Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia isn't mine; no copyright infringement is intended and no profit is made with this story.
Warnings: Human names used, WWII references
Notes: Polished kink meme de-anon for the prompt I warn ahead of time, this doesn't make too much sense. Anyway, for some reason I crave France/Germany fic based on the church scene from BtVS, "Beneath You": /play:182b1bb9. Who's who is up to you; though it probably makes more sense to have Spike!Germany and Buffy!France, if you can make it work the other way around all the power to you. :)
In the Gray
In war-ravaged Berlin, abuzz with Russian soldiers drunk on victory and German civilians living in fear of an uncertain future, it shouldn't have been as easy to find him as it was.
Francis didn't find it quaintly ironic; he had long since stopped being amused by the odd ways their threads of fate kept crossing and knotting into tangles. He was far too weary to get upset about it anymore as well.
He stopped a mere two steps' distance from Ludwig. His coat fluttered around him in the wind, a spot of bright blue amidst the gray and death.
Ludwig, leaning against the crumbling foundation wall of what had once been a large house, blended perfectly into the grayness. He wore the tattered remains of his uniform. For a moment, Francis marveled that he hadn't been discovered yet by the soldiers, backstreet though this may be. When he raised his head, Francis saw that his hollowed cheek was streaked with ash where it had rested against the burnt-out house wall.
Francis opened his mouth and closed it again with nary a word spoken.
"Are… are you…" Ludwig's voice, hoarse from disuse, cracked and sent him into a coughing fit. "Are you happy now?"
Francis scoffed. Then he met Ludwig's eyes and realized it was an earnest question. "What are you talking about, mon ami?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
In the distance, the laughter and shouts of Soviet soldiers were heard, but here, in this deserted street amidst the rubble, it felt like they were in a graveyard. You didn't shout in a graveyard.
Ludwig's blue eyes, dulled by gray like everything around him, flashed with life and frustration. "I gave you what you wanted. Are you happy now?"
He shook his head, once more rendered mute and confused. Sometime between one moment and the next, the spotless blue had ceased to comfort him. He crossed the distance between them, rubble crunched under his shoes with each step. Francis squatted on his haunches, uncaring that his blue coat got covered in dust and ash. "What happened to you?" he whispered as he reached out to wipe the ash off Ludwig's cheek.
Ludwig snapped into motion with such force that Francis jerked back in alarm, but not before his hand had been slapped away roughly. "Don't touch me!" He met Francis' eyes again. "Or is that it? Is that why you're here?" He laughed; it was a harsh, bitter sound. "To the victor go the spoils of war?" He stood up in a motion that was nearly fluid, though not without a hiss of pain. Hands with bloodied knuckles tore at the fastenings of his pants. "You can have me right here, just bend me over the ruins!"
"Mon Dieu, Allemagne! That's not what…" Francis stood up as well, sputtering.
Ludwig laughed again. "Stop the presses, France doesn't want to fuck!"
He stared, unable to comprehend that this was anything but a bizarre dream. "What's wrong with you?"
Ludwig's face tightened into a familiar expression of anger. For that moment, he straightened his shoulders and stiffened his spine and Francis could almost fool himself into thinking he was acting normal again. "My boss is dead! My empire is dead! I have surrendered! What isn't wrong with me, Francis?" The strength sapped out of him and he leant against the wall behind him. "It's a lie. It doesn't get better," he whispered, voice so soft Francis could barely make out the words, "it's just made it worse."
"I don't understand," Francis murmured. It was a plea, though not one for an explanation. He understood, he thought he did anyway, though he hoped he was wrong.
Ludwig took a deep, rattling breath and turned his head to the side. He stared into the distance though there was nothing but another soot-covered wall. Francis couldn't help feeling like Ludwig was really just pretending that he wasn't there. "I told myself when we won, it would have been worth all the deaths." Ludwig Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped hard. "But it's over now. They all died for nothing. I can hear them scream. They ask me why I killed them for naught."
"Why did you do it then?"
Ludwig turned his head; his eyes met Francis' hesitantly. "Why do nations join a war that doesn't concern them? Why do they ask when they could demand?" He shook his head and averted his eyes again. "I wanted to deserve..." He bit his lip and shook his head again as his cheeks burned red. "I just wanted you to stop looking at me like I'm a monster."
"Stop it." Francis' voice was weak and frail. He swallowed; the action chafed his dry throat. "Stop it!" he repeated, his voice louder and stronger and more like himself as he balled his hands into angry fists around handfuls of his coat.
Ludwig gave a tired, sad smile as he slid along the wall back into the huddling position Francis had found him in. "But all will be well now, won't it? I put an end to it." He sighed as he rested his forehead against his knees. "I'm so tired, Francis… I just want it to be over already."
Francis didn't say a word.
The End
What Really Happened:
The bombing of Berlin preceded the land offensive, though that caused great damage as well.
2.5 million Soviet troops fought 1 million Germans. The German troops were outgunned as well as outmanned at that point; they included old men and teenagers. Nonetheless, it was a bitter battle for every house and street as Hitler refused to surrender until his suicide on April 30th.
Berlin surrendered on May 2nd. Numbers of casualties vary, but the Battle of Berlin was one of the bloodiest battles of World War II.
Germany surrendered only on May 7th, starting May 8th, as the Germans wanted to surrender just to the Western Allies, not the Soviets.