Chapter Text
Allied-Occupied Berlin, 1947
In the year and a half since his surrender, Germany has yet to find his footing. He wakes up with a jerk from nightmares at odd hours, tumbling out of bed before he has a chance to stop himself. Bruises and broken bones have yet to heal, leaving him pained and disoriented. He feels, in many ways, as though he’s being weaned off of something addictive—the longing burns through him and leaves nothing in its wake, just scorched earth and a man who feels hollow and raw.
He cries out for his brother, some nights. He can feel him, knows he’s not very far away, but they haven’t seen each other in eighteen months. Prussia is likely not as undone by the surrender as Germany is. His brother will have stayed strong, and is probably negotiating for a much better position with Russia than Germany is with America.
Sometimes, when Germany thinks these things, he laughs at himself. He scoffs and says, yes, that’s very true, and also the Allies will have treated Italy more than fairly, and the news coming in from Japan is just an exaggeration. And don’t worry, Germany, it isn’t your fault, even though you let yourself be swept up in violence and chaos.
It is his fault. Every person in Germany knows it, from the eldest man to the youngest babe. The soldiers and officials awaiting trial know it, the women who’ve been violated know it, and the Germans who might’ve once been Poles or Czechs or Russians and now flee back to his war-torn land certainly know it. There is a reason they flee, after all. But most of all, the dead know it.
It is his fault, and Germany is sure that there is one person in particular who won’t let him forget it. He can remember, very clearly, the last war and the last treaty. France had stood over him with cold eyes as he signed the documents, lips curled in distaste. Germany can remember the way he held himself upright, even though there was blood seeping through his uniform at the shoulders. France looked down on him, even though he was bloody and broken himself. He’d looked down and laughed in a cold, distant way, and Germany cannot forget the sound.
And that’s why he wonders what has taken France so long, why eighteen months pass before he arrives in Berlin to gloat. Germany very purposefully does not think of his own gloating in Paris, but even if he had given it thought he might not have remembered it clearly. Most days he wakes up feeling like he’s just surfaced from swimming, the world coming back into focus as the sound rushes to his ears.
He does wonder, perhaps masochistically, what France will say to him. The man has always cast a shadow over Europe, more so than any nation Germany can think of. He wants to know what doom that shadow will spell for him, this time.
In the early morning he’s escorted from the Spartan apartment where he’s been under house arrest by three guards—one America, one French, one British. They take him directly to one of the hollowed-out government buildings, repurposed for use by Allied forces. The walls are clean and white, all flags and portraits torn down. Germany prefers it this way.
They leave him in a conference room, mutter than Capitaine Bonnefoy will be along shortly. There is a coffee maker in one corner of the room, and Germany spends the time by making two cups. He sets them on opposite ends of the table, and waits.
Part of the cost of surrender is that he is often left alone with his own thoughts. His life has been dominated by purpose—by goals and regimens and efficiency—and so this new-found idle time is uncomfortable and unwelcome. It’s too easy to get lost in himself and his unfamiliar emotions, and by the time he looks up at the clock an hour has gone by.
The coffee has gotten cold. This rankles more than being kept waiting, because if he runs out he will have to ask America for more. For some reason, that humiliation seems more grating than the rest.
More minutes trickle by. France is an hour and a half late. Incensed, Germany hoists himself to his feet, despite the way his sore muscles scream in protest. He isn’t allowed military dress, anymore, so he’s wearing serviceable dark trousers and a collared shirt. One arm is kept close to his chest in a sling; there’s a cloth bandage wound around his forehead to cover a new wound. He doesn’t look like a soldier, but that doesn’t mean he should be kept waiting.
He goes out into the hall—the guards are not there. Frowning, he continues walking. The doors to most rooms are open, revealing them to be empty. Soldiers pass him, some of his own, mostly Allied. They nod but do not stop him, and Germany pauses for a moment to absorb the fact that he is no longer considered a threat.
He’s approaching the end of the hall by the time he hears their voices, muffled at first. The last door is half-open, allowing Germany to glance inside. And what he sees there, he did not expect. He knows he should either announce his presence or walk away, but he remains frozen.
It’s a small office, occupied by a desk and one chair. France is sitting on top of the desk, dressed in a drab uniform. His legs are poised over the edge of the table at odd angles, as though he hoisted himself up without bothering to correct his position. One side of his face is marred by a wound just healing to scars. For a minute, Germany thinks that France is merely staring at his hands, speaking to himself. But then—
“You’re being a baby, you know.” England’s voice is sharp and clear, but it takes Germany a moment to realize that he’s standing directly behind France, his arms around the other’s waist. “This is hardly the most difficult thing you’ve had to do, lately.”
France sighs and leans back against England, his eyes fluttering closed. “I know. But that makes it even harder.”
England clicks his tongue and lays his hands over France’s. “Idiot. That doesn’t even make sense. It’s easier, so it’s harder? Listen to yourself.”
Germany is still standing, transfixed, in the doorway. He’s never seen these two stand still so long in each other’s presence before. Even while they’ve been allies, he’s always seen them on the battlefield or during negotiations. On the former they’re well in-sync, dancing around one another but in-tune to what they might require. And at the latter, it’s been the familiar biting words and barely-suppressed scorn. But this, despite the words, is nothing close to that.
“It’s harder, because it shouldn’t be,” France murmurs. “I thought that things would get easier, after everything. Arthur, why haven’t things gotten any easier?”
