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Arthur hates to admit it because just the thought of agreeing with the Frog sends shivers down his spine, but France wasn’t wrong about the charm Poland carries with him in times of conflict.
No, he wasn't wrong at all, Arthur knows as he watches the Slav grin through gritted teeth at his people, sing songs and recite poems and murmur comforting words when needed, scrape what little he has together to allow them a moment of normality — and then there's also the manic gleam in his eyes when he forces himself into a plane in spite of the bandages wound around his torso, his arms, his legs, and then there's also the way his calloused fingers dance over piano keys when he gives in and attends some party or other, and then there's also the heated tone to his voice when he actually speaks as he wants to, rapid-fire and nigh incomprehensible in the way his words stumble and blend and skip, mixing accents and languages and meanings, and then there's also–
Well, the point is, France wasn't wrong, for once. Arthur had already known for a century of the other's infatuation with Poland's fight for independence, flowery strings of honeyed words painting the battles and the resistance and the stubbornness as something romantic above all else, but he didn't really see it — there is little but despair and misery to be found in war, he knows, and he’s always seen Poland as too arrogant and flippant from past meetings; friendly, yes, so he didn’t mind spending time with him during diplomatic missions, but pompous and airheaded all the same ( though, he supposes he can’t speak against being overly prideful, considering his won track record ). Although, with the reverence with which Poland received his uniform for the first time, with its eagle buttons and his coat of arms stitched onto the cap, with the brightness to his face and bounce to his step at news of any German losses, with the quiet, gentle care with which he treats his people to hide his seething rage at their casualties — he supposes he can be convinced to understand where the Frog is coming from.
Something the Frog omitted , in his winding tales of Polish glory, though, is how infuriating the Slav is once the charm is taken away and all pretenses drop.
Like right now.
Barely able to stand, yet still stubbornly refusing medical help.
“There is a fucking hole in your arm–” Arthur hisses, trying to grab the other’s wrist ( gently, gently, he’s pretty sure even that’s snapped in half –) and force him to stay still, Lord Almighty , there are already several bloody stains on the wall behind him–
“There is always been a hole in my arm–” Poland hisses back, trying to duck around him and be on his merry way to fuck-knows-where, the humans will herd him to a medic the second they lay eyes on him, even his oh-so-charming accent and spoken mistakes won’t keep that from happening–
"You need stitches, you stubborn ass –" He doesn't want to pin Poland to the wall, not forcefully, because his body is a bloody minefield of wounds and he's trying to help , not hurt him even more, God damn it, why doesn't he understand that–
"I can stitch myself–" Poland nearly lunges under Arthur's arm and it looks like he'll just run off–
His right leg gives out beneath him and he crashes to the ground with a choked scream. Arthur is frozen in place for a beat, two, and then he’s on the ground, hands hovering over the suddenly-frail form and feeling distinctly like the slightest touch against Poland’s skin will result in the Nation shattering.
Poland curls into himself, clutching at his arm with bitten-back cries, and Arthur moves before he thinks about it further — fingers brushing down the other’s back, arms, gently nudging here and there to figure out where the worst wounds are, where he should touch to remove his clothes without aggravating them too much ( he’d thought Poland would perhaps, for once in his life, be cooperative , so he didn’t bring a knife or scissors, stupid, stupid – ), murmuring nonsense apologies and comforts at every flinch and noise Poland gives and praying no one’s going to walk by — they’re in a rather secluded hallway, but you never know, and he doesn’t want any humans seeing this. It’s rather problematic, to explain away why someone with more wounds than skin shouldn’t go to a proper medic without giving everything away, which is something all Nations absolutely try to avoid, especially during times of conflict.
At least Arthur’s quarters are near enough that he should be able to manage to get Poland there once he’s not actively writhing on the floor.
