The first time France takes his hand is a moment he certainly will always remember. He’s busy all day, being on conferences and meetings since the early morning – like he has been the whole week.
Economy is not as stable as he wants it to be, therefore Ludwig dreams of Fridays and eggs that cost more than a million Deutsche Mark (which has happened before, after the first world war that left him with too many bills and later too less food and work to keep his people alive). There is fear that seeps into his blood and every noise makes him jumpy so that Italy is not helping when he bursts in his bureau with a bag full of pasta to share.
Germany barley manages to not throw him out.
Later at the meeting with the Allies who come to control his growth and progress he is close to jump up and start ranting about all the problems he has. About the destroyed cities and villages, the problem with the refugees and all the missing men he needs for his industry… but he stays silent, knowing that he is stupid for accusing them for any of those since it is his fault, his alone to bear.
Still, that doesn’t make his anger go away. Minutes after they are finished he rushes out of the room, ready to drown his sorrow either in beer or through mindlessly going back to removing ruins from his streets until darkness forces him to sleep because he can not identify a body from a stone anymore.
Anything is better than to have time to think, time to mourn his brother’s loss, all the deaths he has on his hands and the guilty his future children will have to face.
It’s France who follows him, calls him to stop and eyes him worriedly, knowingly. Germany doesn’t know if the other cares because he fears another wave of hatred against his nation or because he truly is concerned – that doesn’t matter anyways, not to him, not now. The soft, warm fingers touching his hand, carefully guiding him away to a restroom is all he can feel, is all he dares himself to acknowledge.
He doesn’t grip back, is just content to have any skin against his at all, although the wish to yank his hand back because he’s dirty - oh so dirty - arises immediately. Limb and empty he lets France pull him along, set him on a soft bed and realizes with shock how those delicate fingers are placed on his fore head.
“You don’t seem to have a fever.” He hears faintly, only able to helplessly watch France’s frown deepen, unsure how to react since it has been such a long time since anybody except for his war companies (who have the same problems themselves now) cared.
France rumours through the small cupboard on the other side and a glass with water and tablets are pushed into Germany’s cold hands seconds after. He doesn’t question what that is or what it will do, he simply gulps all down.
“Can’t have you getting sick, I need your industry as much as you do.”
Says that melodious voice while drowsiness overcomes Germany and he has to lie down to not fall over and greet the floor. So. Only business partners, huh? is his last thought – without regret and only a slightly bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Better than being alone, Ludwig thinks before he drifts off into a dreamless slumber.
Re: 5 times
Zwei.
The first time France takes his hand is a moment he certainly will always remember.
He’s busy all day, being on conferences and meetings since the early morning – like he has been the whole week.
Economy is not as stable as he wants it to be, therefore Ludwig dreams of Fridays and eggs that cost more than a million Deutsche Mark (which has happened before, after the first world war that left him with too many bills and later too less food and work to keep his people alive).
There is fear that seeps into his blood and every noise makes him jumpy so that Italy is not helping when he bursts in his bureau with a bag full of pasta to share.
Germany barley manages to not throw him out.
Later at the meeting with the Allies who come to control his growth and progress he is close to jump up and start ranting about all the problems he has.
About the destroyed cities and villages, the problem with the refugees and all the missing men he needs for his industry… but he stays silent, knowing that he is stupid for accusing them for any of those since it is his fault, his alone to bear.
Still, that doesn’t make his anger go away.
Minutes after they are finished he rushes out of the room, ready to drown his sorrow either in beer or through mindlessly going back to removing ruins from his streets until darkness forces him to sleep because he can not identify a body from a stone anymore.
Anything is better than to have time to think, time to mourn his brother’s loss, all the deaths he has on his hands and the guilty his future children will have to face.
It’s France who follows him, calls him to stop and eyes him worriedly, knowingly.
Germany doesn’t know if the other cares because he fears another wave of hatred against his nation or because he truly is concerned – that doesn’t matter anyways, not to him, not now.
The soft, warm fingers touching his hand, carefully guiding him away to a restroom is all he can feel, is all he dares himself to acknowledge.
He doesn’t grip back, is just content to have any skin against his at all, although the wish to yank his hand back because he’s dirty - oh so dirty - arises immediately.
Limb and empty he lets France pull him along, set him on a soft bed and realizes with shock how those delicate fingers are placed on his fore head.
“You don’t seem to have a fever.” He hears faintly, only able to helplessly watch France’s frown deepen, unsure how to react since it has been such a long time since anybody except for his war companies (who have the same problems themselves now) cared.
France rumours through the small cupboard on the other side and a glass with water and tablets are pushed into Germany’s cold hands seconds after.
He doesn’t question what that is or what it will do, he simply gulps all down.
“Can’t have you getting sick, I need your industry as much as you do.”
Says that melodious voice while drowsiness overcomes Germany and he has to lie down to not fall over and greet the floor.
So. Only business partners, huh? is his last thought – without regret and only a slightly bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Better than being alone, Ludwig thinks before he drifts off into a dreamless slumber.