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It's the first World Meeting Poland gets to host and everyone's in Warsaw and he's happy and he's proud, because he's his own again and he gets to show off his heart that he's rebuilt and fixed and kept and look, I'm still standing, even after –
He's proud.
He gets to stand there, under nobody's rule, face his enemies and allies and everything in between, a silent I'm still here and I'm not going away as long as I can fight and it's. It's great , because there were times he was just so tired he almost wanted to give up but he didn't and it paid off and it — he — might not be the same as it — he — was but he's still here, and that's what matters, and Russia, Prussia, Germany, Austria, everyone will just have to deal with it because he's not disappearing anytime soon.
He leads the meeting, sets out the rules for it, and everyone has to follow them because this time, he's the master, the one dealing cards once again, even if it's something this minor, and he can see Russia clenching his fists, biting his tongue, and Prussia's not there at all because he's not a country anymore, he doesn't get a say in these matters anymore, and Austria's lips are pursed and his brows are slightly furrowed, and Germany–
Germany's sitting by a window and paying the barest amount of attention to what's happening in the meeting, focused on looking out on the city with glazed eyes and Feliks stumbles a bit over his words because what ? Since when does Germany get distracted? Is it because–
Frustration — anger — thrums under his skin and he spends the rest of the meeting observing Germany, trying to figure out if the spike in emotion was justified — not that he cared much , he would take any excuse to be mad at him, but just for the principle of things, he wants to know .
That’s how he ends up in the room, one on one with one of his greatest enemies, because everyone else had left but Germany was still busy staring out the window.
“Hey, Niemcy , did that skurwysyn of a brother ever teach you how to use a sword?”
Turns out, Germany knows the theory of sword fighting — he had watched Prussia train, had tried to learn in his free time, had analyzed fighting styles, had it explained to him. He knows what to do.
Except he doesn't, because he was raised on guns, not blades, and Poland often forgets how young Germany — Ludwig — is for a Nation, how quickly he grew up.
His movements are too stiff, arms too used to being held steady in place, legs only ever running or marching forward rather than sidestepping close attacks in a strange but familiar to Poland dance of life-or-death. His hand grips the borrowed sword awkwardly, not molded and calloused to fit the hilt, and his shoulders shake with effort — he's strong, stronger than Feliks, but there is art and skill in sword fighting, in taking on strikes and parrying them, and Feliks was raised on the craft since he could hold up a blade in a way Ludwig was not, even with Prussia as an older brother.
And it's satisfying, in a twisted sort of way some might say, to have the upper hand and a sharp blade in his grasp. One swing, one moment of taking the fight seriously, of not holding back–
Metal clangs against metal and Feliks steps back, letting Ludwig recover. He throws a quip about how slow he is, bites out advice about his footwork, and they continue, and it’s– nice, somehow, to teach someone something he knows so well, even if that someone had grazed his heart to the ground and massacred his people. He’s sparred with Prussia, or with Lithuania, or with Hungary, or with plenty of other people after he regained his autonomy, but they were all old , all already knowing and it’s always just a test of skill, a test of how well they remember something that was once so crucial to their very beings.
He wonders why Prussia, the military maniac that he is, never bothered to teach Ludwig his way around a sword.
“Why are you doing this?” Feliks almost misses the question, his body being led by muscle memory while his awareness is consumed by thought, but he doesn’t, and he pauses. Ludwig’s voice is small, strained with exhaustion, and he uses the lull in the fight to drop his sword arm to the side and wipe his brow with the other one as he breathes heavily. Feliks blinks, rolling his shoulders and correcting his grip on his hilt.
“What do you mean?” He’s too confused to add an edge to the words. The question is off-script — they don’t ask each other things like that, they deduce answers from their body language, from the number of insults thrown at each other, from the tone of their voices, not from questions . That’s not how their fragile neutrality-but-not works; even when alcohol loosens their tounges, even when they sit together while they mourn, they don’t talk like Germany is attempting to.
“You’re– well, you’re teaching me. How to fight. I just– why? You didn’t have to come up to me,” Germany tries, and it’s all Ludwig, all awkward and stilted and not used to expressing emotions around family, let alone Poland , and Feliks almost laughs, because how is this what intimidates the other Nation?
But he can’t laugh, because his legs suddenly feel like jelly and his hands shake and he’s not used to this, either.
It’s comforting, somehow, to know that this is new to both of them.
