“What is Love? I have met in the streets a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, the water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul.”

― Victor Hugo , Les Misérables

The years following the end of the Great War was a period ripe for thought, for people to go back to thinking, to continue pondering about thinking. The Countries are so often associated to its political climate that it is almost forgotten that they are more than just dirty politicians vying for power. They, just like their humans, are thinkers, scholars who look upon the world with curious eyes and a curious mind, deconstructing and reconstructing concepts humans have grown too familiar and uncritical of, untangling notions of society that deem to be too archaic and nonsensical, building upon bodies of theory and analyses that survived the critiques. 

The Deutsche Reich was, by all means, a busy country, running errands here and there, calculating and recalculating their finances, balancing debt with profit (not that he ever could), and the occasional meetings with the Frenchwoman that lasted longer than what was convenient for either of them, it would be remiss to say he did not take a moment for himself. And so on the late afternoons of particularly lazy Sundays he sat on one of the concrete benches in the town plaza, an academic magazine in one hand and a pen on the other, occasionally scribbling little notes on the margins.

The Soviet Union sat just a few inches beside him, equally absorbed in his own readings, writing his own thoughts on the sides. It was common that the German and the Russian exchange essays to read when they had time. Knowledge was to be shared and improved upon, after all, and it was good to be aware of one's contemporaries. 

The sky had turned into a dark shade of blue and the two countries folded the papers in their hands and handed it to each other. One was folded crisp and square, and the other was misaligned but good enough. Later they would read the messages left in the margins, of things wished to be said but never were. 

They took a stroll, shying away from the busy crowds of the town, opting to take the darker streets that were deserted, navigating towards the outskirts where the fields stretched into the horizon and the lack of buildings gave way to a clear view of the night sky. The first few stars peeked out, twinkling hello to the two countries. The Soviet Union exalted in the vastness that rolled above before looking beside him, the Deutsche Reich's eyes were closed as they wandered about, clinging onto the larger country's coat as he let himself be steered by Soviet. Neither the two had any clue where they were going. Often, people find themselves wandering the world without a destination in mind but that does not mean they were lost, after all Soviet could just look to the sky and look for his Polaris. 

"What do you think of them?" The Soviet's breath puffed out in vapour, melding away into the buzzing night.

"Of who?"

Soviet gestured to the heavens where the stars had made their home. The German’s eyes followed, and then he frowned. 

“Those that dwell in the heavens need not look down on the follies of mankind,” and a sad twitch, irritation, in his brow,  “They are indifferent to our suffering, and indifference is something I cannot afford.”

"The stars themselves may be indifferent— they are not living beings, however they are never devoid of meaning. Those who look up at the heavens are reminded of a universe that has yet to be explored, an unknown waiting to be known, truth waiting to be unveiled. The stars glimmer with hope we can one day reach for."

The Deutsche Reich laughed. "Ah, but you forget, Sowilein, that by the time the light of the star reaches us, it is already dead."

“Then I am glad to bear witness to the temporal beauty of such, regardless of how fleeting it may be. I treasure such a sight in my memories for as long as I live." And all the while Soviet said this, his golden eyes looked up to the country. "Is that not what hope is?”

The young German nation smiled sadly and gave a quick laugh, more of a huff that evaporated into the night as quick as the slight curl to his lip. He reached and took his friend's hand and Soviet was pulled back down to Earth's orbit. 

"Time will forget them, my friend," he murmured softly, the lenses of his glasses staining with the lightest fog and hesitation , "and hope is not a good look on someone like me."

The Union shook his head, took Deutsches Reich’s in his own palm, and drew his hand back towards the twinkling sky again and the far cosmos. With golden eyes, Soviet traced the imaginary silver lines of constellations, the Ursa Major and Minor, watched the universe’s light show dance before his eyes and he turned back towards Earth, the shorter man whose feet have never left the ground. He saw his ink black hair, blue under the night, the glitter in his confused blinks just like twinkling, felt the weight of his hand– him– in his grasp, and he wondered, for he was sure: Reich was a man made to fly, to reach further than his own, to be able to hope… and yet? 