It takes a bit of fumbling with the buttons of Poland's shirt before managing to undo them all. Arthur cringes through slipping the blond's arms out of the sleeves, one dripping with blood from the stupid hole that started this all, the other bent wrong at the wrist. The scars covering every inch of his torso — they don't quite catch him off guard , per se, but he sucks in a sharp breath regardless at the sight of the thick bands of glossy white at Poland's shoulders and neck, at the sight of the deep, red gouge down his chest that Arthur knows is still tender and sensitive but at least not actively bleeding anymore, at the sight of the burns scattered over his skin, at the sight of everything else he doesn't have time to list and name.
He pushes down the bile rising in his throat ( he may be used to battlefields laid out with corpses, but seeing scars on a fellow Nation, a catalogue of every hurt their land and people have gone through, never gets easier ) and pulls out the first-aid kit he'd stuffed into one of his pockets in preparation for this.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Wet a cloth, clean the blood away, familiarize self with the wound.
Poland keens lowly and Arthur has to hold down his arm to keep it accessible to himself.
Thread the needle, pull the gloves on, disinfect.
He’s a general, a soldier, a leader, not a medic , but that doesn’t mean he can’t steady his hands enough to briefly take the place of one.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Pinch the skin on the sides of the wound together, stab.
It’s just like embroidery, it’s sewing , he’s good at that.
Pull the needle through, stab.
He’s stitched people up before, he knows what he’s doing.
Pull the needle, stab.
The stitches have to be good, even, keep the wound closed, because who knows how long it will take to heal?
Pull, stab.
Knowing Poland, he’ll probably end up popping them within a week, but a man can hope they’ll manage to last a while.
Pull, stab.
He wonders what pain and destruction this wound represents.
Pull, stab.
That’s not really a thing Nations tend to reveal, leaving others to guess.
Pull, stab.
Sometimes it’s rather obvious, like which scars Poland has are leftover from his death, but most are much trickier.
Pull, stab.
The gnarled burns growing on Arthur’s chest twinge in sympathy.
Pull, tie, cut.
He wipes Poland’s arm down again and winds a bandage around the stitches, just in case. Nations are far from prone to developing infections, but Arthur doesn’t want to risk that one-in-a-million chance.
He shifts Poland’s body a bit and the Slav isn’t even unconscious yet, though very out of it nonetheless as he lets out a low, pained sound. Arthur grasps his other arm, a bit above the wrist, and purses his lips at it, gently brushing his other hand over the bruised skin.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He snaps the bones into place and only jumps a little at Poland’s bitten-back cry.
Take out the small wooden planks he prepared beforehand, bandage them to the wrist as improvised splints.
They’ll probably be off and thrown away before Arthur even realizes, too inconvenient and restricting, but maybe they’ll at least help some in the time they will have.
His hand lingers in its hold and there’s something wrong , something missing , he knows , but what –
Ah .
Poland doesn’t have a pulse.
Arthur… can’t say he’s completely surprised, considering a Nation’s life is directly tied to their land and people, and perhaps he was half-expecting it, deep in the subconscious of his mind, but the realization is still jarring, still poking at his brain with a feeling of wrongness , because how could this bright, brave, bastard of a person be… not dead , that’s not quite right, he can see the scars Poland has from actually being dead and this isn’t it, but. Not exactly alive , either. Lacking a beating heart.
Somewhat distantly, he wonders how blood can still circulate through his body to turn his face a furious red when he lets go of all pretenses and just screams , at Germany, at Prussia, at Russia, at Austria, at Arthur, at France, at himself, at the world for contributing to his people’s pain.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Gently, he lays down the hand and turns back to the rest of Poland’s body — he’s not done yet.
He’s not entirely sure when it happened, but Poland is now Feliks and they’re sitting together with chipped cups of tea and a packet of stale biscuits, Feliks scratching at the edge of the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrist that Arthur has redressed for the nth time. It’s quiet without being awkward, and all masks have fallen away for the moment, in their little bubble in which they are simply Arthur and Feliks, two beings too old and too scarred to be quite human, and it’s nice to just exist among the chaos and the ruckus that comes with living among soldiers in during a war.
“Good tea,” Feliks breaks the silence and Arthur opens his eyes, raising a brow. He glances down at the murky contents of his cup and back up at Feliks.
“It tastes like sewage water,” he says blankly and watches the Slav’s lips quirk up into something resembling a smile.
