WORLD WARS

Premise: A look at the end of WW1 through the end of WW2 mostly from a 3rd person narration of America/Alfred's POV

Pairings: established Germany x America

Warnings: cursing (in two languages!), gore/violence, slash (nothing heavy though)

A/N: Please excuse my US-centric bias, but tell me if something is grossly incorrect. All translations will be written at the bottom, but I believe that their general meaning should be obvious within the context. Any and all corrections (particularly regarding languages and my butchering of them) are greatly desired.

November 1918: Germany

The End of World War One

This is the fate of the German Reich, Germany thought, as he lay on a small cot, his rioting and starving capital surrounding him. His next strained breath whistled through his teeth, as he clenched his jaw against the sickening, ripping sensations coursing their way through his abdomen. He felt as though a wild animal was trying to claw its way out of his stomach.

"Damn England for his blockades," Germany ground out, teeth still gritted together. "Damn Russia for mobilizing quickly. Damn France for not being a total pansy. And damn America for helping them!"

A cold wind ripped through the shattered windows of the flat, and Germany pulled the threadbare blanket tightly around himself in a futile attempt to stay warm. The burst of wind brought with it the call of his nation name.

"Germany!" England shouted, sounding livid as always. Germany thought the Brit had two expressions: scowling and scowling with a furrowed brow. "Where is that bloody bastard?"

"Allemande!" France yelled; any trace of his coquettish nature was gone, which Germany privately admitted was in fact his fault. "Where is that putain de connard? He's got to pay for destroying my beautiful country!" There was the sound of a door being kicked in.

Shivering out of what Germany stoically told himself was only chill, the German nation turned away from the still standing door. Curling his legs up to his chest and tucking his head under his arms for protection, he put his broad back, weakened by famine, in between him and the headhunting Allies.

"Deutschland!" Peeking his head out from under his arms, Germany thought to himself, was that...?

"America, why are you addressing that animal in his own language?" England snapped.

"Chill out, dude. I'm showing respect," the American said evenly, and for once he sounded like an adult instead of a teenager in way over his head. Unlike many of them, America hadn't been raised since his creation to operate within the delicate and dangerous politics of the Old World. "Should we check here too?"

"Oui."

"Okay." America kicked the flat's door off its hinges, and it slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the room, inches away from the foot of the cot. England and France pushed past the American and were across the room, roughly dragging Germany to his feet by his hair and the back of his ripped shirt.

"Dudes, put him down," America said, striding forward and forcing the Allied Europeans to drop Germany, who fell to a kneeling position on the floor. "His government already surrendered, just let him be."

"How can you defend the bastard?" England snarled, straining against the American's strong arms around his torso. France didn't need to be physically restrained; he had no desire to attack Germany without backup. Memories flying through his mind, France unconsciously put a hand to his bandaged cheek, as a painful spasm shot through the damaged left side of his body.

"Are you done yet?" America asked the somewhat struggling England. Baring his crooked teeth at Germany, England ceased fighting, and America let him go.

The American pushed the other Allies behind him and stepped up to Germany to extend a helping hand. Clasping forearms so that the American could help the man to his feet, a shock of electricity jumped between from his palm to the other's skin. Alfred gave a kind smile to Ludwig, hidden to the others.

"Let's go… Deutschland. We've got a long ride to Versailles," America pulled him to his feet, dropping Germany's arm over his shoulders to help him out the door.

There was a bit of space between the nation's bodies, but after Germany seemingly tripped over nothing, Alfred tightened the arm around the Ludwig's waist, pulling him in close. They walked through the damaged apartment building, Germany stumbling and having to rely on America's strength much more than he would like. He was grateful America's superhuman brawn disguised the extent of Germany's struggling from England and especially France.

The four nations walked up to a parked car. England jumped behind the wheel, and France sat up front beside him, while Germany pulled himself into the back, followed closely behind by America.

Ludwig glanced at the Alfred's face; only able to see an unfocused, dirt streaked cheek and busted lip without turning his head. He didn't want the other to know how closely he wanted to study him; he didn't quite know where he know stood in the American's –Alfred's- eyes.

