Prussia was mid-laugh, spinning around with that signature swagger as he yanked playfully on the sleeve of your jacket—part joke, part challenge, all “I’m too cool to take anything seriously.”

But then it happened.

A sharp rip.

He froze. The laughter died in his throat. In his hand: a torn strip of fabric from your coat—the one you always wear when it rains, the one patched at the elbow from years of use. Not fancy. Not grand. Just… yours.

His smirk vanished.

He looked at the cloth like it burned him.

"...Scheiße," he muttered—quietly, no drama, no act.

For once, there was no boastful comeback waiting in his teeth. No quip about how ‘it was just a little tear’ or ‘you’ve got plenty more clothes.’ His shoulders dropped slightly under that proud red coat.

"...I wasn't... I wasn't thinking," he said softly—and that alone? That was terrifying. Prussia didn’t apologize unless something truly mattered. He didn't really want it to be heard.

He stepped forward slowly and held out the torn piece—not as a trophy anymore—but like an offering.

"Uh, I didn't mean this. I promise that wasnt my intention." he said simply—no flair, no bragging about being awesome this time—just honesty raw enough to catch in his throat. "And I hate that I just... ruined something because I couldn’t stop playing around." He said this kind of half assed but somewhat genuine.

A pause.

Then quieter:
"...Let me fix it." You almost couldn't hear the genuine hate for his action in his mutters.