bits of my mind

nightmare (gerpol angst/fluff)

TW: TORTURE/ABUSE AND DEATH. THIS IS A HURT/COMFORT FIC.

———

Poland kept silent, even as pain wrecked his body. He didn't want to give his torturer the satisfaction of him crying out, and neither did he want to be hurt worse for the sobs he was holding back.

But it was too much, even as he tucked his head into himself, covering his vital organs. He yelped loudly as the assailant's foot made contact with his broken wing. For that he was punished with a violent yank of his hair, which had grown in his captivity, forcing him to uncurl and look up.

The cold edge of a blade grazed his jaw, breaking his skin. The stinging burn of the cut was nothing compared to the aching pain he felt in his ribs and back, though. He may have broken a rib or two, but he couldn't tell. His whole torso was bruised.

Finally, he was released, shoved back against the filthy cell wall as the metal door clanked shut. He huddled in the corner, muffling his crying and flinching at every movement he made.

His stomach churned and he retched, coughing out nothing but bile. Throat stinging, he realised his voice was fading. He wanted a sip of water. His lips were chapped and peeling, and he wondered when he had last eaten. A piece of bread, smuggled to him, what, three or four days ago?

In truth, he was terrified.

He didn't want to die there.

He had prayed, he had begged, he had hollered, but he was still trapped in this hell.

Rocking side to side, he almost wished for one of his jailers to dunk him in a bath and hold him under water if it meant he would be able to drink some of the water, however dirty the water was.

His breathing was becoming more rugged and uneven by the day.

Where was Germany? He would visit him every now and then, taking pity on the imprisoned boy and smuggling him food and water. Where was he now? He hadn't seen him in days.

He closed his eyes.

This is it, isn't it? I'm going to die here.

They'd done it. His will was broken. The very thing that had kept him defiant and alive.

His head pounded and spinned. Winter was approaching. He had nothing but the ragged clothes on his back. He'd freeze to death, and his body would be cremated, and his ashes thrown into a mass grave.

He shivered. What a terrible way to go.

Coughing raspily, he lowered himself slowly to the floor, curling into a ball to sleep. Before he could, however, the cell door was unlocked. Poland looked up, expecting a guard, perhaps they'd finally decided he was no longer needed as a bargaining chip and was going to execute him.

Instead, he saw a familiar face.

"Come on," Germany said, looking behind him every few seconds. He had a small canvas haversack slung over one shoulder, filled with documents and food. "Can you walk? We're getting out of here. I saw everything."

"I-" Poland winced. "I think so."

He hobbled out, the German boy supporting him. "I stole the keys from my father," Germany explained. "He never comes down here, so these keys aren't watched. We still have to hurry, though. I don't have that much authority here."

Poland nodded.

Every time they passed by an actual officer, Germany would lie, saying it was his father's orders. Since he outranked them, though he was just a boy, nobody questioned his words.

"Don't worry, we're almost out," Germany informed him, face lighting up just a fraction.

Just as they turned the corner, stepping foot into the corridor that led to the exit, Poland tensed up. Something felt off. Then he heard a gunshot, and Germany dropped to the ground face first, unmoving.

His eyes widening, he kneeled down, turning over and cradling his friend in his arms. Blood flowed out of the gunshot wound, pooling below them. "Germany," Poland whispered, willing the other to wake up, even though it was too late. "Niemcy," he muttered again, shaking the body slightly.

"Deutschland!" he shouted, desperation in his voice as he cried, ignoring his blood stained clothes as the warm, crimson and sticky fluid coated his skin.

Germany stared at the ceiling, unseeing. His spectacle lenses were cracked from the impact and his gaze was glassy, with the ghost of a smile still etched on his face. His pulse was gone. His heart was no longer beating.

This wasn't right.

This wasn't how he remembered it.

This wasn't right. This wasn't right, wasn't right this wasn't right thiswasn't right thiswasn'tright isn'tright isntright—

Someone grabbed his wrist.

He awoke, adrenaline crashing into his system. He kicked, shoved, scratched and forced them off the bed and onto the floor, pinning them by the throat, aggression being his response to a possible threat.

As he pulled his fist back to attack, his eyes adjusted to the dark and he scrambled back in shock and fear of what he had done.

I'm a monster, he thought as Germany stared up at him, tearing up from the momentary lack of air and coughing. "It's just me, Liebe," Germany choked out. "I'm sorry for grabbing your wrist like that, you just— you just went really still and I wanted to check your pulse."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, how could I attack you like that?" Poland hiccuped. "Please don't— please don't hurt me I'm sorry-"

Germany pulled him into a hug, turning on the warm bedside lamp. "Shh, it's okay. I forgive you. I won't hurt you. What happened? What did you dream of?"

"I saw you die," Poland gulped, "I saw you die."

"It was so vivid. I saw you fall," he paused, suppressing a shudder, "I saw you fall, and then I smelled the blood, I felt it, then I saw you— and— and your eyes, they were blank, and there was so much blood, and I called your name in three languages but you were dead. We were escaping and I swear it could've been real and I-"

"Shh," Germany soothed. "I'm here. Can you feel my heartbeat?"

He held Poland's hand as the latter rested against his chest, breathing shakily and heavily. "I'm here. You're safe. It was a dream, we're okay. We're at home now."

Germany kissed him until his breathing calmed down, then he asked, "Do you want to drink some water or take a bath?"

"No, no, not a bath please," Poland begged, hating how vulnerable he felt. But it was better with Germany. He trusted Germany never to take advantage of him.

"A warm washcloth?" Germany negotiated. "Nice and safe."

"Okay," Poland agreed, and Germany left to grab a small bucket and a soft washcloth. As he filled it up with warm water, he got a cup of drinking water for his partner.

He returned, the bucket and cloth in one hand and the glass in the other. Handing the drinking water to Poland, Germany dipped the cloth into the water and wrung the excess, gently wiping Poland's face, neck and back, watching every move he made in case it made the former uncomfortable or anxious.

When he was done, he returned everything to their respective places, washing up, and lay back down on the bed with Poland. "Feeling better?" he asked, running his fingers through Poland's hair.

"Yes, thank you for not getting mad with me," the Polish man murmured, now exhausted.

"No problem, you're always so patient with me. The least I can do is to return that favour. Do you want to sleep now?" Germany replied, to which Poland nodded in response.

With a click, the German man turned off the lamp, listening to the even breathing of Poland as the said country dozed off into a more peaceful sleep. Germany watched his partner for another twenty minutes, just in case, before he allowed himself to return to his slumber.