Without looking at Ludwig, Alfred gently rubbed his thumb against the inside of the German's wrist. Lacing their fingers together, the American kissed the back of his hand before releasing his grip and returning his hand to his lap. They didn't touch again for the remainder of the trip, except to support Germany's walking. And yet, long after they arrived at Versailles, Ludwig continued to feel the slow burn of Alfred's lips against his skin.

June 1919: France

The Treaty of Versailles

Alfred fell under the category of easily impressed, especially with regard to anything European. Lacking a long history of his own and feeling like American was a hodgepodge of distinctly different cultures smashed together, he found himself fascinated and jealous of traditional things endemic to a single nation. And any building older than he was, even if culturally unimportant or dilapidated, always struck him dumb.

The Palace of Versailles was such a building. Though Alfred was already a charge of Arthur's during the palace's construction, he wasn't even waist high yet and the desire or even the idea of becoming independent weren't coming for a long time. Needless to say, America had nothing that compared to Versailles and that is precisely what he found some amazing; there was nothing like this back home. As he brushed his fingers against the painted walls, America heard the whispers of a few installments in a story of a country much older than he. He was in awe of France, in awe of Europe, but he'd be damned if he told any of the Europeans that, except Ludwig.

The Versailles was the site of the conclusion to the Great War: a devastating, painful chapter of human history, which was a story that hopefully wouldn't grow any darker. But America wasn't too optimistic; he had a premonition of a dreadful disaster. A tragedy that he would be swept up in and powerless to stop.

Dark thoughts haunted America like the ghosts that terrified him and are real, England, really, as he, the other nations, and their leaders filed into the hall where the final debate over peace settlements would take place. The discussions would probably go badly. Infuriated nations such as France would be too harsh on Germany and the other Central Powers to the point of alienating them. True peace isn't gained through suppression but cooperation in Alfred's opinion at least.

-/-/-/-

A few hours later the debate over terms of the settlement was in full swing yet going nowhere.

"Now, the terms suggested by the French Third Republic are a bit harsh-"

"Non!" France snarled. "That German connard destroyed my land, and he will pay! I want his land, his money, and most importantly his pride!" Spit collected at the corners of France's mouth and flew onto his boss, as he worked himself into a frenzy of rage. "I want him knocked so far down that he'll never come back up! I want him-"

"Dude, chill out," the United States replied, standing so he could look down at France. The small victories of life. "We've got to be fair to him, or we're just continuing this cycle of revenge, and that's not-"

"It's the least he deserves!" France crooked a finger at the stoic Germany. His teeth were bared ever so slightly as though he wanted nothing more than to bite off the accusatory digit.

"There's no fucking way in hell he'll be able to pay it all back, especially if you want that land from him."

"Language, America," England said tiredly, still feeling the need to parent his ex-colony. America didn't even bother to point out his long-time freedom, a sign of just how long they'd been in debate. At this point, England had all but checked out of the conversation; he didn't really care whether America or France won this fight; in his opinion, the Frenchman was being too harsh and the American too lax.

America rolled his eyes at England's interjection. "We have to lay the groundwork for peace, not more wars. That's why we should have lower penalties and created the League like I'm suggesting."

"Idiot! Germany must be whipped for its crimes, not just given a scolding! With all your defending him, America, someone would almost think you're having sex with the monster," France sneered.

"Francis! Enough," Clemenceau said, as Wilson grabbed America's belt and forced him back into his chair to keep him from lunging at the Frenchman.

"Alfred, stop arguing with France," Wilson hissed into America's ear once the nation was seated. "We cannot afford to loose our alliances."

"But, Mr.-"

"I said no. Let him do whatever he pleases so long as the League is accepted as a stipulation. Just smile and nod."

America didn't bother to fake his contentment. As good of an actor as he was, he didn't think he had the ability to pull of that particular ruse. He also didn't look up to confirm whether it was Germany's stare boring a hole through his temple or just his imagination. With each destructive clause included in the treaty, every dollar added to Germany's crushing reparations, and every chance America had to speak up to help Germany but didn't, his sweetheart's glare intensified.

