bits of my mind

stories (gerpol)

WAIT I GOTTA GO BUY DINNER I'LL PROOFREAD LATER 

HAVE FUN READING THIS AND ENJOY!!

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Two men lay in bed, facing each other. The only thing that illuminated their silhouettes was the strong moonlight, streaming in from their undrawn curtains and open windows. Occasionally, zephyrs danced on their bare shoulders, leaving as quickly and quietly as they had come. The mischievous gusts ruffled against a wing belonging to the slightly taller man, tickling the arm it rested on.

Said man stared at his sleeping companion. They were both topless due to the heat of the summer, and he couldn't help but stare, tracing the curves and dips that he knew so well, like one might know the terrain of a region. He watched with interest as his partner's diaphragm moved up and down with every breath taken, eyes closed in a peaceful slumber, free of nightmares for the night.

Sometimes, the shorter man would awake, dripping in cold sweat, from memories of the trenches, of blazing firearms, of the screams of the damned, and especially of the one person who was supposed to protect him. The other was almost no different, albeit more violent as he woke up, struggling and swinging madly.

The sleeping man stirred, feeling eyes on him. He was never a heavy sleeper, after all. "Niemcy," — his name was Niemcy, or Germany, in English — the other murmured, "Moja miłość, did I wake you?"

"No," Germany lied, not wanting him to feel bad. He had felt the eyes on him in his sleep, but recognised them just as well as he would've recognised his touch. "No Polen, you did not. I was feeling warm."

"Okay," Poland said, and reached out to touch his hand. Germany reciprocated the act, taking his hand and pulling it close to his chest as he lay on his side. "Can't sleep?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk?"

"What will we talk about?" Poland asked, feeling Germany's heart thump thump thump against his hand, beating against the German's ribcage and against the sinewy tendons of their intertwined hands. Germany's hands were slender and slightly softer, calluses on the pads of his hands only from a period of warfare, while Poland's hands were thicker and more muscular, with multiple calluses and scars on his palms from fighting in wars and on the streets, with anything he could fight with, including shattered bottles.

The former exhaled, leaning in closer towards the latter and closing his eyes. "Anything you want."

"Can we talk about you? Can you tell me about you, about your stories..." Poland trailed off as he realised, with a smidge of embarrassment at his eagerness. He was grateful for the disguise of the dark, as he felt his cheeks heat up, a clear indication that his face was reddening. Thankfully, Germany didn't seem to notice, being too tired and at ease to pick up small changes in body language that he would usually realise.

"Me? But you know everything about me. I have told you everything, showed you all of me. You know all my secrets, there's nothing I can possibly tell you that you won't know," the German man pointed out, chuckling. Poland stayed silent for a while, so silent that Germany thought he had finally fallen asleep, until he caught a glint of soft luminescent moonlight reflecting off his open eyes. "What are you thinking, mein Schatz?"

Mein Schatz. My darling, my sweetheart. Poland blushed, biting the inside of his cheeks. He loved that pet name, loved the way it rolled off Germany's tongue, the way it made him feel. "I was thinking about you."

"What of?"

"Everything. Can you tell me the stories of your scars again? I think I've forgotten," Poland asked. The second part wasn't true, of course, but he wanted to hear him talk. "Please?"

"Which one do you want me to start off with?" Germany obliged, and Poland ran his hand lightly over Germany's body, looking for a specific one. He felt the muscles usually tensed in his lover's body, now relaxed. Then he found it, resting the palm of his hand on a patch of scarring on Germany's neck, that he usually kept hidden behind his stiff shirt collars.

"This one... I was 11, I think. Or 12. I can't remember. It was the first few years of the war, 1939 or 1940. My father had sent me out to the frontlines, to 'bring honour to the family my grandfather had tarnished'. I was foolish, of course, still blindly believing he was right, so I went without complaint. So I was manning artillery, right, and using anti-aircraft guns. There was an air raid one day, and bombs dropped. There was a lot of fire, and especially shrapnel. One of them scraped my neck while I was trying to pull a fellow soldier to dodge the debris. If I was a second too late, I think it would've gone straight through my throat. I was lucky, in a sense. The soldier I saved had the most soulless eyes I have ever seen. His eyes were blank, almost unseeing. I think he had wanted to die, even though he was younger than me."

"What happened after that?" Poland prompted, despite knowing the story word for word, desperate to hear the other man speak.

"I begged my father to let me go home when I was in the field hospital to get my wounds treated. Sent a letter, told him what I had seen. He agreed only because I had been wounded saving another boy. I found out after the war that the very same boy I saved had lost his older brother while he was engaged on the frontline. He committed suicide shortly after the war ended. I don't blame him, I never had. They were two of the millions of young lives from either side that my father's violent regime had taken," Germany concluded.

"I'm sorry," said Poland. It was the same, every time. Then, Germany would reply with: "Don't be, it's not your fault."

But it was nice to have something constant. They didn't mind. Even if it was something as tragic as that. Germany knew, of course, that Poland was lying when he said he had forgotten. The first time he told his husband the story, Poland went dead silent. He looked a little angry, but he only apologised to the German man. Nonetheless, despite the lie, Germany didn't mind retelling the story. His therapist said something about talking about traumatic events to a trusted person. Said it would help him to understand those feelings so he could heal.

Poland was definitely a trusted person, Germany thought, as he clasped the former's left hand, feeling their marriage band on his ring finger. After everything that had happened to both of them, Poland decided to stick by his side — he supposed that's a great reason to trust that man.

Poland wrapped his arms around Germany, spooning the latter. He supposed he could stop talking now; they never planned to stay up to speak about trivial things they both already knew, and they were both starting to feel drowsy.

"Good night, meine Leibe," Germany whispered, feeling Poland's lips kiss him softly on the back of his neck.

"Good night, Kochanie," Poland returned. "See you in the morning."