Title: Encirclement
Character(s): Hungary, Germany
Rating: PG
Warnings: ...Freud might have a couple of things to say about this one.
Summary: Germany and Hungary have a post-victory chat. Things are rarely that simple.
It was six twenty-five in the evening when Hungary herself approached him, which was a little unusual considering how much earlier the armies had met, but perhaps she had been off celebrating with her soldiers. She always was one for congratulations and friendly encouragement after a job well done, and it was certainly well deserved today. Germany caught her eye and waved a little, and she trotted over to where he was sitting, grinning industriously. She stopped just short of the tank he was leaned against and peered down at them both with her hands behind her back, head cocked teasingly to one side.
"Broken?"
"I'm afraid so," Germany admitted. He smiled wryly and rapped the knuckles of one hand against the heavy armor, which resounded hollowly. "One of the First Panzer Group's. But it made it this far, at least." With a nod in her direction he added, "And what have you been up to?"
Hungary laughed cheerily. "Oh, you know. Patrolling, talking, exploring. Look what I got!" She came closer and dropped to her knees beside him on the ground, bringing her hands around front to reveal a small parcel. Germany leaned for a better look.
"Bread?"
"From Ukraine." Hungary winked. "She's not using it right now, anyway. Want some?"
Germany started to wave the offer away but Hungary was too quick for him, already dividing the spoils neatly in two as she turned to prop herself up against the tank next to him. He accepted his half gratefully and took a bite, chewing slowly. They sat in companionable silence awhile, or as near to it as they could get with the commotion of soldiers and commanders and newly taken prisoners still in the background. Russia was definitely not going to be pleased--even less so than he had been in June. But this was of little concern to him now, wasn't it, and there was so much more to come before the summer drew to a close, so progress would wait for no excuses even if Germany had felt inclined to make them. The important thing now was to keep going, keep pressing that advantage into the east until not even a paper sheet truce could fit between him and Russia's defenses, and even then, well, paper burned so easily.
--He hadn't realized how hungry he actually was before. The next bite Germany took was a much larger one; Hungary smiled knowingly.
"See, I knew you'd want some." She tutted a little, picking at her own share to savor the taste of something homemade after so long living off field rations. "You have to start taking better care of yourself, you know, Germany. Have to keep your strength up, don't you?"
Germany muttered something in the affirmative around a mouthful of confiscated bread and tried his hardest not to go red at Hungary's laugh. She nudged at him playfully with one shoulder. Then she did it again, a bit more urgently this time, and gestured with one boot in front of them: "Oh, hey, your fire's going out! " And she shot forward towards the little pile of ash he'd dug out in the ground, setting the food down and shrugging out of the bag slung around one of her shoulders. "Here, I've got it."
Again he waved a hand in feeble protest. "No, that's fine, you don't have to--"
"But I want to," she countered, flashing another brilliant smile, "so you can't stop me."
Germany rolled his eyes but didn't argue, and let both hands rest placidly in his lap while Hungary tended to the fire. She rolled her uniform sleeves up above the elbow and crouched low, on hands and knees, trying to gauge which way the wind was blowing for precaution's sake. There was something old about her then and he couldn't place it. Fields, fields and camps and steel, or what came before it, whenever that--but this was now and now Hungary's hair was falling forward and down so Germany snapped out of his reverie and lurched forward to stop it landing in the embers.
Coarse. Coarse and thicker than he'd expected, and he watched her face while he held it back behind her ear one-handedly. Nomads, Germany thought, and wondered why. He cleared his throat. "Sorry. Hair. And fire. Ah."
She nodded her appreciation and sank lower still, blew gently at the grey-white embers to coax some life back into them. Germany focused on split ends trailing in the dirt.
"Does it get in your way?" he asked, shifting weight. "When you fight, I mean."
"Sometimes." A spark danced once, twice if he counted its reflection in her eyes. "I tie it back during the really tough battles, though. That makes things easier."
Germany's other hand stung from where he leaned too heavily upon it, pressing it into the rough earth, and his knees felt shaky in the unbalanced position. It was, then, as much to his relief as hers when the first wispy flames sprung out of the ash and they both sat back. Hungary's hair swung back into place when he released it, tousled. He didn't know why it had always looked so much softer before.
"Right!" She grinned with accomplishment, wiping a bit of soot away from her cheek with the heel of one hand, then snapped the fingers of the other commandingly. "I've still got some coffee. Hand me my bag and your mess kit, would you?"
Germany grimaced. "Hungary, you really don't--"
"--Told you, I want to. Come on, now."
He grumbled a little but did as told, sitting back again to watch helplessly while Hungary disassembled his kit and poured her own water into the pot. She cast around briefly before pulling a couple of stones nearer to the fledgling fire, then balanced the container precariously between them over the flame in a sort of makeshift stovetop. Maid, Germany thought, unbidden, and then servant, and that was where he stopped, because of all the other words that might follow and because of the fog suddenly welling up at the back of memory.
As she sat on her haunches to eye the setup, Hungary tutted again."You really must get more Esbit tablets, Germany. They're a lot quicker than starting a fire the old-fashioned way."
