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Summary
“Quelle performance, mon cher !” France says, earning himself a dark, yet desperate look from Prussia as he walks towards him, a grin still on his face.
“Va te faire foutre,” Prussia answers simply, and he sounds tired, tired, tired of the West and the East and the trenches and rationing, uprising and death.
Bismarck is dead and so are the men who once sang the Internationale in the streets of Paris. Still, the taste of it all had lingered in his throat, for decades, even up until now, even as he watches Prussia fall on his knees, a sigh coming out of his mouth. There’s something striking about the look of him, the sunken eyes and the still impeccable uniform. It’s beautiful.
Contents 12 chapters
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