Work Text:
~ 3,152 words ~
[ November 18th, 1965 ]
East Germany didn’t think he would ever stop struggling with the guilt that he carried everywhere he went. It was always there, like a dark cloud that tirelessly followed him around even on the sunniest of days.
He often wondered whether or not his brother, West Germany, felt the same. He hadn’t properly spoken to West since the construction of the wall between the separate occupation zones in Berlin. Sometimes they were able to communicate simply by throwing paper airplanes over the wall (they were too small and annoying for the border guards to shoot down), but that took coordination, and they certainly didn’t want to get in trouble. Well, really, East would be the only one to get in trouble.
The Soviet Union had effectively made him a puppet state, and he was forced to keep his behavior in check lest he be punished. Since the last uprising in 1953, he’d learned to keep his mouth shut. And what happened to Hungary three years later would only serve to reinforce that.
East still remembered how it happened as clearly as if it had all taken place yesterday. He’d watched Soviet crush the rebellion that Hungary led with an iron fist. He’d looked on in horror as his uncle was viciously attacked for the oh so terrible crime of wanting basic human rights. And he’d seen how, despite all that was stacked against them, Poland fought alongside Hungary. He wished that he himself would have had the courage to do the same.
His admiration for Poland really began to blossom from that moment in particular. They had already been friends for years—practically since they were forced together under the dominion of Soviet. He knew that Soviet put the two of them in the same room to torture them. He made all of the puppet states share a room when they were staying in Moscow (which was most of the time since he wanted to watch their every move), regardless of the fact that there was definitely enough space for each of them to have their own. The choice to put him and Poland together had quite clearly been out of spite. East was well aware of what Soviet had been planning for them; Poland would hate him because of what his father had done, and in his constant presence, East would continuously suffer with infinitely amplified guilt. Soviet put them together to torture them. But he hadn’t gotten what he wanted.
And though he had Poland’s friendship (which was already more than he deserved), ever since what had happened in the fall of 1956, he’d realized that he felt something other than friendship. And it just made him hate himself all the more.
East fucking despised himself for feeling that way about somebody who his predecessor had treated so cruelly. Yes, Poland had reassured him plenty of times that he didn’t hold his father’s actions against him, but that didn’t take away what he felt was some kind of unfortunate, disgusting irony. He had no right to think of Poland like that. The worst part was that it never went away. It had been almost a decade since he’d first come to terms with his feelings—if that was even the right way to put it—and he thought that it would have stopped by now. But it didn’t. And he was beginning to think that it never would.
“Christmas is soon,” Poland commented with a hum, putting down his pen before allowing himself a long stretch in his chair.
East was jerked out of his thoughts. He glanced up from his own paperwork and forced himself to look at the other country. “Yeah,” he replied softly, unsure of what else to say. He turned back around, feeling a prickle of annoyance when he realized that he’d lost his place on the page and had to start over.
“You know, the Kingdom of Poland—before the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth—officially started celebrating Christmas in 966. That’s a thousand years ago,” he said.
“Nine hundred and ninety-nine years ago,” he corrected automatically, and then immediately felt embarrassed. “Sorry—”
Poland just laughed. “Okay, technically, you’re right, but if we round up the number, then it would be a thousand years,” he snorted. He paused. “I’d like to have a celebration.”
“Good luck getting Soviet on board with that,” he muttered scornfully. “He hates religion for zero reason whatsoever.”
“He hates religion because he doesn’t want people to have nice things in life,” he scoffed, picking his pen back up and continuing to write.
“True that,” he agreed with a sigh. “No wonder he’s so miserable. He just hates joy.”
“Literally. It’s like he genuinely finds happiness to be utterly repulsive.”
East just nodded, still a little spaced out. He focused his eyes on his page, adjusting his glasses, and wanted to commit a crime against humanity when he noticed that he lost where he was again. “I can’t fucking do this work right now,” he muttered, recklessly tossing his glasses to the side and pressing his hands over his eyes.
“It’s bullshit work. I’m tired of it as well,” he said sympathetically. “Maybe we’ll be allowed to have a break for the New Year, even if Soviet isn’t too fond of religious holidays.”
“Eh… maybe,” he murmured, unconvinced.
“I’d like to invite you to the anniversary celebrations.”
He started. “Wait, wh-what?” he said dumbly, shocked by the sudden request. “Why?” he stammered, putting his glasses back on and staring at Poland.
“Why not?” he asked.
He hesitated for a moment. “I… I would have assumed that I wasn’t welcome,” he admitted.
“How come?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked bluntly.
Poland blinked, the feathers on his one wing visibly ruffling. “You need to put that behind you,” he said. “It’s been two entire decades since the war ended. We should be able to forgive each other by now.”
“What’s there for me to forgive?” he scoffed bitterly.
“I’ve done shitty things too.”
He shook his head. “Anything you did was for good reason, and even if it wasn’t, it’s nothing compared to what my family has done,” he insisted.
“None of that matters anymore. What matters now is that we’re in this together. You know I don’t hold any grudge against you. You’re my friend, and I care about you.”