-/-/-/-

That night, long after everyone else had fallen asleep, Alfred snuck out of his room to the staircase in the hallway. He crept down the stairs, listening intently for the footsteps of another nation or a boss. He didn't want to try to rationalize his location in the Central Powers' floor of the building because while Alfred had a good motivation for creeping around those halls, it was not one that America could use.

Alfred peered closely at one of the heavy wood doors, eyes straining and trying to see a modicum of color in the flag's horizontal lines. Breaking into Bulgaria's room instead of Germany's would not be good.

Alfred assured himself that yes that was a white line sandwiched between two much darker lines and extracted the lock picking tools from his jacket's pocket. Jiggling the tools in the lock, Alfred heard the quiet clicks and felt the lock give way. Tools still inserted into the lock, he pushed the door open a crack, pulled the tools out, and put them away. He held his breath, as he pushed the door all the way open and entered Germany's room.

"Bruder! Get back to your room! Do you want the Allies to find you?" A low voice whispered harshly into the inky black of the room. Ludwig assumed Gilbert was the barely visible figure standing in his doorway; no one else would be stupid enough to sneak out and visit him of all people.

A barely stifled laugh broke the oppressive silence, and Ludwig sighed at its volume. Even though he hadn't heard it for years, he would recognize that laugh anywhere.

"Alfred, what are you doing?" Ludwig sat up and pinched the web of skin above his nose. Alfred was either an inducer or soother of headaches, but it was impossible to know which in advance.

"Visiting you," he replied, shutting the door too loud and bounding into the room. He jumped onto the bed and landed on his hands and knees next to Ludwig. The bed bounced, the springs creaking over their abuse.

Ludwig and Alfred sat and kneeled close enough for Alfred's glasses to rest against Ludwig's cheek. He had missed this.

Alfred turned his head slightly, brushing their lips together and allowing Ludwig move away or lean into the kiss. Ludwig's mind went deliciously blank at the contact. His cuts didn't sting; his bandages didn't chafe and rub his skin raw, and his bruises didn't throb with every heartbeat. Alfred curled his hand around the back of Ludwig's neck. His hand tightened possessively before relaxing his grip; he didn't want to make him nervous. Ludwig hissed out a quiet breath through his teeth, and he fisted Alfred's shirt. Alfred pushed the blankets out of the way and moved to straddle his lap, and Ludwig wrapped an arm about his waist, fitting their lower bodies against one another's.

They separated with a quiet noise, breath ghosting over each other's lips and cheeks. Ludwig crushed Alfred against him again and gave him a hard kiss. Alfred pulled his head away, panting a little bit.

"We're okay, yeah?" Alfred said. "I mean, we literally just stopped being at war with each other, but it wasn't really between us. Obviously we were on opposite sides and all-"

"Stop."

Alfred gulped.

"I ne- want you. Can I just have you?" Ludwig asked, threading his fingers through Alfred's hair. He pulled his neck to the side, and his lips roamed over the American's soft skin, nipping and biting.

"Yeah, yeah," Alfred moaned. "Whatever you want."

-/-/-/-

Just after the day broke in a collage of pinks, purples, reds, and oranges, Alfred pulled himself out of Ludwig's grip. The German mumbled sleepily and reached up, grasping emptily towards Alfred, as the American gathered his clothes and dressed quickly. Grumbling more audibly when he found his efforts unfruitful, Ludwig's eyes slitted open, bright cerulean flickering.

"…What is happening?"

"Shush, baby; go back to sleep. I'm going back home." Alfred stepped forward and pushed Ludwig's bangs off his forehead, so he could press a kiss there. The German grabbed the hem of the American's shirt, desperate for him to stay close. Alfred stroked Ludwig's cheek gently, the German's stubble rasping against his palm.

"…Coming back soon?" Ludwig eyes fell closed again, and he nuzzled into Alfred's hand in a way he would never do if he were fully awake.

"Can't. New policy of isolationism. I'm going to be gone for a real long time," Alfred replied sadly, untangling Ludwig's fingers from his shirt. Alfred kissed Ludwig, a hard press of lips on lips before he trudged out the door, and silence prevailed in the small room.

"…Alfred?" Ludwig asked the empty room. His arms stretched out into the vacant air, searching. Finding nothing, they fell back to the sheets, and Ludwig tumbled into a fitful sleep. His limbs twitched, and his wounds burned.

