Chapter Text
The therapy session was particularly difficult today. Germany hadn't been to it, but he can tell.
Poland's come home angry. Plates are banging as he washes them, almost breaking against the rack, and Germany sits down in the living room, his eyes focused on the television. He was meaning to wash them earlier, but was distracted by work. Poland's going to come in once he's done, and yell at him. He's done it before, and Germany thinks he'll do it again.
The banging's stopped, now. There's silence from the kitchen. This doesn't ease Germany.
He tries to relax against the sofa, but his body is quite tense, even as he lies against the material. The silence hasn't stopped. It continues, the lack of information unpleasant. There's not even the sound of footsteps, causing Germany to wonder what Poland is actually doing.
That is, until he rushes into the living room. At first, he doesn't say anything. He just brushes his pink curls around, obviously stressed. Germany holds his breath.
"Don't leave me to do the dishes next time," Poland spits. "Please."
"Es tut mir Leid." That's all Germany can respond. He wants to say something else, he wants to try and comfort him, but Poland doesn't seem to be in the mood for any of that.
Poland sits down on a similarly soft chair, far from Germany. He stares ahead, rather bitterly. His eyes tilt down towards the carpet, every now and again, his hands pressed and stroking gently on their opposite arms. They stroke at the same speed and movement.
"How did… how did it go today?" Germany's voice is quiet.
"I won't tell you," Poland responds gruffly, his eyes fixed on the floor. Germany doesn't look at him.
"Do you want me to make you anything? A drink? Some food?"
"I'll make something myself." Poland stands up, his voice gruff and quick. "I was left to do the dishes. I might as well."
Germany stands up, too. He's much taller than Poland, the top of his head reaching just under Germany's neck. Whenever he stands up this quickly, which he mostly does, Poland usually backs away a little in fright, though this time he doesn't.
"I said I'll make something myself." Poland's voice is a lot more aggressive, and there's an edge to it that sends a chill of nausea through Germany's body, causes him to freeze a little in place.
"I- I'm sorry, Poland." Germany doesn't mean to sound annoyed. "I was- I was distracted. Just calm down, and let me-"
Poland charges towards the taller man. He grabs him by the collar of his sweater, his grip furiously tight, causing Germany to step back as his eyes bulge open. His glasses are close to falling off, and he shakes as Poland clenches onto him, his teeth bared.
"You don't understand me, do you?" Poland yanks Germany a little closer, his voice rough. Germany can hear the torment, deep inside. This isn't his fault. "Huh?!" Poland yanks Germany again. "You don't understand me! D'You know the shit I faced from your dad?!" Germany's teeth bares slightly, nausea running through his stomach. This isn't his fault.
"I… I do-"
"Then stop complaining about me being angry all the time!" Germany is stunned, just for a moment, at how loud Poland's voice is. He's much shorter than Germany, and much thinner too, but that doesn't falter the dominance he holds under him at this moment. It doesn't diminish the icy fear that's coursing through Germany's veins. "If you truly understood, you would just stop! But either you don't care to listen, or-"
There's a knock on the door. Poland's somehow able to hear it, over the rough yelling, the voice that is dragged out of his lungs. He yanks his neck towards the door, his eyes suddenly bulging with sheer terror. A terror Germany hasn't seen much of, other than when Poland wakes up from nightmares. Poland runs a hand through his thick, fluffy curls, his other hand pressed tightly on his mouth, thumb and finger squeezing his lips.
He opens the door. There's a blonde human woman standing there, her eyes tight. He remembers seeing her before; she must be one of their next-door neighbours. "What's happening? Who's shouting at who?"
"Th-There's nothing to worry about."
"It was me." Poland speaks over Germany, his voice a lot softer. "I'm sorry. I was shouting at him."
"Leave him alone, or I'm calling the police!" The woman exclaims.
Poland backs suddenly. "I can explain, I promise!"
"Oh, can you now?"
"Please," Germany butts in, "just hear him out." The woman gives him a confused, rather sad look, allowing Poland to step out. Germany heads back into the living room, listening into the conversation, even though he thinks he probably shouldn't.
Poland starts by telling the truth. That at the age of 12, his father was brutally killed in front of him by one of Reich's soldiers, and later that same afternoon, Reich himself brutally kidnapped him. That for the next 2 years, he was held in a dirty, filthy basement, tortured physically almost on the daily. The woman seems to calm down, even if that's more information than she needs to hear.
Then, he starts to lie.
In his version, they were having a little argument over something rather petty. A little close to the truth. However, Germany had intentionally tried to trigger Poland's trauma, in an attempt to get out of the argument. That was why he'd lost it. Not because he simply told him he needed to calm down, out of fear.
The woman apologises. She thanks him for his time. Poland pardons her, before going back in, shutting the door behind him. Germany is tense. He can't even look at Poland, the shorter man simply sitting next to him. It's quiet for a moment. But then, he wraps his arm around Germany, his other hand gently rubbing his thigh.
"I'm sorry," Poland whispers.
"No," Germany responds calmly, gently stroking his curls, the fluffs of hair smooth against his skin. "It wasn't your fault."
"I shouldn't've done it." Germany freezes. "I should never have done it, regardless. I'm sorry." Germany doesn't respond. He carries on stroking the man's curls.