“Humour me,” because I feel as if the universe was made for you, “make a wish.” 

Reich truly and fully pulled away this time, slipping from Soviet’s grasp. Soviet let him go as gently as possible, fingertips leaving light butterfly kisses behind on his wrist, just around his pulse.

There was a moment of quiet, just to breathe. “You only make wishes on falling stars, and none have fallen.” 

“The stars will make an exception.” Soviet replied. Just for you , he thought, the stars and Earth would move, and the world be made anew, just like you remade mine . 

The Deutsche Reich looked quizzically at the Soviet Union, who just a moment prior, conceded that the stars were indifferent to the suffering of men. "It would be a bit too chaotic if the stars made exceptions for such small trifles. If it starts to make exceptions for me, what stops them from doing the same for others?"

But the German did not understand; he was not like the others for he was a universe unto himself. Deutsches Reich tilted his head, prompting Soviet for his answer, eyes wide and curious, and within that silver he saw the genesis of all that came to be and all that will be. The universe does not make exceptions just for anyone, the universe makes exceptions for him exactly because he was the universe, he had just not realised it. If he wished, he would have gotten it. If he had wished. 

Soviet sighed in defeat. "How about you don't overthink the logistics of the theoretical."

"I don't overthink," he ducked his face away. You always do, my dear. 

"Then let's presume the stars make an exception for the ones who are like them." He had to wonder if it would have sounded so much like a confession if he hadn’t spoken it so fondly, or if the words themselves exposed him as much as he felt. He was not afraid of the night, he would never be scared of the place the stars called their home. 

"You're saying I'm a star?" The German teased, a new grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, yet still self-deprecating. Soviet awkwardly scratched his cheek.

"Well, uh, I suppose." If it weren't for the pigmentation of his skin, his companion would have noticed the blush that spread hot on his face.

Deutsches Reich batted Soviet’s upper arm, a small thwip on his coat sleeve and laughed, "Oh, you're kidding!"

I'm not. "It's just theoretical. Humour me." He nudged back, and was given another small push. Like the pull of the moon and how it makes the tides ebb and flow, the two returned a few ebbs, a few flows, until one of them– that precious thinner one so very adored by a yet-to-be cosmonaut-- caught on the Earth and fell…

…into Soviet's arms. Caught you . 

And yet, he was still falling. 

A man named Isaac Newton once discovered gravity.

The Soviet Union and the Deutsche Reich would rediscover gravity in a brand new way, and Soviet would learn that even though he swore to himself to always catch him if he fell, it did not mean that he would stop falling himself.

Pulled by gravity, the world's and his world's, he cradled Reich against himself tight, his head against the top of his breast and close to his heart, bony hip against his own as they roll roll roll tumbled down into grass, off the path, till their legs rolled together and Soviet finally found ground, pushed himself up so he wouldn't crush Reich. 

He made the move to stand but was suddenly frozen in his act by a wonderful sound, a stark rush of clarity in his still spinning vision.

Deutsches Reich laughed , a joy for real, nudging up his lopsided glasses above his lopsided grin. His eyes sparkled like a shower of broken glass, his lashes dark and feathery against his happiness. From this close, the dishevelled strands of his hair brushed the grass and picked up leaves, and Soviet watched in wonder the crinkle of his eyes and the chap of his lips.

He was the star in the sky that glimmered and shone the brightest and that the humans had captured in their hands, shoved into a jar and kept locked until his light was nearly extinguished and Soviet realised at this point the fragility of the beauty he too sought to reach. 

He saw the night sky mirrored in Reich's clear eyes and it was at once all too much and not enough, overwhelming and he wanted more and it was at this moment everything crashed into Soviet and he thought: oh, oh.

I am going to kiss him.

But the universe had made an exception already, with starlight in his soul, so he didn't.