December 1941: United States

America Enters World War Two

Roosevelt hoped from the bottom of his heart that Chamberlain's strategy of appeasement would work. He remembered the Great War all too well and was staunchly opposed to introducing a new generation of American people to the horrors and sacrifices of war. All he wanted was peace and prosperity. Roosevelt was never this desperate for something, not even when he proposed to Eleanor.

The American people had no interest in getting involved in another European war. Although the United States had European roots, it was certainly not part of club Europe, as America –both the human and the nation- was often reminded. Invasions in Europe were Europe's problem.

Before, the United States was content to simply provide aid or cut off supplies in the name of assisting its allies or peacefully keeping the 'baddies' down. Now, the American people were bloodthirsty beasts, clamoring for the deaths of the Japanese attackers as well as any and all of their allies.

War was unavoidable. But just because the United States would engage doesn't mean that the fighting won't be devastating for the country. Each night, Roosevelt prayed for those who would suffer because pain was inevitable in the upcoming battles. He also prayed that America would heal from the malady that plagued him at the moment.

On top of the general lethargy attendant of the Great Depression, America –or was it Alfred?- suffered from notoriously bad sleep. He may have slept for a long time, nearly fifteen hours each day, but his sleep was not restful. From evening through the ungodly hours of the wee morning to midday, the American roamed the White House halls in his sleep. Stumbling about on unsteady feet, he grabbed at tables to keep his balance, sending vases, platters, and other precious and delicate objects tumbling to the floor. They shattered, sending shards skidding across the floor. And unconscious, Alfred dragged his feet through the sharp pieces, ripping his feet to shreds and smearing blood all over the wood floors and carpets. Two more maids had to be hired ensure that the messes he created were efficiently tidied up. If representatives from other nations were expected, Alfred would be ushered into his room, and the doors deadlocked and barred to keep him in. But no precautions kept his pitiful cries from escaping the confines of his room. A British representative once jokingly asked if they were keeping POWs in the White House's dungeons.

When asked, Alfred said he couldn't remember his dreams. Roosevelt and his advisors breathed a sigh of relief and just chalked it up to some residual form of battle fatigue, never mind that Alfred hadn't seen warfare in twenty-two years. Still, they were confident that with time, Alfred would man-up, and the symptoms would disappear when he was called for combat duty.

In spite of his firm statements to the men, at the motherly prodding of Eleanor, Alfred spoke hesitantly and lowly about the bloody scenes that haunted his dreams. Where he'd press his hands over bullet holes riddling the chest of his little brother Mattie. Blood bubbled out of his mouth, as he tried to breath, and suddenly, the hand tightly gripping Alfred's collar, begging him to save him, would go slack, and Mattie's eyes would slide closed. And Alfred would pound at his brother's chest, pleading with God to let him come back. Or Alfred would be crawling across a Great War era no man's land, and his legs would blow up out from under him, sending the American into the cold, clinging, bloody mud. England would come running by, and Alfred would beg him to help him goddammit and bring him back to those trenches that seemed like hell until one lay in the field, bleeding from grotesquely amputated limbs and then the trenches seemed like heaven, promising safety and life or at least an eased death. England would just shake his head, smirk, saying war was no place for little boys, and leave Alfred behind. But Alfred wouldn't speak to Eleanor about the worst dreams. When prodded, his lips would disappear into an even thinner, grim line, and he would shake his head and refuse to meet her eyes.

Tonight was a bad night. Alfred fell asleep on a couch tucked in a corner of the Oval Office where his president worked. At first, he looked so peaceful that Roosevelt didn't consider waking him and sending him to his room until he left for the night (or early morning as luck may have it). Just as Roosevelt put the finishing touches on his thoughts for their first assault on Japan, Alfred started twitching. Roosevelt glanced up in time to see his limbs flail as though struggling against an unseen enemy.

