I couldn't quite get the Historikerstreit in there. Oops. :/
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At some point over the years - and Germany is sure he knows exactly when that some point was - Poland has learned how to stay inches out of reach. He has it down to a science; right now he is close enough that Germany could make a lunge for him if he chose to, but far enough that he'd be able to not only slip away, but also try to stab Germany with one of pink sequined sticks he's currently using to keep his hair up in a bun.
He looks deceptively cheerful, at least until one realizes that he is speaking through clenched teeth.
"You've, like, got a lot of fucking nerve," he says. It doesn't take a genius to guess what he's talking about.
Germany sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I had nothing to do with that."
"They're your people, aren't they?"
"I can't control everything my people do," he says with as much patience as he can muster. He lets the unspoken as if you didn't know that hang heavy in the air.
Maybe Poland notices, because he presses his lips together into a thin bloodless line and makes a noise that's probably supposed to be irritation. If he didn't sound strangled, maybe he'd be able to pull it off.
"Can't you, like, tell them to cut it out?" he says when he's regained his composure, although Germany's too polite to comment on that.
Instead he raises an eyebrow. "I doubt the lawsuit will get anywhere," he says. "Ignore them and they'll go away."
One of Poland's hands darts up to fuss with his bun, his fingers darting across the pink stick as if he's looking for a weapon; Germany doubts the action is conscious. "Easy for you to say."
What else do you want me to do? Germany wants to ask - or maybe I'm trying, can't you see that? - but he knows how Poland will answer, because Poland has never questioned or second-guessed his own actions, even when he ought to, and because he is still bitterly terribly (justifiably) angry.
"I'm not taking your land back," he says instead. "Calm down."
"I am totally calm," Poland mutters. "And, like, you couldn't take my land even if you wanted to."
Germany believes that much, at least. "I don't want your land."
"You're seriously lame now," Poland says, all exaggerated eyerolls and one hand on his hip; faint scars are visible on his arms, but only because Germany knows where to look. "You and that trust or whatever. I am so not scared of you."
But he doesn't come any closer than he has before - just outside of arms' length, carefully and deliberately calculated.
Dues [1/1]
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At some point over the years - and Germany is sure he knows exactly when that some point was - Poland has learned how to stay inches out of reach. He has it down to a science; right now he is close enough that Germany could make a lunge for him if he chose to, but far enough that he'd be able to not only slip away, but also try to stab Germany with one of pink sequined sticks he's currently using to keep his hair up in a bun.
He looks deceptively cheerful, at least until one realizes that he is speaking through clenched teeth.
"You've, like, got a lot of fucking nerve," he says. It doesn't take a genius to guess what he's talking about.
Germany sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I had nothing to do with that."
"They're your people, aren't they?"
"I can't control everything my people do," he says with as much patience as he can muster. He lets the unspoken as if you didn't know that hang heavy in the air.
Maybe Poland notices, because he presses his lips together into a thin bloodless line and makes a noise that's probably supposed to be irritation. If he didn't sound strangled, maybe he'd be able to pull it off.
"Can't you, like, tell them to cut it out?" he says when he's regained his composure, although Germany's too polite to comment on that.
Instead he raises an eyebrow. "I doubt the lawsuit will get anywhere," he says. "Ignore them and they'll go away."
One of Poland's hands darts up to fuss with his bun, his fingers darting across the pink stick as if he's looking for a weapon; Germany doubts the action is conscious. "Easy for you to say."
What else do you want me to do? Germany wants to ask - or maybe I'm trying, can't you see that? - but he knows how Poland will answer, because Poland has never questioned or second-guessed his own actions, even when he ought to, and because he is still bitterly terribly (justifiably) angry.
"I'm not taking your land back," he says instead. "Calm down."
"I am totally calm," Poland mutters. "And, like, you couldn't take my land even if you wanted to."
Germany believes that much, at least. "I don't want your land."
"You're seriously lame now," Poland says, all exaggerated eyerolls and one hand on his hip; faint scars are visible on his arms, but only because Germany knows where to look. "You and that trust or whatever. I am so not scared of you."
But he doesn't come any closer than he has before - just outside of arms' length, carefully and deliberately calculated.
Germany's starting to doubt that he ever will.