Work Text:
There are too many places I’d rather be.
(Maybe only one.)
There are too many people I’d rather be with.
(Maybe only one.)
I’ve been back in Germany for years now. And even though I was dissolved, life wasn’t bad. I had my duties and peace time and friends and West.
That was all I needed, wasn’t it?
(Then why was something missing?)
I’m strong. I always had been. Always will be.
I’m not weak.
There’s just something wrong.
I must have hit my head, because every time I close my eyes, I find myself catching glimpses of violet eyes, pale blonde hair, glimpses of a broad slowly rising and falling chest.
Glimpses of large hands that are rough by the finger tips but surprisingly smooth by the palm and back.
Glimpses of a childish smile and the everlasting feeling of being safely encircled by warm arms.
Whispered sweet words and grunted pet names.
I must have hit my head because every time I close my eyes, I find myself missing him more.
Missing the way his eyes would widen in childish surprised if I made a dirty joke. Missing the feeling of his hand in mine, his body moving against mine, his breaths becoming one with mine.
I must have hit my head because I find myself remembering, remember the day we first met, both so young and naive.
Remembering the dark look on his face when we betrayed him. Remembering the pain, the fear, the defeat and the self loathing as my capital was bombed and nearly burned to the ground.
I find myself remembering the first time, it was rough and violent, but I didn’t cry.
I find myself remembering the last time, it was soft and desperate, a plea for me not to leave, but I did and I cried as I tore down that wall. Knowing I wouldn’t be coming back.
I must have hit my head because I find myself realizing, realizing that all these years, past the hate and the violence and the political opinions, I have grown fond of him. Beyond fond of him.
Realizing that although we are countries, we also have emotions. Realizing that no matter how hard I try, my emotions have chosen this path. Realizing that no matter how hard I try, no matter how tender West is, no matter how drunk France, Spain and I get, I cannot get him out of my head.
I must have hit my head because every time I close my eyes, I see his soft violet eyes, his tentative smile, and I hear his voice, so wrong for these images.
I hear him begging me to stay.
I hear the sobs I make.
I must have hit my head because every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice whispering in all the languages of the world how he loves me.
I hear the last words he said to me, telling me he loved me and would get strong enough to take me back.
I must have hit my head because I had wanted that.
I must have hit my head.
I must have hit my head because I love him.