Military Aprons [Bri!]

He could never let anyone see him like this - it was shameful. He would never live it down, not ever; it was just so much against his character. Germany was strong, strict, he didn't do this whole "fun" thing; but here he was, doing something that he dare not tell another soul. Especially his brother. He would be more disgusted than anyone in Ludwig for his actions. He was even apprehensive around Brandenburg as he did this sort of thing, and it was her that taught him in his youth. Curse that woman, no matter how much he loved her.

This was the ultimate in disappointing with Ludwig, as he stood in his kitchen, looking over the mess he had produced. There he stood, covered in cream, his counters a mess, jam everywhere - if anyone were to ever ask, these doughnuts had been store purchased. A special little bakery well out of the way - he didn't fear Prussia might ever go and look for it, he spent his days in the basement, drinking heavily. Berlin knew better than to ask where, it was bad enough for him knowing his allies did such immasculine things, she couldn't visit the bakery he did.

He sighed a little, his pink apron hugging his body - he would have to find a way to ruin it, and demand a blue, red, black or gold one replace it. Not for him, of course, but because those were colours he felt were acceptable for his maids to wear. It seemed unfair to make the men wear colours that the women would be just as comfortable wearing. Those, and the novelty rabbit paw oven mitts - every time he wore them, he died a little inside. He was Germany, super-power of Europe; baking with bunny hands.

His mind was beginning to stray, as he started to wipe up the worktop - clearing the evidence of what it was he had been up to. His kitchen was uncharacteristically messy, his cheeks caked with flower - much like his hands and arms - and the smell of the cakes and doughnuts in the oven was filling the room. They were almost done, he knew the smell well. Thankfully, it didn't waft downstairs, and in truth, Gilbert had likely consumed enough alcohol that it didn't exactly force his response. He didn't see his brother drift upstairs often - not unless he had ran out of ale.

So there he was, polishing away on the worktops until he could see his face in their glimmering surface - egg shells and emptied cartons being tossed into the trash, humming his song to himself, his anthem, written at birth. It never failed when it came to tracking down his smile.

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