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Germany set Poland’s glass of beer in front of her. “Munich says the bratwurst and sauerkraut are almost done.”
“Danke,” she answered, briefly making eye contact. It felt strange, so freely speaking the German to her, even if it was only the one word. Even if relations between them were slowly getting better (though hindered in a one step forward, two steps back way). Even if it was Oktoberfest. Though Poland was strictly here as a formality, nothing more. She wasn’t even wearing a dirndl but one of her own folk costumes. But she had to admit the food and alcohol were good and she had a soft spot for polka music. It made her forget her troubles and their awful shared recent past. Just for a few days, she could be swept away into a cheerful, bright, comforting dreamlike land full of singing, dancing, and happiness where hearing German didn’t automatically trigger her PTSD. Instead it welcomed her in a warm embrace and a folksy Bavarian accent. She could even sing along in German and not feel self-conscious about her own obviously Polish accent. She didn’t have mixed feelings about being one of the nations with the best German. She didn’t think about how scarily similar German and Polish food, costumes, and folklore could be. In a day or two, she’d even get up the nerve to dance with one of the local men in lederhosen. She’d even dance with Germany.
But she’d still push down the thoughts. It was bad enough she had them about girls at all, but was made at least a thousand times worse by that girl being Germany. (Why her of all countries? Satan couldn’t have picked anybody else to aim his arrows at? Though she should probably be grateful it wasn’t Russia.)
How Germany really did look beautiful in one of her traditional outfits with her hair all done up in an elaborate ‘do. How well she cleaned up. How it perfectly emphasized her bust. How fun it was to watch them bounce up and down while they danced to the lively beat. The disappointment when they didn’t pop out and Poland had an excuse to stare at or even touch them while helping Germany retreat. And that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to her neighbor’s breasts. Her thoughts about the rest of her body were even worse. And then there was her personality. How she wouldn’t mind being ordered around by her when there was no actual malice behind it. But she was also adorably awkward (the result of Prussia’s “child rearing”. Not shocking in the slightest.) Poland fantasized about the sorts of things she would instruct her on in the bedroom more often than she’d like to admit. Occasionally seeing the sorts of outfits Japan and Korea somehow talked her into wearing certainly were no help in getting her western neighbor out of her head. Made her fantasize about Germany wearing one of her traditional costumes, her speaking Polish, not because she was being forced but because she wanted to. Poland often wondered if Germany had similar thoughts about her.
Germany had long since left to serve other tables, leaving Poland wistfully staring down into her beer, lost in thought. She figured her fantasies would one day come true here. It was all a dream, wasn’t it? She picked up her glass and started drinking. Well, she figured her dream of Germany having a wardrobe malfunction was more likely to come true than her dream of being intimate with her.