"No!" Alfred shouted, thrashing. "Don't hurt him! Don't make me hurt him! No, no, NO! Oh god, please no," he sobbed. In his mind, a faceless solider –truly faceless as in no eyes, no nostrils, no mouth, just skin- dragged a battered Ludwig towards a pit already lined with other bodies. Bodies with faces blown away by high caliber guns. He forced Ludwig to his knees; he didn't even put up a fight. A pistol was pressed into Alfred's hand, his fingers wrapping around the familiar weapon without Alfred's consent. He had no control over his body. When the solider nodded, Alfred's hand raised, pressing the muzzle of the gun against his sweetheart's temple. Ludwig closed his eyes, not in anger but in resignation. Alfred shuddered and gasped, as his finger tightened against the trigger; tears ripped from his eyes by the biting wind. The shot sounded, and the left side of Ludwig's head transformed into a gory mess, as the German toppled forward into the pit. He became one of the many, nameless dead, reduced to said status by Alfred's own hand. "God, Ludwig forgive me," Alfred moaned into the cushions under Roosevelt's scrutinizing eye.

Neither ever spoke of the incident. Alfred unhappily assured Roosevelt that he could fight when the time came for that, and Roosevelt pretended not to care about the personal burdens of the young man who had come to be something of a son to him. Nike demanded no less for the chance to receive her gift of victory.

October 1942: United States

American War Factories

Alfred was grateful for many things. He was thankful that Arthur forgave him for revolting even though their relationship was still fraught with painful memories. That even as all of England's colonies drifted apart, he and Mattie remained close. That Mr. Hartman, the man in charge of screening the White House's mail, smuggled the forbidden letters between Ludwig and Alfred in and out ever since Wilson banned their correspondence back in 1919. As the United States, Alfred was most thankful for was Roosevelt's New Deal. With every person put back to work with public projects and every father who could now afford to buy books, toys, and food to give to his family, Alfred could feel his strength returning. His muscles no longer screamed with protest when he rose from bed each morning, and with each day that passed, his hacking cough sounded drier until it was a mere tickle in his throat.

But there were things Alfred wasn't grateful for. The rage that threatened to claw its way out of his chest, nearly tearing the mass of flesh and bones to bloody shreds and splinters, scared him. The part of his psyche that shriveled, blackening and burning when he heard that Lud-Germany declared war on him made him almost sick. He didn't want to hurt Ludwig but Germany? America wanted to make his hands slick with Germany's blood, to have Germany's eyes look upon him pleadingly, begging to spare- until Alfred realized Germany's eyes were Ludwig's eyes, and he didn't want to hurt Ludwig. The cycle of thoughts ran round and round his head with slight variations on the same theme. And if during that confusing time of war Alfred stuck pins and tacks into voodoo dolls of the enemy nations and threw them into his fireplace only to burn his hands when he impulsively plucked Germany out of the licking flames, then Ludwig never had to know. And he never had to tell Ludwig that he took just a little longer to pull his doll out when Alfred hadn't received a letter for a while and was beginning to think that he was played as a fool for thinking that a relationship could last when stretched across the line of ally and enemy in a war that encircled all six continents. (Though when Alfred said, " all six continents" aloud, something sounded a bit off, and sometimes he thought that he forgot something big. Then he rolled his bad shoulder and admonished the part of him that's still a kid who grew up too fast for questioning the rest of him.)

When the powers that be decided to prepare for war, the public works projects stopped, as men flooded to the enlistment stations, hungry to defend their country. Those who could not or did not become soldiers went to the war factories, hulking beasts of metal and brick that seemingly sprung out of the earth overnight. One day there was a field of clover and buttercups, the next it was the birthplace of Boeing B-17s, humming and clanging at all hours of the day and night. The steady thrum of hard work thumped through Alfred's veins, almost reassuring him, and stirred up a half-forgotten childhood memory of laboring in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

America was almost ready. War was so close that he could taste it. All Alfred wanted was mouthwash and a time machine.

November 1942: North Africa

Operation Torch

America sat shoulder to shoulder with the other men of the Western Task Force on the landing craft headed for the Moroccan coast. He had glanced briefly around the vessel when the men first settled in to gather the different emotions his people had towards the upcoming invasion. Some men looked sick to their stomach; some looked excited as though they thirsted for Axis blood, and others looked distinctly apathetic, but America felt that inside, those men were terrified, as they should be.

