Could This be Love? - A GerAme Fanfic [REPOST] [PLEASE READ THE DESCRIPTION]

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The Meeting Hall is not what you would call glamorous, but it's not dull either. The floor is made of plain oak, as well as the large table that sits in the middle of the room. The walls are painted a lovely green, and at the bottom is a polished walnut trim.  Three enormous chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their crystals sending sparkles of light across every inch of the room.

Germany takes his seat at one of the many cushion chairs in the room and places his belongins on the table with a thump. He sees America smile and wave to him seven seats to his right and awkwardly waves back. Curious as to who will sit next to him this meeting, he looks at the nameplates beside him. To his right is Belgium and to his left is... Poland. A sense of shock and dread crawl up his spine. "Why," he whispers to himself, "why of all countries must it be him?!"

Poland was severely wounded during WWII. When Germany and Russia attacked, he had nowhere to run. No way of fighting back. Not to mention, during his time under Nazi occupation, the soldiers treated him very badly and used him as a guinea pig for their science experiments. During these past few years, his entire recovery has been spent as trips in and out of hospitals to treat whatever toxins those horrible people injected him with. And now he's coming into work for the first time in four years.

It's not that Germany hates Poland; he actually feels really sorry for him. But sitting next to your former rival, whom your former boss and his gang of phycopaths did horrible things to, is kind of awkward.

Countries are now engaging in conversations and chatter fills up the room. As more nations start flooding in, he notices Belgium moving towards her seat. She notices him, freezes for a second, and scurries to her spot while trying not to make eye contact. Germany didn't want things to be tense between them, and his boss did give him strict orders to improve his relations amongst his colleagues, so he might as well start a conversation. "Hallo, Belgium. How are you?" Germany asks, trying to speak in his softest voice possible.

The sun blond hesitates for a moment before replying, "B-Bonjour, Germany. I am doing well." Her face is pale with fear. She is still not looking at Germany, keeping her eyes forward or on her documents.

Damn, if only Germany's manual "Normal Conversation for the Hard-hearted German" was here, he would be communicating much better than he is right now. "So, um, has your home been recovering well?"

Before she can respond, a sudden hush falls amongst the room. Everyone looks to see Poland, and what a shock it is. He looks tired and weak. His right arm is in a sling, which appears to be crippled (no thanks to Germany). Scars are littered all across his body. Poland is holding up his weight by leaning up against the wall. As he walks- no, limps- into the conference, he closes the doors behind him as best as he can. "Like, hey guys," he tries to say in his most natural voice possible, but it comes off as slightly strained.

"Ah, it's good to have you back, Poland. Your seat is somewhere over there," England aimlessly points towards where Germany is sitting while reading over his notes.

Poland nods and heads to his seat, never leaving the wall. But before he does, he notices the German sitting next to his chair. Poland let's out a hard laugh and states, "If you're gonna have me sit next to him, then you can, like, totally forget I ever came here." He angerly limps towards the door.

France sees Poland limping away and shouts, "Mon ami, where are you going?" He gets up and chases after Poland.

Chatter starts up in the room again, and Germany doesn't know what to do but stay still. It seems like he's doing the least amount of damage by doing nothing, but even that backfires on him. Nations are either giving him dirty looks and gossiping to one another or giving Poland pity in their stares towards the door. All except America, of course, who was silently looking at the German with sympathy. Germany decides that staring at the American would calm his nerves. America appears to understand, as he doesn't look away. The dark blue in his eyes gives off a sense of calm. They were the complete opposite of the bleach blond's icy blues. It's almost as if America was trying to send a message saying everything is going to be ok. And that's all from one facial expression! It was amazing how much emotion and personality he expresses in his stares, while Germany is more reserved and in control of what he shows to the public and in private. Someone is telling the room to quiet down, but he is too lost in the young nation's eyes to tell who it is. Did they always have stars in them? He loves how they twinkle.

"Excuse me," says a thick Russian accent, "is everything alright?" Russia stands over the muscular man. He gives him a small smile.

The sudden pull back to reality startles the German and he gasps. He looks up at the tall, burly Russian. He always hated his smile. It is sweet, but menacing at the same time. He replies, "Ja, everything is fine."

Russia lets out a small chuckle. "Really, because I do believe that your very presence here is disturbing our coworkers," Russia moves to place a hand on Germany's shoulder.  His gloved hands are cold and his grasp is tight. He continues, "and as a superpower, it is my duty to make sure everything is flowing smoothly. So I give you two options: either you leave the premises or I'll force you to leave, да?"

Germany gulps down his nerves as best as he can. His brain is practically doing acrobatics inside his head right now. Should I stand my ground? No; that would just cause more conflict, and I have enough problems already, but it shows I took action. Should I run? No; there's nowhere to run to and I'd look like a chicken. Should I do nothing? No; then I just look weak, but it exhibits that I did not want to escalate the situation. Oh, what should I do? He sighs. Gathering his confidence, Germany looks up at Russia's cold, purple eyes and says "Adenauer has given me strict orders to repair relations amongst my colleagues. How can I do that when I'm not here?"

Russia giggles and asks "You really enjoy pain, don't you?" In one swift movement, Rissia grabs Germany's arm and throws him out of his chair.

The blond slams back first into the wall and crumples to the floor. Some nations back away from the scene in fear of getting hit. Some move closer to get a better look (Germany even hears a "Yeah, fuck him up!" from Romano in the background and Spain shushing him.). He tries to stand back up, but Russia pushes him to the ground and pins his arms behind him. He feels the Russian firmly grasp his wrists and pull him up. Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse!

"Hey! You're not the only superpower here, you jerk," shouts the American, "Germany's just trying to do his job. Stop pushing him around!"
He's noticeably stiff with annoyance and anger.

Russia's attention turns towards America and gives an innocent smile to the young nation. "Oh, and why can't I? I like it when my enemy's tremble," Russia states, tightening his grip on the German's wrists. Germany winces and cries in pain.

"Well, he's not doing anything now, is he? Just let him go!" America power walks over to the Russian, now face to face. A stare that was once comparable to calm waters is now like a raging ocean. You could see the tension between the two that has been building over the years. He stands a bit taller and states, "Besides, if we're passing the buck already, are we just gonna ignore what horrific shit you did in Poland as well? Huh? Do you want to talk about that, you commie?"

Russia's mood changes entirely. He gives the dirty blond a glare that could give frostbite to the unprepared. His "sweet" smile fades to a grim frown. He drops the German on his stomach and replies, "Choose your next words carefully, piggy."

"I'd rather not."

Everyone was expecting an argument, but no one was able to foresee a pissed off American spit at the Soviet Union and an equally pissed off Russian punch America in the face.