England finally comes into view, resting his chin on top of France’s head. He sighs, too, and Germany can see the deep shadows under his eyes and the gaunt angles of his face. “Nothing’s ever easy, frog. Haven’t you learnt that by now?”
France laughs hollowly. “Not for you, maybe. But I’d like it if struggles came and went, and left some sort of ease behind them. Not this constant mess. I’m tired of it.”
“I’ve been tired for twenty-five years.” England’s voice is biting, but heavy. “And you’re half the cause of that. So just shut up and do your duty.”
Germany licks his lips and sucks in his breath, trying not to make any noise. He feels distinctly uncomfortable, having come upon something so intimate. He supposes France must be used to being touched, must find nothing unusual about feeling England’s warmth all against his back. But the casual ease with which he lies against the other nation is utterly foreign to Germany. France’s eyes are still closed, and if England chose this moment to move away France would fall backwards. But England won’t, Germany realizes. He doesn’t know why, but the intimacy and trust of it makes his heart ache.
There’s silence, for a moment, and Germany swears that he can hear their heartbeats, the passing of each breath. But then France makes a choked noise and bites down on his lower lip, thin face contorting with pain for a moment.
“I can’t. Arthur, you know, you know I can’t. Sigmaringen was one thing, taking Berlin another. I’ve tried to push through this, you know I have. But I feel—navré—I don’t know. It’s anger, but also sadness. And something else.”
His hands go clammy as Germany watches. He’s seen France in vulnerable positions before—he’s put France in vulnerable positions before. And he hadn’t been sorry at the time. But now France is still elegant in his broken victory, like something out of the portraits Italy had taken such pride in showing him. The very thought of Italy makes Germany bite down on his tongue, hard enough to draw blood.
England clears his throat. “I honestly can’t believe I’m asking, but—are you going to tell me what ‘else’ there is?”
France turns now, hiding his face against England’s chest. England lifts his arms to embrace France around his shoulders, holding him tightly against himself. If France says anything, Germany can no longer hear it. And to be frank, he doesn’t need to.
As quietly as he can, he retraces his steps away from the door. Even as he marches quickly back to the conference room, the image of France and England together chases him. Neither of them look particularly whole—they have their bruises and scrapes and bandages, the same as Germany. But Germany imagines that being so close almost makes up for those wounds, because they can lean on one another.
Germany doesn’t know how they do it. Even now, his hatred burns through him like fire, untamable. How could two old enemies put fire aside and get to that? What would even make it possible? Illogically, he’s angry with them. It isn’t fair, that he should be so alone and they should have each other. It’s unjust.
By the time he makes it back to the conference room, he’s dragging his bad leg and his palms ache from clenching his fingers so tightly. The room is empty, just like it was when he’d left it. It’s empty, because his allies, the people he… the people he loves are gone. He doesn’t know when he’ll see them again, or if they’ll still love him when he does.
His gaze falls on the cups of coffee, left to cool to the point of being undrinkable. He thinks of France, sitting ensconced with England, not caring that he’s wasting one of the few precious things that Germany has left. Growling, he lashes out, swiping across the table with his good arm and sending the cups crashing against the sanitized white wall. The shattering sound is a comfort, just like the sludgy brown lines that drip down the wall. This place should be broken and dirty. There should be no love here at all.
Germany sits back down in his chair and waits, breathing heavily and focusing on the coffee stains. It might be half an hour, or only five minutes, but eventually he hears the door open. He takes a deep breath, and turns to see France.
The other nation is supported by a cane, walking slowly. His hair is brushed back from his face, his features set in hard lines that reveal none of the weakness he’d shown with England. As for the other, he’s nowhere to be seen.
“Allemagne,” France says slowly, pulling out a chair and easing himself into it. His gaze drifts briefly to the stain on the wall, but he doesn’t mention it.
“Frankreich,” Germany responds, voice even and low. Then, blandly, he asks, “England won’t be joining us?”
France blinks in surprise, then smiles in a ghostly way. “Oh, no. He’s not officially here, you see. And I can’t imagine you’d want more of his company.”
Germany purses his lips. “It might be better than yours.”
France laughs at that, bright and forced. For the first time, Germany thinks he can see the cracks in this man’s armor. He’s half pageantry, and all that’s genuine about him is dark and ill-used. For some reason, that makes Germany feel better.
“Now, then,” France says, “Shall we get to business?”
They do not offer each other apologies. Germany cannot make up for his actions with words, and doesn’t want France’s platitudes trying to make up for events long past. They stumble through the motions of negotiation, reassessing treaties and dancing around subjects they cannot yet face. But every time Germany looks up at France he sees the ghost of England behind him, keeping him steady and whispering in his ear.
Germany did not need to wait to hear France’s last words to England, because he knew what they would be. He’s been living with guilt so long that he can immediately recognize it on another’s face. It may be unfair, that France should feel the way he does but still be loved. But as the meeting ends and Germany is escorted back home, he thinks it might give him hope. France is as hateful and guilty and broken as Germany is. The comparison shouldn’t comfort him, but it does.
But it’s still so damn lonely, when he goes to bed thinking of Italy and Japan and his brother. The hope hurts, because it grows up out of the charred remains of what he used to feel. He thinks of France and England and wonders if they’ll spend this night together, and he does not thank them for planting painful seeds among the wreckage he must tend alone.