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[qichi.livejournal.com]

I'm starting to piss myself off with my flip-flopping about posting this, so byah. Fic! Short fic, yes, but fic. It's not excessively researched but I'm fairly certain I haven't mangled anything too horribly -- if I have, feel free to throw desks.

Title: Feasts
Author: qichisan
Character: Germany
Rating: PG
Words: 488
Warnings: Well the whole damn thing is essentially "YAY, I CAN HAS A HITLER," except.. tasteful, I would hope? Still. SENSITIVE SUBJECTS AHOY?
Summary: Germany between the world wars, and what they told him he could be.

The food, when he managed to get any, tasted like nothing; it was only sustenance. Watered-down broth and stale bread. He had heard that people, when they were down to only one meal every day, relished and worshiped the scraps they received like ambrosia. This was not so. He had watered-down broth and stale bread, and it tasted like nothing.

And they promised him feasts. They told him: you will be great again. Germany, you will be great.

It was not so long ago, he knew, that he had fought alongside his friends. That had gone -- that had gone as it had gone, and he was made to take the blame. Millions of eyes turned to him to dole out apologies for his actions, but he had nothing to give. One could not pay debts with potatoes. He grew resentful, and the weather grew cold, and he was soon less concerned with apology than with keeping his clothes on his back.

The coughing fits almost never stopped now. He would walk on the streets, heading for one meeting or committee or another, and would have to stop, would have to shield his mouth with his sleeve and pretend he could not tell that his people cast their eyes aside as they passed him. He could not blame them: he could not look into their eyes either. It was enough trying to work through the physical pain that buzzed dully, constantly, reminding him of the turmoil even in his most distant regions.

He saw his old friends only rarely, and when they crossed paths, it was with a bland formality. They would nod and walk on, preoccupied. He saw Hungary grow gaunt and bitter, saw Austria's bright eyes slide shut as if in the pangs of an enormous migraine. Italy, even Italy, had become angry and desperate and hungry. Germany was vaguely aware, but indifferent to, that this had started with America. That did not matter.

It would end with Germany. He would be great, and he would have feasts.

They told him he would live through this, that this was but the stepping-stone to a wonderful Germany. They told him to trust, and to believe, and he smiled. He coughed into a weakly-clenched fist, but then he smiled. And he saluted.

And they told him whose fault it was, and he nodded, and saluted on through his joyful tears -- and he would do anything: he would fight again, if he had to, because he would win; he would go for a week without sleeping, if he had to, because after that he could have all the rest he needed; he would salute, if he had to, because they told him--

They promised him feasts, and they told him he would be great.