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GERMANY
"Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?" Poland spits, voice harsh; unrelenting, and Germany stumbles, fully expecting a different response. It's the first few days over the forming of their hasty alliance at China's, so cold and unwelcoming to newcomers as opposed to how much it had become a second home for many of his friends. And each of their interactions thus far has been coated in a thinly veiled layer of ice. He isn't quite sure why.

"No," he replies, raising his hands in surrender, admittedly ashamed he would think such a thing "Poland, is this what it's about? I'm not— I really do want to be friends, this isn't just for show," he insists, wincing when he feels his heels make contact with a wall.

"It'd be pathetic if you only wanted to talk to me because of your plan to rope all of us in to this," Poland mutters, pointing an accusative finger as the moment stretches into a wordless pause. He purses his lips, fishing for words, coming up hands empty.

Hurt quickly lances through Germany's chest. He tries not to make it show. "You think I'm that kind of person?"

Poland gives him a shocked stare, shakes his head, and stalks off without another word.

★

Midnight ticks by quickly. There is still a low rumble of conversation from the rooms across theirs; a hum of talking and occasionally laughter from America and Russia's, dead silence from North and South's, muffled exchange from the Axis's, snoring from Canada and China's, and high-pitched giggling from the girls'.

He finds himself looking at Poland, in the set line of his jaw, the color of his eyes — a slightly desaturated brown — at the way his hair curtains his face in tufts of sandy blonde. He's sprawled across his bed, lips in a tight line. The guy's had a bit of a day; they've all had, really, of arriving in Tokyo after a hasty and very much spontaneous trip on a private jet.

It would've been worse without the luxury, of course, but it isn't the travel that takes the biggest toll. The concept of defying rules of existence and living to transcend dimensional borders is not a wholly positive one.

Poland flinches, like he's remembering something particularly painful, and his head whips to the side so his eyes latch onto Germany's. Cheeks flush in the dark. "Do you make an euro for every minute you stare at me, or—?"

"I'd be a millionaire then," Germany grins, relief flooding his senses when Poland returns the expression. "Are you alright? You seem tired. Or stressed. Either way. I can barely tell with us anymore."

"Overwhelmed," Poland says, raking a hand through his hair. "You're probably tired of hearing it by now, how odd this all is, how much we weren't aware of. But I guess we'll just keep reciting it as long as it's the truth. And it'll always be the truth." Then, after a pause, "UN, that asshole."

A laugh bubbles out of Germany's mouth. He raises a mock glass of wine. "To the dictator that operated under the guise of a benevolent principal, who wiped our memories and fabricated our history and ultimately brought two groups of the fiercest rivals Neo has known together. A toast?"

Poland's eyes crinkle in amusement. "Very funny. Well, at least we can thank him for one thing. I would've never seen myself admitting that you guys are actually people I'd think worthy of dying for, but I'm acknowledging it now, aren't I?"

Germany wonders halfheartedly whether he should bring the point of Poland sacrificing himself up, because he really in fact does not want him to die, not when—