soviet had chosen this room with intention, as he always did. The high ceilings were painted with faded constellations, and the tall windows let in a wash of pale morning light that touched everything with gentleness. Dust glowed in the air like old memories stirred back to life. The great shelves stretched upward like silent sentinels, full of books that smelled of war, winter, and waiting.

The twins sat on the couch, legs barely dangling over the edge. Their new shoes, too stiff, tapped nervously against the rug. East leaned into his brother, cheek pressed to his shoulder. West had a fist curled into the fabric of his coat— He hadn’t let go since they’d entered the room. His other hand twisted one of the buttons, as if he could tie himself to the communist with it.

Third Reich stood behind them, arms crossed, one foot tapping a silent rhythm against the floor. His back was to the shelves, to the door, to the world. Always watching for escape. Always poised to flee. He looked too proud for the room he was in, like a sculpture that didn’t belong in a house full of warmth. He’d never quite fit into places like this. And though he wouldn’t say it, the Russian knew he didn’t trust the stillness. Or the moment.

Especially not when it meant being this close to something fragile.

He sat with the twins on either side, his gloved hand gently brushing a bit of hair from the younger twin’s eyes. The boy blinked at him, pupils dilating a little with that familiar warmth, pure belief, the kind only children still carried with them like a shield. Soviet knew what they saw when they looked at him. They saw their dad.

And that was why this next part mattered.

“I want to tell you something.” He said softly. His voice was a little rough with sleep, or with something else he didn’t name. “There’s something you don’t know yet. But it’s important.”

Both of the children’s eyes narrowed slightly, confused. “Are we in trouble?” West asked, voice quiet with the smallest edge of fear. It wasn't that he expected punishment— Just that he expected something bad. Life had trained him for it.

“No.” Soviet said with a faint chuckle, shaking his head. “Nothing like that.” He leaned back so they could see his face clearly. The sun cut across one side of his features, catching the edge of his scarred left eye.

“You’ve heard me tell stories. About when your papa and I first met. About the night sky in winter. About the time we got lost in Siberia.” He gave a small smile. “About how stubborn your father is.” The younger man lifted an eyebrow behind them but didn’t interrupt. His silence was its own kind of contribution.

West giggled faintly, the sound quick and bird-like.

“What I didn’t tell you,” Soviet continued, tone softening, “is that I told those stories before. To others.” The twins blinked up at him when he said that.

“You have older siblings.” He said, the words falling like snow. “Three. Russia is nine. Ukraine is eight. Belarus is six.”

They stared at him, mouths parting slightly.

“But… We’re your kids?” East said, the tiniest waver in his voice. His brother looked at Third Reich as if asking if they’d be left behind by someone they trusted again.

“You are.” He confirmed without hesitation as his voice was thick with care and that Slavic accent, “You are mine. Just like they are. That hasn't changed. It never will.”

Behind them, the German scoffed— It was short, bitter, involuntary. The sound cracked the moment open like a window slammed in winter. He didn’t look back. “You don’t have to believe it for it to be true.” He said quietly enough that only the man behind him could hear.

And then, the door creaked open.

Three children stood in the threshold.

The silence that followed was deep and immediate. It wasn’t awkward. It was heavy.

The twins sat straighter, but just barely. The younger of the two fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, trying not to stare at the three unfamiliar figures in the doorway. His legs swung in uneven arcs, brushing the edge of the rug, while West leaned in close, curling like a vine around his brother’s side, his grip on Soviet’s coat tightening. His small fingers curled into fabric like he could disappear into it if he tried hard enough. He didn’t look away. But his gaze was wary, lips pressed into a firm, quiet line.

Across the room, the three older children stood still in the doorway, framed by the pale morning light filtering through the hallway beyond.

Russia, the tallest, stood like a gaurd with his shoulders squared, eyes steady, his posture unbending even though his coat hung loose and unbuttoned. Ukraine stood just behind his brother’s shoulder, head tilted slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Belarus lingered close to the doorframe, one hand still wrapped tight in her brother’s sleeve. Her stance was rigid, guarded. Like a cat unwilling to step into an unfamiliar room.

They stared at the twins in silence, and the Russian could feel the temperature of the moment shift. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t warm either. It was the kind of pause that came before a storm— Or maybe after one, when the world hadn’t decided yet what to become.

Then, the eldest spoke. His voice was soft, measured. “Are they the kids?”

He nodded once, as if the question hadn’t already been answered by the sight alone. “Yes.” The communist said, his voice carrying more weight than the words themselves. “These are your brothers. East and West.”