America could feel his people fear, their eagerness and their anticipation thrumming through his body. Their emotions twisted his stomach in knots, but America's face was the picture of calm. Normally, he would comfort the men who were scared, yet this time, he was too consumed by his own concern. Since he was in training before today, Alfred had yet to fire a shot at an Axis soldier, but the moment this craft lands, he ran the chance of laying his eyes on Ludwig; a man Alfred was certain he still loves even after not seeing him in twenty plus years but will be forced to hurt. In the last world war, America hardly did any direct damage –only supplied the fight and threated the Central Powers at the end-, but regardless of the outcome, America would be unable to make any such claim this time. That killed him inside.

The butt of his gun pressed into the floor of the boat between his feet, and his hands tightly squeezed the forestock. His grip created finger-sized depressions in his weapon, demonstrating the strength that earned him the nickname 'Superman' from the other soldiers. Alfred liked that nickname; in other wars his given monikers weren't as kind. (Really, son of a witch was never a polite thing to call someone, and the way England spat the word 'Yank' stung.) Alfred shut his eyes so tight that tears formed in their corners, which was something he might have been made fun of for if there wasn't a man in the row behind him crying over the baby he might never meet.

"One minute to landing!" the commanding officer yelled. "Be ready to go when I say so!"

The soldiers rose from their seats, holding onto one another and the side of the vessel in order to keep balanced. After a lucky shot from enemy shoreline bored its way through a man's chest –the rattling gasps were something nobody would forget as long as they lived whether that proved to be fifty years or five minutes-, everyone stood hunched over in a meager attempt to protect themselves from the spraying bullets.

*Bang*

Alfred shut his eyes tightly, as the head of the soldier next to him exploded, splattering him with brains, blood and slivers of skull. Eyes still closed, he pulled the sleeve of his jacket over his hand so that he could wipe the gore from his face. The soldier who was hardly more than a boy, sitting on the other side of the now faceless man, looked to be in shock. He didn't move to mop the blood dripping off his nose and pooling into his lap or remove the unknown bit of flesh from the corner of his mouth. He stood slightly bent over; his wide, pale eyes were stark against his crimson-stained face.

Reaching over the body of their brother-in-arms, Alfred wiped the carnage from the soldier's face and neck. "Get your head together," he said kindly, "cause its only going to get worse." Alfred shook the boy's shoulder in an effort to help him break from his trance. Blinking rapidly, the boy-soldier flicked his head and fixed his eyes on their commander. There was no bright excitement or inexperienced blood-lust left in his eyes, simply a dull yet focused awareness.

The landing craft shuddered harshly, as it came to a jarring halt. "Okay men! Move out!" the commander yelled, as the back of the vessel opened.

Breathing deeply, the remaining soldiers centered themselves, trying desperately to control their frantic thoughts and unconscious trembling, so they could focus on the fight ahead. They hopped out and hit the water with a dull plop. The men trudged though the thigh-high water towards the enemy-infested shore in a mission that will only end in Allied failure.

Heads bent down in acquiescence, the loyal soldiers floundered in a parody of a march to their deaths.

-/-/-/-

UNOFFICIAL MEMO: OPERATION TORCH

General Dwight D. Eisenhower to Franklin D. Roosevelt

November 12, 1942

Mr. President,

Operation Torch ended yesterday as a failure not worth the machines and men lost in the attempt. Our American troops' ill preparedness coupled with machine design flaws spelled our loss. All that is left is to learn from our mistakes. Official war report to follow.

-General Eisenhower

Winter 1943- Summer 1944

European and Pacific Theaters

Just after America's Civil War, William Sherman said, "War is Hell," which is a sentiment that Alfred couldn't agree more with, yet somehow, he is constantly finding himself in one fight or another. If he's not fighting someone across an ocean and miles of land, he's fighting the last remnants of the civilizations that lived on the land he now claims as his own. Regardless of how much he hates the blood and gore of the war, there's a part of him that yearns for it like a young boy who hears about his ancestors' heroic actions without ever having seen the reality. But Alfred has seen the actuality, so what's his excuse?