“I– You were– I wanted –” He stops, breathes in, out. Where did his mask go, the one he’s able to keep up through the worst of the worst? ( The barrel of a gun touches his forehead, demanding fear; he smiles, laughs, complains about how he likes his clothes; the trigger is pulled and he is no longer laughing, but the plastic smile stays on ) “You weren’t, like, paying attention, during the meeting. I, like, wanted to know why.”
Germany doesn’t question why he didn’t just ask; that’s not how they do things, of course he didn't ask , they never did. But his eyes get lost in thought again, and he lifts his sword, tries to focus on the decorated hilt, but his gaze is far away and now that they started this, Poland isn’t going to let it go.
“So?” He steps closer, weighing his weapon in his hand as if distracted by it, and Germany isn’t paying attention, it would be so easy –
“It looks so different.” The blade clatters to the ground and Feliks is wide-eyed and staring and Ludwig’s eyes are drilling holes into the ground and it’s silent between them because–
Because–
Because what ?
And suddenly Feliks is back in his body, slack-jawed but tethered to the physical realm and he forces himself to close his mouth, to blink, to inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale because he forgot how to do that for a minute.
“ What ?” And Ludwig's head snaps up, shoulders hunched up, his face redder than Feliks had ever seen it and it's the perfect picture of a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar and it suddenly feels– clear.
Germany had last seen Warsaw after his people had bombed it to near-oblivion.
Something inside Feliks cracks, breaks, explodes in liquid fire and his vision blurs because this is the first time someone had brought it up in– how long? Decades, he thinks. Even Russia dropped the topic a few years after the reconstruction was done.
"Of course it's different," he grinds out, voice rough but low and steady as he tries to regain control of the situation — fighting is so much easier than talking, he's known for a long time now. "You destroyed it."
He doesn’t even realize when he'd lifted his hand to rub at his chest, at his heart, and though he doesn’t show it off, it’s no secret that there’s a large, rough burn scar there, distinct even among the bumpy patchwork of old wounds that is his skin.
He takes pleasure in the guilty grimace that forms on Germany's face, in the way he puts away the borrowed sword to cross his arms over his chest as he curls in on himself just a bit because feelings are weakness and they grew up in war and you can’t let others know you’re weak. It’s not nearly enough for all the suffering Poland had gone through — but it’s nice to see Germany, usually so assertive and sure of himself, act so cowed.
They stay like that for a few minutes, silent and still, Feliks with a snarl on his face and fire in his veins, Ludwig seemingly so much smaller than normal. There is nothing for either to say — all Feliks can do is accuse and insult; all Ludwig can do is agree and take it. They've done this routine dozens of times already, had yelled what they wanted at each other and mostly ran out of complaints the other didn't already know about, so these days they have quick fights with only an insult or two followed by tense silence.
It was almost pleasant, by now, to have this routine. Ludwig was shamed easier, guiltier, with fewer incidents and conflicts to pick at, than his brother or Russia or Austria, and sometimes Poland wanted to be angry without losing his voice in a screaming match or risking a black eye.
Finally, Germany — Ludwig, it's all Ludwig, from the awkward, unpracticed upturn to his mouth and fingers running through his hair to make sure every strand was in place, to the not-quite-mischievous-but-not-quite-nice glint in his eyes ( Feliks vaguely remembers a little blond boy running through towns and villages, kicking people in the shins and hiding in fields of wheat and rye when people stopped believing his obedient tone and serious face ) and the hands patting down his shirt to ineffectively straighten out wrinkles — picks up the sword again, holds it up, and makes a small show of gripping the hilt.
"How am I supposed to hold this again?"
And Poland — Feliks, it's all Feliks, from the sudden too-wide grin and hair pulled into a ponytail with a pale pink ribbon, to the fire that blazed in his eyes ( that fire had ravaged towns and villages, once, fields of wheat and rye, but Ludwig doesn't remember that, of course he doesn't, he's too young, but Feliks makes sure he knows anyway ) and the neatly rolled up sleeves — snorts, takes a hold of his own sword, and curls his fingers around the hilt slower than ever, voice a few octaves higher and more condescending than usual as he throws out harsh criticisms and gaze clearly looking down at the kid in front of him, despite the fact that that kid is at least twice or thrice his size.
And it's nice, somehow, to teach someone something he knows so well, even if that someone can barely hold a sword properly and the fire in his veins burns brighter with every step taken closer to each other.