There was no reaction at first. No gasp, no outrage. Just quiet. Russia’s gaze moved slowly, studying the boys. Not just with suspicion, but with something deeper. Conflicted. He looked at them like someone trying to recognize a melody played on the wrong instrument— Familiar and yet changed. Then the second born stepped out from behind his brother, his brows raised slightly.

“They’re… Really little.” He said, voice tilted more toward wonder than judgment. “Like kittens.”

The elder twin sat up straighter at that, puffing his chest in a way that made his coat bunch awkwardly around his neck. “We’re big kids…” He said too quickly, too sharp. He took more after Third Reich than his brother.

Soviet smiled softly, resting a hand on his back in quiet correction. East blinked up at him, confused. “We’re four, right?”

“Yes.” He said gently, brushing his thumb along the boy’s collar. “You’re four.” That caused Ukraine to blink again. “Four?” The number floated between them like something fragile.

Russia’s expression didn’t move, but he could feel the shift in his body— Just the smallest breath caught in his chest. Their sister’s voice broke the silence next, thin and flat.

“They look like him.”

She didn’t point. She didn’t have to.

The words dropped into the room like iron. He didn’t react. Third Reich didn’t either, though Soviet saw the faint shift in his weight behind them, the subtle way he straightened his spine. Not in pride. In defense.

He was always ready for that— Judgment. And maybe, on some level, he knew he deserved it.

He rose slowly from the couch, his coat settling around him like a winter tide. He touched the boys’ shoulders before stepping forward, placing himself between the two halves of his fractured family.

“They wanted to meet you.” He said, voice smooth, even. Not detached, but controlled, “And I thought it was time.”

The sentence carried stories behind it.

Ukraine nodded, almost shyly. But Belarus spoke again, blunt and unblinking. “Is he staying?” Her eyes flicked to the tall figure behind the couch like a blade drawn and ready.

He didn’t turn. The Russian man didn’t need to. “Yes.” He said. It was final.

The eldest’s jaw shifted. “We don’t like him.” He said, not cruel, just honest.

There was no blame in it. Just history.

Soviet’s reply came with equal clarity. “I’m not asking you to like him. But they love him.” His voice softened. “And that matters.” Despite their reservations that made the children pause.

That was the truth of it, and it lived in his chest like a flame he kept fanned in secret. He didn’t pretend the other country deserved their love. He only knew that he had it.

And that fact alone terrified him more than anything.

Behind him, West curled tighter against the arm of the couch, eyes darting between his siblings and the man at the shelves. He didn’t know what was being said. Not really. But the tension in the room wrapped around him like a scarf too tightly wound.

“They don’t wanna play with us.” He whispered, his small voice breaking under the weight of something he couldn’t name. “Because they’re mad at Papa.”

He knelt beside him, one hand curling around his back. “No,” The man said softly as his gold eyes grew gentler. “They just don’t know you yet.”

That was all he could offer. He wanted to say more— To explain war, regret, survival. But they were four. And they still believed love could fix things just by holding it tight enough.

He couldn’t take that from them. Not yet.

The second child was the first to move. He stepped forward with the tentative grace of someone approaching a wild animal, careful not to spook it. His eyes flicked to West, then to the other twin, and he offered a small, lopsided smile.

East blinked. He was scared but also extremely intrigued. “Hi.”

“I like your coats.” He said. “They look warm.”

“They have buttons!” He said, fumbling to show him one. “Papa said if we lose ‘em the cold gets in.”

The older boy grinned. “Mine’s got a patch. It’s a bear. Wanna see?”

The boy’s gold eyes went wide. “Is it scary?”

“No.” He said. “It’s pink and really fluffy!”

That earned the smallest snort of laughter from West, who peered cautiously over his brother’s shoulder.

“You’re gonna overwhelm them,” Russia muttered from behind, arms crossed.

“They’re four.” He replied cheerfully. “Everything overwhelms them.”

Belarus still hadn’t moved. She hovered in the doorway like a shadow refusing to join the light.

“I don’t like him.” She said again, this time quieter.

The German didn’t blink but snorted with false amusement. “You’re not supposed to.” He said, voice rough and stripped bare.

Soviet looked over his shoulder— Not sharply, but with a kind of bone-deep calm. “You don’t have to like him. But don’t punish them for who he is.”

The little girl stared back at him. Then, slowly, she looked at the twins— Really looked at them. Small, quiet, soft. Unaware of what their lineage meant. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

She didn’t reply. But she didn’t leave either.

Russia finally stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He knelt in front of the twins, arms resting on his knees, expression unreadable. For a moment, no one spoke.