During his Revolutionary War, George Washington figured out that Alfred's presence at a battle was like rolling the dice. His being there greatly increased the likelihood of a historical event coming to pass. Sending Alfred to the site of the next fight could turn the tide in their favor or result in horrific losses. In a desperate attempt to end the war as soon as possibly, Alfred found himself constantly switching back and forth between the European and Pacific Theaters with only a short period of down time in between where he spent time at the White House attending meetings and giving updates.

Alfred can say with absolute certainty that he hates the European and Pacific Theaters equally.

There are few things that strike fear into Alfred's heart like watching Japan's kamikaze pilots willingly drop themselves out of the sky, which is a reflection of his men's fear. However, the heart-clenching cold horror of seeing a battered Nazi's uniform wrapped around a young blond man functioning as a shroud is Alfred's personal fear. He doesn't share it with any men in his platoon.

June 1944: England

Operation Overlord aka the Battle of Normandy

The gray tendrils of the coming day had just extended through the sky when Arthur shook Alfred's shoulder, waking the American with a jolt.

"Get Mark up," the Brit told him, glancing at Matthew lying dead asleep in the next bed. A trickle of drool ran out of the corner of the Canadian's open mouth onto the pillow. "Operation Neptune will start in two hours."

"Okay, dude." Alfred yawned around the words. "Wait one second; I've got two questions."

"What? We've been discussing this for weeks!" Arthur exclaimed incredulously as if questioning how someone could be so ignorant. "How the bloody hell can you, even with your limited intelligence, have any questions?"

"Jesus! Chill out, man. I was just going to ask who the hell's Mark and which operation is Neptune? I can't keep them all straight; they've got such funky names."

"You imbecile. Mark's the nation that lives above you, Cana… something-"

"Oh, Canada! You know, his name's Andrew; wait no, it starts with an M…"

"-And I believe you've been running about calling Operation Neptune 'D-Day'."

"Oh… Gotcha. Yeah, sure, I'll be all ready to go."

"You better. We can't afford to lose this one."

May 1945: Germany

Führerbunker

Begging and making promises to Russia that neither Alfred nor America had any intention of keeping got him a spot in the Soviet task force assigned to capture the Reich Chancellery and enter the Führerbunker.

Bile rose in the back of Alfred's throat at the sight of men's' heads blown apart by their trigger fingers. Injuries made by self-harm or suicide bother Alfred more than the same exact wounds caused by someone else's hand. He doesn't know why they horrify him so much more. (Vaguely, there's a flicker of a memory where mothers drowned their own children in cold rivers to save them from an even worse fate, but he just shudders and shakes it off.*)

The task force walked slowly through the bunker, fingers on the triggers, ready for anything that might jump out at them. They needn't be. The few men left alive stood or sat together in the control room. One German sat, rubbing his face, and when he saw the Allied men approach them, he looked almost… relieved that everything was over.

Alfred's eyes immediately locked onto Ludwig's frame. He stood behind the master electro-mechanic who sat in front of the controls. Ludwig had a tight grip on the man's shoulder and looked to be breathing in slow count, trying to calm the small muscle tremors coursing up and down his body.

"Ludwig," Alfred whispered, forgetting about the others in the room, as relief filled him at finally seeing his love after more than twenty years. He strode towards the German and hugged him; one hand clutched the back of his uniform, and the other arm squeezed his shoulders. Ludwig stood there frozen yet gulping down breaths like he hadn't been exposed air in years. He pressed his cheek to Alfred's and wrapping both arms around his waist.

"Meinige," he whispered, which was answered by an equally quiet, "Yours."

Russia's lip curled in a parody of a smile at the nations' embrace. Leverage, he thought.

Epilogue

August 1945: Japan

Hiroshima and Nagasaki Bombings

A great, white cloud expanded, looking like cotton and seeming like death. Alfred thinks of early 19th century cotton fields, and dark, bloodied hands that labor.

Alfred still hears the explosions and the screams of Japanese civilians, but then he awakens and realizes they're only a nightmare. He's the one that can't stop screaming.

Translations:

Allemande (French)- Germany

putain de connard (French)- fucking bastard

Deutschland (German)- Germany

bruder (German)- brother

meinige (German)- mine

*Technically this refers to the Arawak people of the Caribbean after Christopher Columbus' invasion, but I still found the implications fitting and applicable to US history.