Warning: non-explicit sex, explicit mentions of World War Two
Unlike Love
Theirs is no passionate love affair. There are no grandiose gestures of affection, no whispered promises of devotion. They both know better than to say 'forever.'
They have known each other just long enough to have made another bleed. Two World Wars will do that to nations, but Arthur knows better than to consider them special for the scars they have given another. If there is one thing for which humanity's thirst will never cease, it is war.
That doesn't mean he bears him no ill will. Arthur is the kind of man who doesn't just nurse his grudges; he feeds and waters them, too.
There is passion, but no love.
The first time they fall into bed together, they are drunk, but not drunk enough to forget who they are sleeping with, just drunk enough to make the hurt feel raw and new again. Arthur hears the screeching of the air raid sirens echo in his ears as if it were 1940 and he doesn't stop until they are screaming and moaning so loud it drowns out all other sounds, even the ones that exist only in his head. He never asks if Ludwig feels Dresden burn all over again when he kisses the scar; in all the years that follow he will never have the courage.
The morning after isn't awkward. They are both too busy puking their guts out to stammer and blush.
The second morning after, a couple of months later, makes up for all the embarrassment they had missed out on previously. They had been just drunk enough to blame the night's foolishness on the alcohol and now they have run out of excuses. So they don't bother at all. They just go their separate ways with nary a nod and refuse to as much as meet another's eyes for months.
No one is the wiser. After all everyone knows Arthur still holds a grudge against Ludwig.
And he does. So why does he keep repeating his mistake like a naïve child hoping for a better outcome by the twenty-seventh time he tries? It certainly isn't because it is uncomplicated and there are only so far no strings attached as it concerns Ludwig. There are plenty of strings of shame attached. Arthur argues that he can't be trusted and he truly doesn't trust him, except when he falls asleep next to him. Next to him, not in his arms, because neither of them is the type to cuddle and even if they were, theirs isn't the kind of whatever-this-is that warrants cuddling. If they end up intertwining in their sleep, well, then it means nothing beyond that both their countries are prone to cold nights.
It isn't until their decennial anniversary has come and gone uncelebrated that Arthur realizes he keeps returning to Ludwig because he can't stay away. It sounds so simple, yet it is everything but. He can't stay away from a man he still professes to loathe and would prefer to go on loathing, thank you very much. They haven't shared so much as a cordial cup of tea since the outbreak of World War II, yet Arthur knows the exact shade of blue his eyes are when he comes. There is nothing simple about that.
So he tries to stay away.
He lasts two years, which sounds more impressive than it is since they went without for a year before. Measured by his age, it is just plain pathetic.
Ludwig might not even have noticed Arthur's attempt to stay away if Arthur's resolve didn't break with such theatrical flair. They had still clung to the increasingly flimsy excuse of intoxication, but now here he is, stone-cold sober and pounding against his door at an hour of the night which is ungodly by British and German time alike.
"Listen carefully, you bastard!" he hisses as soon as Ludwig opens the door. He shoulders his way in, uncaring of the rainwater dripping off his hat and coat and coalescing with the sludge from his boots into a muddy puddle on the so-clean-you-could-eat-from-it floor. Ludwig looks politely confused, then annoyed as he becomes aware of the puddle. Arthur isn't in the mood to put up with cleaning histrionics, so clearly he has no other choice but to grab him and kiss him and shag him against the nearest horizontal surface. Vertical will suffice, too, in a pinch. Arthur isn't geometrically prejudiced.
Ludwig is still confused, but it doesn't lessen his enthusiasm. Yet, and Arthur doesn't notice it until round two for which they have progressed to the couch, there is an odd hesitancy to his touches, the barest of quivers that gives away he is still holding back even in the throes of passion. Arthur realizes that the same uncertainty can be found in Ludwig's eyes when you know what to look for. Then he realizes that Ludwig is half expecting Arthur to turn him away at any moment or, and that is just plain insulting, to crumble under his hands. This is when Arthur realizes Ludwig hears London's sirens, too. Arthur thinks it is ironic, but not particularly funny, that Ludwig would hear the sirens the first time Arthur doesn't.
The next morning, Arthur makes tea.
It is the closest he will come to being maudlin. When Ludwig walks into the kitchen to find Arthur calmly having breakfast at his table as if he belongs, he just pauses for a moment, blinks slowly, and then he sits down across from Arthur and pours himself a cup of that horrid swill they sell as tea in Germany. He does it all without saying a word, without acknowledging the situation as anything out of the ordinary. It is the closest he could come to thanking Arthur without saying the words. Arthur is taken off guard by a warm flutter in his belly and decides the subpar tea is turning his stomach.