“You’re big.” The younger twin said, voice uncertain.

“I know.” The taller male replied.

West narrowed his eyes. “Are you mean?”

“Sometimes.”

He hesitated for a split second. “Me too.”

That was it. The ice didn’t shatter. It thinned.

Ukraine reached out and touched East’s hand. “There’s a globe in the corner,” he said. “Wanna spin it?”

The twins looked at one another and nodded before slipping down off the couch. The eldest followed a step behind. Belarus finally moved, trailing behind her siblings at a careful pace. She didn’t look at Third Reich again.

The room began to fill with quiet voices, hushed laughter, the sound of small hands spinning a dusty globe like it might reveal something better than the past.

He sat again, slow and thoughtful. He watched them— Not just as a father, but as a man who knew how easily peace could crack.

This was the closest they’d come to something whole.

Third Reich stepped closer but didn’t sit. He remained behind the couch, hands folded, eyes never leaving the children.

“You think this’ll work?” He asked, voice low.

The older male didn’t look at him. “I think they’ll make it work.” He said. “Not because we did. But maybe… Because we didn’t.”

He didn’t answer. But the silence between them had changed.

They sat like that— Soviet in the center of a fragile constellation, the German just outside it, close but never quite in the light. Still, there was something between them. Something quiet and lingering and unnamed.

Not forgiveness.

But maybe something that could grow where forgiveness had been scorched away.

And in the golden light of the library, with five voices rising in soft, overlapping tones, he let himself imagine, just for a moment, that this could be a beginning.

That maybe, just maybe, this strange, broken thing they had could become a family.

Chapter Text

The children had settled into each other like kittens in a basket.

There were squabbles over crayons, silent battles over whose turn it was to sit closer to Dad, and at least one instance where someone tried to eat soap just to see what would happen. But somehow, in the middle of the chaos, a routine had bloomed— Strange and soft and almost believable.

Third Reich didn’t mind the repetition. Not anymore. In fact, he’d begun to crave it, the way one craves the sound of a lullaby after weeks of sirens. Breakfast came with too much sugar and not enough manners. Nap times were rarely quiet, and someone always woke up sweaty and offended. Evenings were full of tangled hair, half-buttoned pajamas, and one of the twins inevitably declaring that they were “Not tired” right before collapsing like a felled tree.

No bombs. No orders. No fire. Just small hands tugging on his coat and asking questions like ‘What do stars eat?’ and ‘Why can’t fish drown?’

It was loud. Loud in a way that didn’t hurt. And after a while, the noise stopped feeling like a threat.

He’d even stopped flinching when doors slammed— Most of the time. He’d stopped dreading mornings. He’d even started cooking breakfast for the children, even though Soviet’s kids still didn’t trust him and Russia would ask if he poisoned it.

This was the new normal. And it clung to him, persistent and soft, like the way milk dries sticky on a countertop, annoying in the moment, but proof someone small had been there.

He was starting to believe it might last but today the house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the silence of danger, he knew that kind too well, but a stranger hush. The kind of stillness borrowed from another life, one gentler and untouched. It didn’t belong here. Not to this place. Not to him.

Third Reich moved through the hallway like a man haunted, not by ghosts, but by the living. Every breath he took felt too loud. Every creak in the wooden floor made his shoulders tense. The last time he’d walked through a house that held laughter, it had burned down hours later.

So now, even peace felt like it might vanish if he touched it too hard.

The voices came from the room at the end of the hall— They were small, high-pitched, bright voices with laughter that was messy and sincere. It made his throat ache.

He followed the sound slowly.

When he reached the doorway, he didn’t speak. He didn’t want to interrupt the illusion. He didn’t even want to blink.

East was wearing his coat and not just any old coat it was the coat to his Nazi uniform.

The child had pulled it out of an old trunk, he didn’t know how, he hadn’t even known it was still in the house, and had thrown it over his small shoulders. The fabric swallowed him whole. The sleeves dragged on the floor. The collar engulfed his neck and chin like a scarf made of shadows.

“It’s so big!” East shouted with delighted disbelief. “West, look! I’m a grown-up now!”

“You look like a lump!” The older twin said, but he was giggling as he tried to tug one side of the coat to help. “You can’t even walk.”

“I can! Look!” East took two stumbling steps and immediately tripped, falling to his knees in the heavy fabric. “Maybe not…”

His breath caught in his throat.

The coat was old. So old. Black fabric, double-breasted, polished buttons. The kind of coat that had once walked across countries. The kind that had stood behind podiums and in front of maps. The kind of coat that had been made for him when he’d still believed he was unbreakable.

