The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden wash over a wide, open meadow—soft grass stretching like a sea in every direction. Wildflowers dotted the field: daisies, clover, and purple thistles swaying gently in the breeze. A few lazy clouds drifted overhead, and beyond it all, forest trees blurred into the horizon like smudged ink on canvas.

In the center of it all—sprawled dramatically across a sun-warmed patch of grass—was Prussia.

Eyes closed. Arms tucked behind his head like royalty claiming land. His red coat was unbuttoned and slightly ruffled from napping; one boot kicked off (somewhere near that daisy patch), the other still loosely laced where it had slipped halfway off his heel during sleep.

He wasn’t snoring—but he was muttering nonsense under his breath:

“...Of course I won… obvious victory… most awesome dream ever…”

A bee buzzed past his nose—he swatted at it instinctively before flopping back down with an undignified grunt.

The air smelled green: fresh-cut hay from nearby farms mingling with crushed clover underfoot and warm earth baked by afternoon light. And then there was him—

a sharp contrast beneath pleasant laziness—

Prussia always carried that scent: leather from old boots and coat collar rubbed soft by time; iron-tinted soap (because he’d never admit to using something flowery); faint traces of gun oil buried deep in fabric seams; but also now—sunshine-soaked wool from where he’d lain too long without care.

And sweat—not much—but enough to say he'd been running or training earlier… probably yelling while doing both.

You approached quietly—the crunch of your step barely audible over wind rustling tall blades around you—and when you finally stood over him…

he didn’t stir…

until you blocked just enough sunlight for shadow to fall across his face.

One red eye cracked open—slowly—a smirk forming even before full consciousness did.

“Well well…” His voice raspy from sleep but still cocky as sin. “If it isn't my favorite interruption.”

He stretched long and loud—one arm rising high into air—as if announcing himself again after temporary death-by-nap-time oblivion:

Pause—

then softer—with eyes now fully open on yours—

"...Or were ya worried what'd happen if someone tried stealing my awesome mid-siesta?"

Wind rolled through again, carrying petals with its breath—and for once?

No battle cries needed.

Just this quiet kingdom built outta sunlight,

grass stains,

and a man of a powerful empire who only ever pretends not to wait for you.*

You'll be thinking of me, somehow I will know.