He shrugged expansively. "I gave the last of mine away, to one of the soldiers. He had none left."
Hungary snorted, not unkindly, and said, "You would." Then she scooted back to rest against the tank next to him again, a little--a little closer this time. She crossed her arms lightly and drew her knees up toward her chest, yawning. "My, it's been a long day, hasn't it?"
"Yes," Germany agreed, deciding that this was safe. He was not so sure when her head tilted against his shoulder. Hungary was humming something under her breath, something familiar. Germany listened and concentrated on key, tone, rhythm. "Chopin?"
"Mm-hm!" She went on for a few more bars, then trailed off softly. "I always forget how it goes after that, though. Do you remember? Something terribly graceful."
Germany blinked behind closed eyes. "You know I don't play the piano all that much. Not like Austria, anyway."
"No," she sighed, wistful. "No one does." No one did anything quite like Austria, in Hungary's estimation. "You don't have the hands for it, anyway," she continued, and Germany did glance down when she took one of his in her own and held it up experimentally against the fading daylight. "Broader. Shorter fingers. And Austria's got such delicate hands," she sighed again. "Not like ours."
No, not like theirs, and no one played the piano quite like Austria. No one tuned quite like him, either, or composed, or conducted, least of all in Austria's own estimation. And Germany had to wonder sometimes at just what Hungary thought of the last one, but then again he didn't. Her rule was no longer tied to his, after all, and even if Austria was not the one on the field he was certainly the one taking orders now, so it didn't matter.
Still. Had it, once?
Hungary was still toying with his hand, now spreading the fingers, now tracing along the bones, now flipping it as though to read the palm, but there was nothing there that Germany could see. He tried a halfhearted tug to free himself from the attention, sighing when it failed. "Hey, do you really have to...?"
She laughed and shook her head until her hair flew--mane, Germany tried not to think--but did not let go. "Sorry! It's habit, I suppose, I can't help it. But I'm sure you must be used to it after how much Italy does the same thing, right?"
Italy. Italy and Hungary and Germany, and did that mean anything? There was some place, some inner mental file under which that all sorted itself somehow, but he couldn't for the life of him think where.
"Anyway I think you're much better with words," Hungary decided, interrupting again. The grime under her short-clipped fingernails was more than dirt alone, as Germany well knew after spending so long examining his own, but the tint of it was still a little different. "Especially your poems, I've always liked them. Can you remember any of the good ones?"
--Germany could remember all of them, which was exactly the problem. There were so many, from so many different pens, but sorting out which of the good ones were still the right ones had gotten rather more complicated than that. He had a list now, somewhere, but he couldn't remember where. Maybe it was sitting at home, all several copies of it. Words, though--she was right about that. He was very good with those still. Better, even, if some people had been telling him truthfully, and of course they had. Germany knew where truth and word went together, if not where they began.
("Hungary! Hey, hey, Hungary, guess what we've got for you!"
She'd turned away from the sink, wiping work-worn hands on a stained apron. "Hm? Italy? Germany? What was it? What have you got for me?"
And her smile was wide as an open plain when Germany fished the document out of his breast pocket and held it aloft.
"Subcarpathia.")
"Germany?"
It was still only August, but Hungary's hands were much warmer than the air around them. He exhaled. "I don't feel very poetic tonight, Hungary."
She snorted lightly and nestled her head further into his stiff shoulder. Together they watched the sun set on Uman, and while the last waning yellows and oranges longingly gave way to red, she squeezed his hand. "It's yours now."
"I couldn't have done it without you," he said, mostly meaning it. Vaguely, he was aware that the water had started boiling, but neither of them seemed likely to move at the moment so he could ignore the sound for now, let the fire be. "You're an...an impressive warrior."
Hungary chuckled against his collar. Magyar, Germany thought, and wished he hadn't. "Kiev next?"
He nodded, already redrawing mental maps again. The summer was long, but not eternal. "Then Moscow."
"I did do a good job, didn't I?" Hungary mused, sounding more tired with every word. Germany nodded again without taking his eyes off the horizon: blue, now, the dark kind.
"You certainly did."
"Better than Romania?"
He could not help but smile a bit at the suddenly less dreamy tone. "Always."
Hungary made a contented noise and turned to one side, yawning, with her knees turned toward and not away from him (but of course he made it a point not to notice this). "Oh, Germany," she mumbled drowsily. "You're so sweet, except for when you aren't."
Her breath slowed at almost the same pace as the panzer tank's metal cooled against his back, then steadied, quiet and deafening. He could have counted her heartbeats, but that would mean admitting that he felt them.
It was twelve thirty-four in the morning when Hungary finally released his hand from her own, and another ten minutes before he regained the feeling in his fingers. Germany sat and flexed stiff joints and thought for a long time after, while the fire died down again with greater finality and the water cooled to a temperature most unsuited for coffee; what little of it that hadn't already boiled away, at any rate. No matter. There were stars enough over Uman to see by, and anyway Germany had more than enough to keep him awake tonight.
---
Notes:
The Battle of UmanOh, boys, for me? You shouldn't have.