It had survived bombings, battles and even that god forsaken plane crash it seemed. So now it was dragging on the floor behind a four-year-old.

His four-year-old.

He didn’t mean to speak aloud. But the words came anyway, low and firm. “Take it off.” The boys froze instantly.

West turned first, startled. His twin peeked out from under the oversized collar. His hair was messy and sticking out in all directions. “Are we in trouble…?” One of them asked.

“No.” The German stepped into the room, his voice softer now. “No, not trouble. But that coat is not for you.” After hearing that his youngest son looked confused. “But it’s yours. Right?”

“Yes.”

West tilted his head. “Then why can’t East wear it?”

He crouched down in front of them, slowly, like one might approach something fragile— A bird, maybe, or a dream. His eyes flicked over the coat, over their faces, over the way they were both looking at him like they didn’t understand. And of course they didn’t.

They were only four.

That was the whole point.

Third Reich reached out and began to gently unfasten the coat’s buttons. “This is a coat for big people,” He said softly. “It’s very heavy.”

“But I’m big…” He protested, puffing out his chest. “Dad says I’m bigger then our older siblings when they were our age!”

The Nazi smiled faintly, brushing hair out of East’s eyes. “You’re the biggest little person I’ve ever seen.”

The coat slipped off his son’s shoulders with a soft whoosh, pooling on the floor like spilled ink. He picked it up and folded it carefully in his arms. His hands trembled around the fabric.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He said again, just to be sure. “I just don’t want you playing with this.”

“Why?” West asked.

Third Reich didn’t answer right away. He sat on the edge of the couch, holding the coat like it might vanish. The air in the room felt heavier now, like dust had started to settle on words that hadn’t been spoken.

He looked at them both.

Tiny legs with soft skin that hadn’t yet been touched by the horrors of the world. They were the epitome of innocence with their big blue eyes, round cheeks and messy black hair.

How could he explain what the coat meant? How could he tell them it had walked through frost-covered ruins and blood-slick fields? How could he explain what a uniform became when the world fell apart? He couldn’t and he wouldn’t.

So he said, instead. “Because it’s not a coat for adventures. It’s a coat for storms.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “But I like storms.” He gave a small, choked laugh. “Only the kind with rain and puddles, hm?”

After a second of thinking West nodded solemnly. “Thunderstorms are kind of scary.”

He reached out then, slowly and cautiously, and drew them both closer. They came without question, climbing into the space on either side of him on the couch, small hands pressed against his arm, his lap, the edge of the coat.

He held them close. One arm around each boy. The coat between them like a folded memory he refused to open.

They didn’t know. They didn’t need to know.

He could feel his forstborn’s heartbeat, fast and steady like a little drum. East was already squirming, trying to reach for one of the shiny buttons. The German gently caught his wrist. “Not this one.” He whispered.

“Why?” East asked again.

He smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to the top of the boy’s head. “Because some things are better when they stay quiet.” The boys didn’t understand. But they didn’t argue either.

They leaned into him, warm and heavy with trust. And for a while, the three of them sat like that— Father and sons, wrapped not in power or politics, but in a silence he had once forgotten how to love.

He didn’t think about the coat anymore. He only thought about how small their hands were. How soft their breathing is. How no one had cried when they put the coat away.

But then, as his sons shifted and the air thickened with the weight of his thoughts, the coat, now discarded and folded neatly on the couch beside him, caught his eye. Its black fabric, once so crisp and sharp, was faded with time. The stiff collar that once stood like a sentinel, defiant and unyielding, lay slack and lifeless. His hand instinctively hovered over it, fingers trembling as they brushed the material.

He could almost hear the echoes of the past, the sounds of boots marching, the roar of crowds, the cold winds of winter sweeping across the Russian steppe.

The coat, his SS coat, had once been a symbol of authority. Of power. It had fit him like armor as he stood at the front of rallies, the eyes of millions upon him. He had worn it during invasions, during speeches, when the world trembled before him. It was the very thing that had made him a leader, a conqueror. The coat was more than just fabric; it had been a tool of fear, of oppression. It had seen atrocities. It had seen war. It had seen the death of innocence.

And now, it lay here, beside him, the ghosts of its past settling like dust over the room.

His chest tightened.

1941.

The memory hit him like a blow to the gut, sharp and sudden.

The bitter cold of Operation Barbarossa, the weight of the coat heavy on his shoulders as he walked past the ranks of soldiers lined up for inspection. Their faces were blank, faces that had seen too much. Faces that didn’t ask questions.

