To MoonBlazer. Her headcanon: World Wars 1 and 2 were painful for Germany. France had been the worst in the first war, and Germany was blamed for everything. In the Second war, Germany never wanted it to turn out how it did. He still blames himself for everything. And after the Berlin Bombings in 1945, a weak and broken Germany spoke with the newly freed from his home, France.
This one was interesting to do, I quite enjoyed it.
-RMS
Germany couldn't feel guilty enough.
When it started with the first World War, it's not like he meant for anything to happen, nor did he even start the war! Yet, he was blamed. Not his people, not his ruler, not his land, him. He tried so hard to lessen the feeling of the crushing weight-bearing down on his heart, but it simply would not leave him be. So, he occupied his mind. Germany tended to those whom were affected, healing them over time. Austria and France were the worst off. None of them could remember the blonde savior of theirs' that sat by their side each day and gave them such tender care.
Surly it must have been someone close to them. Maybe Switzerland came to care for Austria? Perhaps England tended to France? Austria had deluded himself, but France was not convinced. The man who took care of him when France could only feel, he was gentle. The saviors' fingers gliding over the bandages, giving France both his food and medicine. Whenever France hurt, the man-made the pain lessen but not numb. No, he was never numb. France was grateful for that.
Germany knew he must repay his debts somehow and by tending to those he hurt, whether it was truly his fault or not, gave him a sense of hope. That perhaps the others would know the rightful person to blame, and that person wasn't him. In due time.
Then came the second World War.
The hate magnified against Germany. Veneziano had his brother at his back, rumors saying he was tricked into helping Germany. Japan stood by with America at his watch, no way in letting Germany know he was okay and healing. Germany was devastated. All that work, all the help he'd given was gone, his friends doomed along with him. The guilt crushed Germany beneath its' weight, seeing the broken forms of those he hurt again. He knew Poland would never forgive him.
Yet, Germany could clearly remember a small time, very hazy, that gave him hope. It was in 1945, right after the Berlin Bombings.
As Germany laid upon the cot he was thrown on by his captors, he barely understood anything besides the burning pain shooting out from his heart. He did not know how long it's been since someone last came in to see him, if anyone did at all. But when the sound of creaking hinges, a lock clicking back into place, and an offbeat thump of someone limping their way across the room, Germany knew that someone had come to see him.
Who it was, Germany both knew and didn't want to know.
France stared at the Germans' weakened body sprawled across the little bed set out for him, no medicine to help with the pain; almost as if he was just let here to rot and die. France put away his crutches, propping them against the wall before kneeling down before the man who invaded his country.
No.
France shook his head, ignoring the headache it gave him as he fixed the blankets and positioned Germany's arms in a more comfortable way, he would not become like them. Like America, like England, like Russia. China didn't care about Germany at all, to busy with staring down at Japan with glee. Only Canada remained sane, helping Prussia out in Russia's home.
France remembered his own tender care taker and his gazed snapped to Germany's face. Maybe, just maybe... France drew breath. Well, maybe he could return the favor. And so, without knowing if Germany could even hear him, France talked. He told stories and speeches and random things even France doesn't remember.
And after all was said and done, perhaps it would be best if France never knew that Germany could always hear him.