Als ob wir wieder atmen.
They've lost. They're broken and bleeding like their children; one trailing bile and radiation in the tropics and the other torn into shreds and pieced together. Leaving pain behind like a curt whisper in the theatres they used to visit.
They would both rather die than face the humiliation of being carried down the halls like spoils of war. The man in the jacket doesn't understand them.
"Just keep breathing," he tells them firmly. "Just keep breathing."
So they open their mouths and pretend not to drown. Either way, their captor wouldn't let them.
-
Inhale.
Japan doesn't like bread. But it's all they have, his thinning children, and he can't give them anything that's not cancer or shamed blood. An entire generation grows up on powder milk and American records.
"You're like a child." Kiku hopes numbly that this means he is innocent of the death that taints his fingers.
Staying dumb, he reaches for another stale roll and swallows.
Exhale.
He is worth nothing, Ludwig thinks. His people are suffering because of his stupidity. All of Europe groans under the weight of his sins.
How could he have let this happen? How could he have believed what they'd said, about Deutschland and the Reich and superiority and other delusions of grandeur?
It must be because he is a fool. He is such a fucking, stubborn, stupid fool.
Those thoughts in his head, he collapses in the snow when the Allies aren't looking and feels himself freeze. In the East they are freezing too- together, apart, Germany starves.
The mist he breathes out curls in swirls like bombshell dust. Like Prussia. Like Nationalism and pride.
Like Italy.
Inhale.
Cigarette smoke. A trillion dollars.
Germany works late into the night. It's not his money. That's the only reason- Ludwig still, even broken like this, hates to be in debt.
The office he sits in is dark except for his plug-in electric lamp. It reminds him of Italy and days on the coast. And Kiku, with the rising sun and the rising heat in his expanding smile.
He trades his weapons for pens and tools and textbooks and reads the Marshall Plan, burying his head in the Bundesrepublik. If cannot stop breathing, he will at least stop breathing at the pity of another.
Exhale.
Japan hangs up his katana on the wall.
"Never again," he reads from the words burnt into his skin. His eyes, once filled with the light of the sunrise, now are as barren as the twin scars carved onto his back.
If there's one thing that Japan will never lose to the moisture on his lips, it is his unconditional obedience to his superiors. If his superiors tell him how to live, and why, he will not question them.
Arrogance is such a petty thing to catch in his throat.
Inhale.
It takes him a while to absorb what the game is about. It is, in all, about money. The man who has the most money in this society wins.
He speaks to his people in Western clothes and reads the fine print of every bank statement, analysing and overanalysing in convoluted attack plans. The rest is hard work and life employment.
Japan is the phoenix who rises from the ashes of the rising sun. Amaterasu would be proud of him.
Then again, the gods do not really matter anymore. What his people need now is money. He must work harder.
Exhale.
Germany takes slow measured breaths. He doesn't easily get angry nowadays. Even the ponce with the beard doesn't rile him. Something must be wrong.
The Korean War is long gone. Fingers blistered from the work, he comes home to an empty house and showers. He has enough to eat today, but the famine still leaves traces.
The Iron Cross is warm in his palm as he drips water into the carpet. Now, his silent image in the mirror is slighter and thinner, his muscle drawn out by leaner months. Naked he looks a little like Prussia.
"…Wirtshaftswunder."
He decides he likes the sound of it.
Inhale.
With barely an intake of breath, Japan slowly looks up from his reading and straightens his tie.
Germany is wearing glasses. The lenses are clear and light and modern with small rectangular frames. They make him look smarter in a different way than the bare ferocity and tenacity of his cobalt gaze of decades ago.
Ludwig makes a strange expression. "You're wearing a suit."
Kiku sighs and neatly folds the business section of the newspaper. "…I'll get us some tea."
Exhale.
"They say it is a miracle." Germany hums in agreement. In Japan, every household has its three treasures- a fridge, a washing machine and a television.
Swords, apparently, are not Japan's thing anymore. "I make cars."
Germany laughs at that, a slow, gentle, rich sound that fills the room. "So do I."
Inhale.
A gasp escapes as those fingers reach for his face and land on his temple. Japan delicately slides his glasses from his ears. Without them, Germany blinks.
It is strange to hear that throat inflect GDPs and circuitry. It sets a flame dancing under Japan's skin to hear Ludwig speak like this, because he really should just be barking orders.
"What are you doing?" he asks softly.
Everything around them is softly, softly now. For once, Japan raises his voice. "Tell me about Siemans. About the Volkswagen."
Kiku leans forward, closer, to listen as Germany's voice grows breathless.
Inhale.
"Have you forgotten?" Japan whispers, mere inches from his face now, leant across almost into his lap.
Ludwig still remembers. He remembers power and strength and a silent night when Italy lay asleep not a metre away and they fought, silently and viciously and neither giving ground until they collapsed, spent.
It is plain that Japan's suit is new. It smells like Italian cloth. Ludwig's heart skips a beat. "It…it must have been expensive," he remarks, swallowing. "The suit."
"…Like your glasses." No way was Japan ever this talkative in the War. It's not a bad thing at all, his fingers on the shoulder of his new clothes, something primitive stirring inside. "It was a gift."
Ever efficient, he silences the Asian with a finger on his lips.
Inhale.
The air that fills his lungs after their kiss is the first swallow of a delicious chilled drink. Like the intake of breath after a long sip of plum wine.
Germany babbles on as they shift together, haltingly. "In…Industrial prod…uction…up 35-"
His blue eyes flashing and blushing and yet muscles tense and ready, Japan finally recognises his former ally. "Keep talking," he urges, sliding off his jacket.
Things are moving so slowly- nails running into shirts and pressure at their loins just barely touching. Something must have changed between them, because this is calculating and deliberate and almost loving.
Pulling away from another kiss, Japan leans his forehead against his and speaks into his mouth. "…Did he give you the glasses? Did you pay him back? Like this?"
"Do you mean Italy?" he replies too fast. Kiku moan-breathes into a thrust so gentle it's almost not there.
"You know who I mean."
Germany doesn't let him speak for much long after.
-
…Exhale.
The air around them is sweat and sex. Ludwig is on his back. Kiku is on his side and watching the warriors gently fade from their eyes.
They both have work in the morning. "What now?"
"Just keep breathing," Germany rumbles to the ceiling and into the silence.
Japan presses his face into his blond hair and thinks he can still smell the gunpowder linger under the scent of money and automobiles. He chuckles lowly. "…You speak as if we have a choice."
-
-
-
Response to kink meme prompt: Japan/Germany post world war II- they're both rather nerdy nations who kinda really like engineering. Rediscovering each other, and America as the unspoken elephant in the room.