He could still remember the way the collar bit into his neck, the scent of leather and sweat and smoke clinging to the coat. His eyes had been focused on the horizon, on the endless stretch of snow and mud, on the battlefield he was about to step onto. But there was always something in his peripheral vision, something soft, something that shouldn’t have been there.

Soviet. Whose right eye he had torn from its place with his own hands, once, in a moment soaked with rage and war. A wound that should have ended everything. And yet, just a few weeks before that incident, they’d been beneath the same sky, whispering about stars like old lovers pretending the world hadn’t burned around them.

Then he remembered 1938. It was one of the Nazi rallies where they were celebrating Anschluss. (Germany's annexation of Austria)

He had been there, too, standing behind him, adjusting the collar of his coat with that practiced touch. The Russian had never been afraid to get close, to touch him even when everyone else kept their distance.

“You look good.” Soviet had murmured in that rough, warm voice, fingers brushing over the stiff fabric, smoothing it down.

He hadn’t responded right away. But when the other country’s hands lingered a moment too long at the collar, when those gold eyes, eyes that had once held such love, such fire, met his, the weight of the moment had shifted. And Soviet, with his quiet tenderness, had pressed a soft kiss to his temple before stepping back, a small smile on his lips.

“Good luck.” He had said, voice barely more than a whisper. “Be careful out there, моё солнышко.”

моё солнышко.

The word had tasted bitter in his mouth even then. He hadn’t needed luck. Not then. He had been invincible.

At least, that’s what he’d thought.

The image of the other’s hand leaving his temple, the warmth of the kiss still lingering on his skin, seemed to clash with the harsh reality that had followed. The screams. The destruction. The bodies. The endless blood that stained the ground of every country they had invaded.

The coat had borne witness to it all.

And now, as he sat in the dim light of his room, holding his sons in his arms, the coat felt like a stranger. It felt like a ghost, something that didn’t belong in this room, this peaceful space where his children, small and trusting, had no idea what it had represented.

The twins, East and West, were still pressed against him, their tiny hands clutching his coat, their faces relaxed in sleep. They were safe now. They were innocent. They didn’t know the meaning of war, the weight of what their father had been a part of. They didn’t know the stains the coat had borne.

But Third Reich did.

The coat had seen it all.

The thought of them wearing it someday, of them standing tall, perhaps in some future he couldn’t yet imagine, in that same black fabric, made his blood run cold.

He could already hear the voices in his mind, echoing from the past: ‘You're his son. You wear his legacy.’ ‘Your father’s legacy lives on in you.’

But what legacy had he really given them? A legacy of death? Of destruction?

No. He wouldn’t let them wear it. He couldn’t. Not even as a symbol of who they were. Not when it had been his uniform of war.

They were children. They deserved innocence. They deserved peace. And that was something the coat could never give them.

His gaze flickered back to the twins. Their small hands still clutched the edges of the fabric, unaware of the storm that was brewing within him. His chest tightened again. He wanted to protect them, shield them from the ugliness that had stained his life. He wanted to lock them away, keep them in a world where they could never know the truth of what their father had been.

They didn’t need to know. Not yet. Not ever.

He had seen what happened to children who grew up in the shadow of war. The memories would never fade for them. They would live with it, like an infection that slowly consumed everything good, everything pure.

He wouldn’t let them become like him. He repulsed himself but he did what he had to do.

The coldness of the coat seemed to press against his chest as if mocking his resolve. He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch. His arms tightened around the twins, his grip firm, possessive. He wanted to keep them safe. He wanted to shelter them from it all. From the cold, from the war, from the legacy that was bound up in the fabric of that coat.

Their small breaths reminded him of how little they were. How vulnerable. How much he had to protect them.

He closed his eyes, fighting the wave of guilt that threatened to suffocate him. His sons would never understand the weight of the past. And he would make sure they never had to.

No one would ever take their innocence from them. Not while he still drew breath.

The coat, once so full of power, so full of him, felt like it was suffocating him now. He reached over and, with an almost reverent touch, folded it carefully, gently, as if it were something that could shatter under his hands.

He wouldn’t let them wear it. Not now. Not ever.

Instead, he would teach them something different.

Something better.

“Papa?” East whispered in his sleep, his voice light, dream-filled. “Papa…” West echoed softly, his hand seeking out his father’s, curling around it like a lifeline.

His heart swelled, a quiet ache spreading through him. He didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve their trust, their love. “I’m here.” The man said because despite not deserving their love he would protect it. With everything he had left.

In the silence that followed, he lay there, his children warm and safe in his arms, their breaths the only sound in the room.

The coat still fit. But it no longer had a place in his life. It no longer had a place in theirs.