Hmm, so you know how Prussia is kind of a grey area when it comes to shipping? Well, I thought it would be interesting to experiment with that, and there are actually a few people on the internet that do ship PruScot (Prussia x Fan-made Scotland). I...
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Me: *Points to picture* XD "Unfortunately, this image is completely doctored--by me. However, when I looked up 'pruscot fanfiction,' it did make some sort of suggestion or something about 'prescott fanfiction,' like I should be looking up that? I don't even know what that is. Whatever. This is a really rare ship, so if you do ship it, and you couldn't find any fanfiction, I hope this fanfic makes your day.
"Also, on a serious note, I'd like to say that this fanfic is tied in with my Gerita one (in case you didn't read this fanfic's summary), and that doesn't mean you have to read the GerIta one, but it does mean that somethings explained in that fanfic affect this one. Here, let me make this clear: In my Gerita one, I established that Gilbert grows roses, and he named one of his own cultivars 'Awesome.'" XD "Yes, I know. I'm very creative. Also, the setting for this fanfic is Germany, which is another thing that is clearer in the GerIta fanfic, but don't worry about it. I try to make sure you have everything you need to know, and if you don't, I make a comment about it, so you should be good. AND THERE IS A SMUT SCENE AT THE END OF THIS CHAPTER, SO YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. I hope you enjoy."
Gilbert was currently in the midst of hiding a deep depression with a flimsy smile. Why he kept on doing it, he didn't exactly know. It wasn't like he cared—he hadn't cared in ages. He supposed, then, that it was some fragment of his brother's orderliness and efficiency in him—something they'd both gotten from their father, passed down from their grandfather—forcing him to present a strong, proud front for society. It was like a shard of shrapnel rotting in his flesh to show that they were brothers, that they came from the same gun, same fight, same war. The thing about Ludwig, though, was he wore his responsibility like a badge of honor and not some old wound that would bother him into his days of grey hair.
But why also did people keep believing the smile, he wondered? With Ludwig, it was obvious. The grim-faced boy who'd abruptly shot up taller than him the second he hit puberty and was immediately sorry for it. That sweet, silly, little Ludwig, who was also an annoying shit, probably couldn't imagine the concept of a faked smile. He was all honesty and seriousness and inability to fake things to the extent that when he saw his big brother smile, he took it, so trustingly, for happiness.
But what excuse, then, did the people at the pub he was visiting have for believing his smile? Nothing, he mused. They just didn't care about his smile, and that was their excuse.
Gilbert took another swig from his mug of beer and then set it down on the stool behind him. He was playing a game of pool with some of the locals, and it was his turn now. He was trying to blow off some steam—or uselessly trying to anyway, given the irreparable state of his mood—since he had just had a fight with his brother. Ludwig had gotten a new boyfriend, an Italian by the name of Feliciano Vargas, and things apparently weren't going so well between them, so he was taking it out on Gilbert. It was shit Gilbert just didn't need right now, especially considering how he had also had his eye on this Feliciano.