“Exactly,” he says, taking a pointed sip. Arthur rolls his eyes but sips his own tea, and his opinion about the tea doesn’t change, it’s still bloody horrible — but he drinks slowly, almost savouring it in an attempt to enjoy it, and there are still pieces of herbs in it and it’s cooled down a bit too much by now and– And. Well. It could be worse. He could have no tea at all. Isn’t that a nightmare to think about?
It tastes like sewage water but it’s still some bloody good tea and Arthur knows that this is only because he hasn’t had anything better in far too long, can’t have anything better anytime soon, but still. It’s good , in the same way that rags look good to a man with no clothes, but good nonetheless.
He hates rationing, but at least once he gets to drink proper tea again, it’ll taste like Heaven on Earth.
Feliks sighs, setting down his empty cup and picking up a biscuit. He stares at it for a few moments before taking a bite with an unsatisfied hum.
“I miss good alcohol,” he says, voice soft and steeped in nostalgia. Arthur lifts his own cup in a toast.
“Hear, hear,” he says, a semi-smile tugging at his lips. Feliks blinks at him, slowly chewing his biscuit, then snorts, hand coming up to cover his mouth. Arthur internally whoops at dragging something even slightly similar to a laugh out of the man.
He can only remember a handful of times he's heard Feliks properly laugh — each time with his own people, after a good flight or news of German defeats or a message speaking of new life or other such things, when spirits are high even amidst the destruction because not everything is hopeless. Arthur loves these moments, when the soldiers and both Nations become more human for a time rather than battle-hardened fighters pushing everything but the war off to the side to focus on what needs to be done.
Although, that's not exactly the only reason he looks forward to each of these crumbs of joy in an endless sea of desperation.
Feliks's laughter isn't pretty — it's not lilting or melodious or soft or whatever other poetic jargon writers use to describe their beloved's glee. No, Feliks's laughter is too loud, too high, a thing always accompanied by swinging arms and loss of balance. Often, it sounds something like a mix of someone coughing and choking at the same time, unable to take in the air they so desperately need. Sometimes, it’s interspersed with broken wheezing that’s much too close to the sound of air being released from a tire to not be grating.
Privately, Arthur thinks it’s perfect, even in its imitation of a hysterical hyena, because it’s genuine and it’s unique and it’s Feliks’s .
That’s far too sappy for words, though, so he keeps it buried deep lest he burns in eternal shame.
Arthur opens the door and Feliks is immediately clambering to his feet, supporting himself with the nightstand and the bedframe and the wall, and Arthur– freezes.
He hasn’t seen the Slav since he left after the Blitz finally let up, heading straight back into his own land ( or, well, land that had been his before the war ) to fight there. They’d exchanged a few letters since then, when they had time and managed to get them through warring forces, sometimes attaching small gifts ( Feliks didn’t ever have much to send him, but Arthur didn’t mind much considering … everything , and was plenty satisfied knowing Feliks received at least some of the cigarettes and sweets and so on from him ), but Feliks never mentioned any of his injuries, despite Arthur knowing he had to have gotten more over the years.
Seeing him with slick blood on what little of his chest is bare of soaked bandages, left arm bound to him in a sling, lips glossed over with red, bloody footprints left under uncovered feet, unbalanced on his legs — it still catches him off guard, somehow, even with his own body itching with wounds.
Still, Feliks stares at him with bright eyes and a face set in a determined grimace, and as much as Arthur wants to make him sit back down and take care of him, he has long since familiarized himself with the other's stubbornness. Instead, he steps into the room and closes the door behind him, mouth going dry at Feliks's furrowed brows and look teetering between a burning glare and equally burning tears. Does he–?
"Yalta. Is it true?”
He does know.
Arthur swallows, and his shirt collar is too tight now, the bandages on his skin too scratchy, the walls in the room too looming and close. His hands curl into fists to stop from fidgeting, and they’re so so clammy, so hot and sweaty and he hates it–
Feliks’s eyes sharpen and he blinks away the tears, though the glossiness stays, and he bares bloody teeth. His too-pale face twists into a scowl, and it’s so hateful and angry in a way Arthur has never seen it before, even during funeral services and failed battles, and Arthur has a feeling — this will not be forgotten or forgiven anytime soon, if ever.
