[Fancomic and Fanfic]

[plotbunny-tiff.livejournal.com]

The gracious AsheRhyder drew a comic and was kind enough to allow me to post it here. It inspired me to do a follow-up fanfic, since I lack the skill to create visual artwork.

Title: Machine
Rating: PG
Pairing: Germany/N. Italy
Artist: AsheRhyder
Song: "Machine" written by Josh Groban/Eric Mouquet/Dave Bassett
















Title: By The Sweat Of His Brow
Rating: PG
Paring: Germany/N.Italy
Author: plotbunny_tiff 
Warnings: Slight angst
A/N: A follow-up to "Machine"

 

There was no time for shirking. Ludwig ignored the slow drip of sweat that rolled down the side of his face. It dripped on the steel, hissing angrily as it turned to steam and floated away. If he ignored the low rumble in his stomach and focused, he could get another twenty rolled out in an hour or so.

 

He would bear the hunger pangs. He’d done so many times before, and it hadn’t killed him yet. The past six years nearly did kill Germany, though. Between the dismantling of his factories and mines, the Allies denying him any sort of aid, and the damned JCS-1067^[1], there was a time when he thought he wouldn’t see another season come and go.

 

But things were turning out for the better. Hectic days and long nights of hard work brought about a slow reward of progress. Everyone else finally came to realize that they needed him to thrive in order for them to grow as well. With the start of the fight between North and South Korea, suddenly the idea of buying things from Germany didn’t seem like such a bad idea. It was a blessing, and a sorely needed one to be sure.

 

Ludwig was determined to drag himself up from the miserable state he ended up in. If that meant soldering and hammering until the marrow in his bones ached, he’d do it. If he had to turn down a few picnics with Feliciano to go over paperwork, so be it. There would be time for those frivolous types of things later, when he had time to breathe, time to spend with his friends, time to indulge in happiness.

 

He would understand. He had to.

 

Ludwig wanted to be able to stand tall in front of the others again, to hold his head up high and say “Here! I am not who I was before. I’ve rebuilt myself, into something better, something stronger”. He wanted to be—

 

Someone Feliciano could depend on. When had that become so crucial to him? It wasn’t part of his grand plan, at least not in the beginning. When had the clumsy Italian stumbled into the weft and weave of his life? And why was he holding on to that thread so desperately?

 

As he took off the welding mask and put down the blowtorch, faint memories of grassy hills, and a gentle, encouraging voice, and the scent of oil paint and flowers lingered ghost-like on the edge of his mind. They morphed into half-finished nightmares, centered around a tiny girl weeping into her hands. It made his chest clench with tension, and unleashed the fresher image of Feliciano’s crying face on his already battered psyche. 

 

Without realizing it, he’d pulled on his coat and went running out into the night, his only goal to find Feliciano. He hunted the streets, hovering on the razor-edge of panic though he tried desperately to contain it. The moon rose higher, sharpening the shadows and lazily illuminating his path. Each step was accompanied by a new shot of fear: he finally got fed up, he’s gone forever, he’s too good for the likes of you, leaving was the smartest thing he’s ever done.

 

Hours came and went in his search, but it turned out fruitless. Ludwig finally found a lamppost to lean against. He was nearly overcome with exhaustion, and the last ember of hope he carefully nurtured though the night finally winked out. He couldn’t rail, or scream, or curse. He just started to wind down, slowly crumpling to the asphalt like a parody of a rundown toy.

 

He didn’t have a grasp of how long he kneeled there, silent and still in the hush of pre-dawn. Birds began chirping their morning lullabies, cars rumbled by and a few early risers shuffled past him on their way to work, carefully avoiding his eyes as they gave him wide berth.

 

Only one pair of worn leather shoes stopped in front of him; Ludwig could tell who it was just from the dirty, untied laces. The Italian halted a few inches away, and when Ludwig lifted his head he could see that Feliciano was almost trembling from the effort not to greet him with his customary hug.

 

“Why didn’t you come home? I was out looking for you everywhere, even the pubs just in case you wanted to drink, but you weren’t in any of your usual spots and I thought you might be so angry that you-oof!” He was cut off by Ludwig grabbing him around the waist and hastily pulling him close, embracing him so tightly around the middle that Feliciano had trouble catching his breath.

 

“I feel it. What you said, before. I feel it, too.” The words were nearly lost in the folds of Feliciano’s shirt. “I was trying to work hard so I could make things better. I didn’t intend to-“

 

Ludwig never got to finish, because his face got pressed into Feliciano’s stomach as the Italian hugged him back just as hard. Ludwig swore he smelled of sunlight and new grass.

 

~Fin~

 

^[1] When the Allies occupied and divided Germany, they didn’t really allow other countries sent help, even in the form of food. Many factories were shut down, and soon Germany was on the verge of complete financial ruin.

 

When someone finally realized that having Germany crumble meant the economy of the rest of Europe would fall with it, harsh occupation directives like JCS 1067 were lifted. By the dawn of the Korean War, most tensions had lowered enough that many countries didn’t hesitate to buy German goods.