East flinched, his heart stopping for a split second as the stupid emotional side of him threatened to show itself. “I—I’m glad you’re my friend,” he stuttered. But I know I don’t deserve your friendship, he thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. Much less what I really want. He definitely didn’t say that part aloud.
“I’m thankful that you’re my friend, too,” he said softly, giving him an almost knowing look.
He shrank back again as anxiety started to flutter inside of his chest like a caged bird. Does he know? he panicked silently, suddenly wanting to apologize. But apologize for what? He shook his head vigorously, trying to clear his mind. “I have to—I have to work,” he stammered. Before the other country had a chance to respond, he turned back around and pretended to read his paperwork. Keyword being pretended. There was no way he would be able to focus on anything now.
“East,” Poland sighed after a moment of hesitation.
He tensed up, staring even more intently at the words printed out in front of him. His brain was too scrambled to comprehend any of the letters or their meanings, but he just kept acting as if he hadn’t suddenly lost all his literary skills in hopes that he would be left alone.
“Why are we still doing this?”
East’s terror gave way to confusion, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look back up at his friend. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice faltering.
“You know what I mean.”
He hadn’t realized that he had been holding his breath until his lungs began to ache for air. “I’m not sure I do,” he objected in the calmest tone he could muster. It was a lie.
“East?”
“…Yes?”
“We’ve been friends for twenty years. We—we shouldn’t have to keep dancing around each other.”
He was surprised by the nervous tremor in Poland’s voice, but he didn’t comment on it. He had no idea what to say in the first place. “I’m sorry,” he rasped instinctively after an uncomfortable pause.
His friend let out a long exhale and got up from his chair to stand beside him, so closely that his wing almost touched East’s shoulder. “Don’t apologize,” he said gently. Too gently. “It’s okay.”
“Poland…” he breathed, feeling almost nauseous with anxiety. What if he was taking this the wrong way? What if—
“You don’t have to say anything,” Poland assured him, stopping his train of thought before it completely derailed. He leaned closer to him—now his wing was brushing up against his arm—and East felt as if he might spontaneously combust. “I know.”
Do you? he couldn’t help but question internally. He himself didn’t understand what was going on in his brain. He’d never felt like this before.
“East, relax,” he laughed pitifully in what might have been an attempt to break the tension, gently patting him on the back and definitely heightening the chances of spontaneous combustion.
“You’re… you’re not mad…?” he stammered, his voice coming out as barely more than a whisper.
Poland looked mildly amused. “Why would I be mad?” he asked, titling his head.
“I… th-this isn’t… it’s not…” he broke off, unable to find the words. “I don’t think you understand,” he mumbled, hiding his face in his hands. He was embarrassed, but even more so, he felt unimaginably guilty.
He pulled him into a hug and oh god oh fuck East was definitely going to spontaneously combust any second now. “You could tell me,” he said softly.
“B-but it… it’s stupid,” he managed, flinching away from his touch. “It’s stupid, I’m stupid, I’m not supposed to….” He looked away, not capable of finishing the sentence. He felt like he might cry.
Poland extended his wing out to him again. “You don’t have to say it,” he repeated, his voice gentle. “I already know.”
“But—” East completely lost his voice when his friend hugged him once more, holding him so closely that he could feel both of their hearts beating together. Given, Poland’s heart rate (though accelerated just enough to be noticeable) was still within three digits, whereas East’s was probably not. With trembling hands, he wrapped his arms around the other country, burying his face into the crook of his neck and letting out a shaky sigh. But after a few seconds his anguish came back just as quickly as it had disappeared and he was jerked back out of the brief lull of comfort. He shakily pushed Poland away, unable to stand the sensation of such supportive contact when he felt that he didn’t deserve it. “I hurt you,” he choked out, feeling his throat close up. “And—and now you’re being nice to me, and I don’t deserve it, and now I’m feeling these things that I’m not supposed to feel, and I d-don’t know what to do, and I don’t understand—”
“ You didn’t hurt anyone,” he interrupted.
He pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, pushing his glasses out of the way. “I could have done something. You should hate me.”
“Do you hate Russia? Or Ukraine? Belarus?” Poland asked after a few seconds of uneasy silence.
He looked up. “What? No, of course not,” he replied, confused.
“But the Soviet Union hurt people.”
“That’s not their fault,” East said.
Poland looked at him expectantly.
“Oh.” He swallowed. I don’t blame them for what their father did, he thought. Why can’t I find it in me to forgive myself too?
He shook his wing, ridding the elegant feathers of any dust they might have collected. “We had this conversation years ago. I’ve already told you that I don’t blame you.”
“I know, I just… I still don’t understand, ” he sighed, barely resisting the urge to hide his face again.
“What don’t you understand?” he asked, gently resting his wing on East’s shoulder.
East jerked away from him. “I already hate myself enough! Why does this have to happen to make me feel even worse? ” he cried. “I don’t want to feel like this! It’s—it’s ridiculous, and it doesn’t make any sense, a-and I don’t have any right to feel the way that I do, and I hate it—”
“What do you mean, you don’t have any right to feel the way you do?”
