#aph germany

Summary: It’s December 25, 1914. Ludwig meets a British medic who reminds him that the fragile defiance of today does have meaning. [This is not a GerEng ship fic]

In the early morning of December 25th, the Western Front had softened with an unofficial ceasefire.

Snow clung to the fractured earth as men from both sides stepped out from the trenches, and No Man's Land became the meeting ground for the impossible. British and German soldiers shook hands and clapped one another on the shoulders, when only yesterday, men had been shot for so much as lifting their heads above the parapet.

The men approached each other freely, and made broken conversations with whatever fragments of language they shared. Interactions were cautious at first, then warmer with each passing minute. At some point, even a ball was procured, and a game of football ensued.

The war, if only for a day, had been set aside.

One boy sat apart from all of it.

Ludwig Beilschmidt sat on a wooden crate in front of a fire. The boy looked younger than he should for someone wearing a uniform. The war had caught him before life had the chance to.

His fair hair fell flat against his head, beneath his locks, a gauze bandage wrapped around his forehead with another layered diagonally over his left eye, obscuring it completely.

The stern look about him came mostly from restraint. His expression held the kind of self-discipline drilled into someone who didn't allow himself the luxury of breaking, even before the war.

He didn't complain. Even injured and worn, he still considered himself a soldier first. He held himself together out of sheer obligation.

Steam curled from tin can in his hands, which contained an assortment of potatoes, carrots, peas, and chunks of meat. It was a nice break from the preserved meats. The field kitchen had sent it up, and in a rare instance, it hadn't gone terribly cold before reaching them.

Ludwig dug his spoon into the brown stew and brought it to his mouth. He ate methodically, as if this too were another duty to be completed, and kept his place by the fire, observing the amity between soldiers of nations at war with each other, unable to make sense of it.

Ludwig didn't join them. This ceasefire wouldn't last forever. Come tomorrow, their respective officers would order them back into the trenches, and the killing would start again.

Yet these men gathered as if the war still did not exist. As if tomorrow, these same men wouldn’t pick up their rifles and aim again. The ones laughing now might be the ones falling next.

And still they laughed?

Really, this cordiality implied something lasting. The trust implied something real. One could not share a meal with a man today and shoot him the next without something breaking inside. When that moment came, and it would come, hesitation would cost lives.

Ludwig didn't join them because he had no intentions of letting that be his case.

He forced his gaze down, scooping up another bite of warm potatoes and soft meat, letting the mundane act anchor him. It was best not to let his mind wander.

The men on the other side of his trench were not his enemy, and yet, they were.

If he let himself blur the line, if he let a single thread of camaraderie infiltrate his empathy, the fragile order he depended on would crumble. His survival demanded that he remember they were at war, and that he was a soldier.

Just talk to them.

The memory of his brother's voice arrived so clearly that Ludwig almost turned his head, expecting to see him there with an amused grin and wind-reddened cheeks.

Gilbert never seemed afraid of people. He talked to everyone as if they were already friends. If his brother were here, he would've spotted the nearest group, beamed like he already knew them, and marched straight over with that grin of his. He would've said something bold, and somehow it would've worked.

Gilbert was the man who could be located in a crowded tavern by his laugher. The man who randomly broke out in song, but before the song ended, everyone would be merrily toasting and singing along with him. Heck, he could walk into a room full of strangers and leave with invitations to supper.

Ludwig's grip tightened around his tin.

That had always been the difference between them. Gilbert threw himself into storms without hesitation. Whereas Ludwig was more calculated. He wouldn't recklessly hurl himself into a storm.

So he said. Then he joined the war, and managed to enter the biggest storm of his time.

Ludwig could recall the morning when the daily paper announced that Germany was going to war. It was all important then. Men used to crowd the tavern after shifts and celebrate the glory, the honor, and the duty of it all.

For someone usually so talkative, Gilbert never joined those conversations. He adamantly opposed Germany's involvement in the conflict, and he'd grow quiet whenever the subject came up. On more than one occasion he had snapped at folks hard enough to sour the atmosphere.

The men at the tavern laughed at him. They called him cowardly. Gilbert didn't care what they thought. He was a lot more perceptive than what folks gave him credit for. To him, the men excitedly running towards the idea of war were just men dying to die. Unfortunately, Ludwig aligned his ideals with the men at the tavern.

The arguments between them started the moment Ludwig mentioned enlisting. At first, Gilbert had hoped that it was a passing idea, something planted in the boy's head by the newspaper or the patriotic talks in the tavern. He resorted to hiding the morning paper from Ludwig and stopped taking him along to the tavern with him. Gilbert himself frequented it less.

But that hardly improved the situation. The talk of war was deeply rooted all around them.