“How could you?” Feliks says, low and thrumming with hate hate hate , and red drips onto the floor. Arthur wants to just, pull out his handkerchief and get closer and wipe the Slav’s face clean, accompanied by hissed complaints and fondly-spoken nonsense, as he’s done so many times before, but looking at Feliks’s white-knuckled fingers gripping the bedframe, at his scathing look, at his breathing picking up in speed — even with his absolutely abysmal social awareness, he can more than tell that that won’t be anywhere near welcome, so he forces himself to stay in place.
“Feliks–”
“Don’t call me that!”
Oh.
He’s… lost human name privilege.
He doesn’t think that should tear at his chest like that. He’s barely had it for four years.
It still feels a bit like something carving into his heart body and ripping a piece away.
He keeps his face carefully neutral. No point in giving anything away, even if he can feel his nails digging into the palms of his hands and breaking the skin and oh God, he doesn’t want to be here anymore, not with such a hurt and angry Poland –
Breathe in, breathe out.
“We’ve already lost too many men in this war. Russia will help you rebuild, but you’re not losing your independence,” he says, staring at the wall behind Poland, and his words are so hollow and they’re not supposed to be, not around Feliks –
Poland. He’s… Poland. Not Feliks.
“ You’ve lost– are you serious right now, Anglia?” That doesn’t sound right, coming from Poland. It’s supposed to be Artur , in that harsher, more clipped but still soft way formed by lips twisted up into a grin, or, occasionally, a caught-in-the-moment misiek , paired with arms thrown around his shoulders and lips pressed against his cheek. “Do you actually believe Russia will do anything to help anyone but himself? Do you actually believe whatever bullshit he promised?”
Of course not. Any alliance currently connecting him and Russia is tense, a tightrope he needs to balance on lest he compromises the tentative peace they’re establishing. He doesn’t want to give Poland over.
But politics and enemies rarely care about feelings. That is something Poland knows just as intimately as Arthur.
That doesn’t make it any easier.
He stays silent.
Poland lets out a low, angry rumble from the back of his throat and raises his chin, chases Arthur’s gaze to force him to meet his eyes.
“It was supposed to be for your freedom and mine,” he says, and his voice doesn’t shake or break and it isn’t weak or small by any means, but it is laced with so much pain even he can’t hide it. “Curse you, England. I’ll survive, but curse you.”
A shiver runs down Arthur’s spine, and for a moment, he thinks that, perhaps, Poland also possesses a kind of magic.
“Here.” Poland’s voice is perfectly neutral as he sets a folder in front of Arthur, not even looking at him before turning away and walking back to wherever he came from. Arthur wouldn’t know; he doesn’t keep track of him, after all.
“I still can’t get over how he acts around you,” Alfred says, leaning forward on the table on Arthur’s left. Arthur gives a small shrug, keeping his expression schooled as he pulls the folder to himself and opens it to skim through the contents. “He’s so… cool , most of the time. I mean cool as in, y’know, not expressive, not– not cool in a leather jacket biker guy cool. You get it? He usually wears his heart on his sleeve, y’know?”
Breathe in, breathe out.
Forget too-high, too-loud laughter and pointless arguments fought for the sake of filling the silence.
He sighs heavily, pulls the corners of his lips slightly downwards.
“I am aware,” he says, tone clipped and bland. “You know he is still angry. I don’t blame him. He’s not looking to start any fights, so there is no need to address it.”
Well, that’s not entirely true. When they first met again for the first time in decades, Poland pulled him into an empty alleyway and forced him into a fistfight. He’s not entirely sure who won, but the Slav at least looked marginally satisfied before tossing him a first-aid kid and leaving.
That wasn’t the last time something like that happened, but it was rather rare, and neither of them ever spoke about it, so it’s fine.
It’s fine .
( Something pricks at his chest, and he's far too familiar with the feeling by now )