He was quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. He’d been hoping that if he was vague enough, he might be able to walk away with at least some of his dignity intact, but the conversation seemed to be veering exactly where he didn’t want it to go. “If it were anyone else… it wouldn’t be so bad,” he said finally. “But it’s not anyone else. It’s you, and I shouldn’t….” He covered his face with his hands again, guilt and shame making him feel sick. “You probably hate me now.”
“Why would you ever think that?” Poland asked, placing his hands on his shoulders and making him meet his gaze.
Unable to bring himself to push the other country away this time, he instead put all his energy into refraining from leaning into the comforting touch. “Because I—I know you would never feel the same way,” he rasped, the heavy weight of guilt and grief settling coldly inside of his stomach as if he had swallowed a rock.
He was quiet for just a moment. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, his voice even more hushed.
East completely froze up, his breath catching in his throat. “You—you can’t mean that,” he managed, visibly shuddering.
A shy smile crossed his face and he looked away self-consciously. “Well… let’s just say it’s mutual,” he laughed timidly, tugging at the collar of his sweater.
“You’re messing with me,” he burst out, panicking. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not—”
Poland quickly silenced him by hugging him again, wrapping his wing around him. “East, your flustered rambling is endearing, but please,” he chuckled.
His heart was pounding so quickly he was certain that everybody on the face of the planet could hear it. In fact, any satellites orbiting the earth’s atmosphere were probably picking it up as well.
“Nothing that happened in the past has ever influenced what I think about you,” Poland told him, “and nothing that might happen in the future could ever change everything that I feel for you.”
All the tension seemed to leave his body at once and he pressed himself closer to his friend, burying his face into his chest. He was half afraid that he might start crying from relief. “I love you,” he murmured into the fabric of Poland’s sweater, unsure whether or not he would be able to hear.
“I know,” he said softly, resting his chin atop his head and squeezing him a little tighter. “I love you too.”
East sighed, suddenly feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Then he began to feel absurdly cheerful and giddy and his brain had too many thoughts at once and oh no he was going to spontaneously combust again.
“Are you having a seizure?” Poland asked, sounding mildly amused and mildly concerned at the same time. “You’re literally vibrating,”
“Sorry,” he laughed. He was a little lightheaded and had to take a moment to breathe. “I just… feel a lot less shitty about myself.” All of those stupidly wholesome fantasies he had were actually possible all of a sudden and his brain was moving way too fast. What the hell I just want to hug him forever and then all my problems will go away and I can die happy and I literally don’t need anything else in my life, he thought, barely processing each sentence.
The other country snorted. “That’s a good thing, though, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled lightheartedly. There was a pause, and he began to feel uneasy.
“What’s wrong?” Poland asked.
“…Soviet’s not going to like this…” he murmured, a dark sense of dread overshadowing his high spirits.
He blinked. “I don’t give a shit what he thinks,” he said bluntly.
“Poland!” East exclaimed, both shocked and impressed in equal measure.
“What? It’s true. It’s none of his business anyway. Why should he care?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I, uh… well, he already doesn’t like us being friends,” he started, lowering his voice as if he were sharing a secret. “I think he… might get upset. Because… we have something he doesn’t,” he said, struggling to word the sentence properly.
“Well, I still don’t care,” Poland said stubbornly. “If he finds out, he’s just going to have to suck it up.”
“Do you think he might already know?” he asked hesitantly. “Er, not that we… not that this… not that… y-you know, but he might know that I, um—”
He laughed quietly. “He might know that you’ve had a massive crush on me for years?” he finished matter-of-factly. Before he could respond explosively, he continued, “I’ve personally known for a while now. No offense, but you’re not that great at hiding it,” he chuckled gently.
“ Then why didn’t you say something sooner, you asshole? ” he practically shrieked, way louder than necessary.
“It never felt like the right time,” he replied.
East scoffed. “Oh, yeah, sure, it totally wasn’t because you were just as scared as I was to say anything.”
“Shut up!” he snapped playfully, gently smacking him in the face with his wing.
The feathers did little more than tickle, but he gasped in mock pain nonetheless. “I’ve been mortally wounded!” he cried dramatically.
“Well, that’s unfortunate. Imagine finally confessing to the person who you’re in love with and then dying minutes later. Seems like a cruel plot twist,” he commented.
He laughed, adjusting his glasses. “Okay, fine, maybe I’ll live. No promises, though.”
Poland raised an eyebrow. “What can I do to increase your chances of survival?” he questioned.
“I am deprived of physical affection and urgently require a hug,” he replied, unable to keep a stupid, shy smile off his face.
“Mhm. Of course,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes but fulfilling the request anyway.
My touch starvation has been alleviated, East thought, still smiling as he nuzzled closer to his friend. Friend? Was that the right word? He didn’t know, and really, at the moment he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this happy.
“Have your wounds healed yet?” Poland asked good-humoredly.
“Just a little while longer.”
“I have a feeling that I’m being held hostage.”
“I’m the one who asked to be held,” East reminded him teasingly.
Poland nodded. “Good point.”