He sends Ludwig a package of proper Earl Grey. Ludwig comes to thank him in person. He doesn't touch Arthur anymore as if he is just biding his time until Arthur comes to his senses and Arthur discovers that he looks deliciously vulnerable when he is begging for more. Much later, he will recall that vulnerability, then he will blame it and his own too long dormant conqueror instincts for thinking of Ludwig as his.
They settle on new unspoken rules.
Things change and yet they don't.
They have a passionate affair, yet love remains taboo.
Alcohol turns from welcomed excuse to menace. Too much remains unspoken between them. Loosened tongues are a threat to the status quo that defines them.
They never speak of the past. They never speak of 'them.'
They don't talk much at all and discover that all the truly meaningful things are said without words.
Just because their relationship has morphed into something new doesn't mean the old irritations don't remain. Actually, they fight more now that they see another outside of business meetings and frantic, guilty rendezvous. Their personalities grate. Arthur's natural hostility doesn't go well with Ludwig's natural frigidity and that is the least of their problems. They are both emotional recluses; more often than not, they bring out the worst in the other. Most nations figure they have come to truly loathe another. That is alright with Arthur for he thinks he might still nurse his grudge and he is certain that he doesn't want to share what he has with Ludwig with the rest of the world.
Somewhere between openly displayed contempt and barely hidden resentment lies their status quo.
There are no public displays of affection and very few private ones. They don't do romantic dates, flowers or candlelight dinners on Valentine's Day unless you count that time Arthur gave them both food poisoning.
When they find themselves bored, Arthur makes a scathing running commentary on the television program, the antics of their fellow nations or the general excess of stupidity in the world; Ludwig listens and nods, stifling a smile. When he insults Ludwig, he sometimes does so fondly. There is nothing particularly fond about Ludwig's yells when Arthur's squabbling with Francis or Alfred disrupts yet another World Conference.
They still don't cuddle, Arthur would insist if asked. They merely huddle together for warmth. When he calls Ludwig's office after midnight to berate him about the wording of an accessory clause in an unimportant treaty, he certainly doesn't do so solely so he can snap at the end of the call, 'and now go to bed lest you concoct anymore rubbish!" He derives no joy from arguing the value of their respective national football teams, nor is he fondly amused when Ludwig sulks for solid two weeks after losing the cup at Wembley and twitches at the mention of it ever after. When he reads aloud the diatribes of the British yellow press at the breakfast table until Ludwig breaks and snipes back, it isn't because he enjoys their banter.
So maybe a lot of Arthur's displays of affection are mean, but it is for his own good. He will get Ludwig to lighten up and if it kills him, all the better.
One day not long after their 25th anniversary, they lie in bed, Ludwig running his fingers through Arthur's hair and Arthur threatening him with war if anyone remarks on his stiff gait. There is nothing special or different about this day, yet the realization that he is content hits Arthur with all the force of an oncoming train. Were he a more optimistic person, he might even go with happy. Now that the blinders have been pulled off, it only takes him another moment to realize that he loves Ludwig. He can't pinpoint when he fell for him, so he concludes it must have been one of these deceptively slow natural progressions that sneak upon you and leave you to deal with the messy aftermath. Except that this is ridiculous, of course, it sounds like something out of a penny dreadful. Mind you, Arthur only ever read them to gain a better understanding of his working class's mindset.
Suddenly, his heart beats faster and he tastes fear.
Arthur has long since accepted that it is his destiny to lose everyone he loves. He had almost convinced himself it doesn't bother him because there was no one left to lose.
He does the sensible thing.
He gets out of bed, gets dressed and leaves.
For the next week, he familiarizes himself with what feels like every single pub in London. There sure are many nowadays.
By the second day, he mourns the good old age of empires when he would have waged war on Ludwig for being such a nuisance.
By the fourth day, he decides he is being utterly ridiculous. Ludwig isn't worth the fuss.
By the fifth, he is back to moping.
By the sixth, he decides he can't give Ludwig what he wants. Sooner or later, he will realize their status quo is incommensurate with his obsessive-compulsive need to categorize every aspect of his life. When Arthur fails to give him more, he will leave just as every other person in Arthur's life has done when they realized Arthur couldn't be who they wanted.
By the seventh, he calls to tell him it is over.
There are no tears, no screams, no accusations. There is a very long moment of silence on the other end of the line, just long enough for Arthur to picture all these scenarios and grow rather fond of them. "I see," Ludwig says instead and he sounds about as emotional as if Arthur had just broken a trade agreement. He hangs up.
Arthur stares dumbly at the phone and feels cheated.
He throws the phone against the wall and goes back to drinking.
How fortunate Arthur had always known better than to dream of forever.
The end