Ludwig still slipped the topic into their conversations, and each time Gilbert saw the ironclad conviction. Ludwig was hardly passionate, and damn it, of all things, war was what his little brother chose to romanticize.

Arguments over the matter became frequent in the Beilschmidt household. Ludwig accused him of lack of love for their country and in return Gilbert accused him of idealism.

It was especially taxing on Gilbert. After their parents passed from influenza, Gilbert had been forced to relinquish his childhood to make sure Ludwig had one. He'd left school and given up his education to make money to support them. Years of his life had been traded away piece by piece to keep them both alive. Every sacrifice he'd made had been made for the purpose of giving Ludwig the freedom that he himself had been denied as the oldest.

However, to Ludwig, young and restless, desperate to become more than who he was, the war looked like a purpose.

On the night that Ludwig told him he had enlisted behind his back, Gilbert sat alone at the kitchen table for a long time.

But Ludwig had already made his choice.

The fire crackled loudly, dragging the German boy back to the present. His hands had gone still in his lap, the empty ration tin forgotten.

He'd enlisted that summer when the war felt like something distant and glorious.

Gilbert walked him to the train station on the morning of his departure. The platform had been littered with a selection of men in uniforms, and Ludwig was one of them. A brass band played music beyond the smoke and steam. The music made the silence between them bearable.

Gilbert hadn't been his usual self. Not since the night he told him he'd enlisted. He stopped smiling, he stopped singing. He hardly ever spoke anymore.

The train whistle gave a last call, and the reality of what was about to happen pressed down on the older of the two.

Ludwig said goodbye and turned away. But rbefore he boarded, Gilbert stopped him.

"Ludwig, wait."

The younger boy turned back, expecting an argument or perhaps another plea.

Instead, Gilbert stepped forward and reached his hands out to fix Ludwig's collar, the way he'd done for him all his life. Ludwig pretended not to notice the tremble in Gilbert's hands.

When Gilbert finally looked up and met his eyes, Ludwig saw the same brother who hurled himself into situations with confidence to spare look genuinely terrified.

The stunned boy barely processed it before he was pulled into a fierce embrace that said everything Gilbert hadn't spoken to him in the past week.

"You stupid boy," he whispered shakily. "You stupid, stubborn boy. You better come back to me."

That was it. That had been the last time Ludwig saw him. The train departed, and he soon learned for himself the war which awaited him at the front was nothing like the one they had sold them.

There was no glory in the trenches.

There was no glory in men's feet that rotted from that constant dampness. It was the stagnant smell of decay. Sometimes it came from the decomposing bodies they couldn't retrieve from No Man's Land. Sometimes it came from the trenches themselves—the scent of unwashed bodies, infections, and overflowing latrines.

There was no honor in sleep broken by sudden rifle fire or shouted orders. Or restless nights staring at the trench wall, wondering if a shell would finally collapse it over him. During the stretches where nothing happened at all, the mind rehearsed death over and over. A man was left alone with himself and the awareness that at any moment, without warning, the silence could shatter, and everything would end.

There was no pride in men who were torn apart by artillery. Men who called out for the medics who couldn't reach them. Men who cried for their mothers, because in those final moments, fear stripped everything else away. Rank. Pride. Training. None of it mattered.

There was no time to mourn the losses properly. The front lines demanded endurance.

And when a man inevitably failed to meet those demands, war did not forgive. Those who froze when ordered forward were punished for cowardice. Some of the men met their fate in a military court, and others were blindfolded and tied to a pole before a firing squad.

There was no glory, honor or pride in any of it. War was killing an enemy that he had never met. It was pulling the trigger on a man who’d never done anything to him. It was orders passed down, and those orders ended with a rifle in his hands and a command that left no room for hesitation.

The newspapers never carried these things. The headlines were written far from the reach of the artillery and rifles. Words like "advance" and "losses" stood in for something far messier. Ink could never capture the violence of men killing each other. No one in the trenches argued about borders or policy. Those ideas belonged in rooms with maps and polished desks. Ludwig had watched men die for yards of mud that would be lost again by next week. Another trench captured. Another trench abandoned.

And for what?

If the men around him could laugh, share food, and warm their hands beside the same fire

...then what exactly had they been killing each other for?

Ludwig stared into the fire absently as a cheer erupted from the football game. One of the German soldiers had scored a goal past the makeshift goal of helmets. He wondered how many of the men out there would be dead by spring.

He wondered how many of them he would be responsible for shooting.

Approaching bootstep pulled him from his thoughts once more. Ludwig hands reflexively shifted as if they were holding a rifle. Though it was back in the trench.

A man stopped a few feet away. A satchel hung at his side, and he wore a medic's red-cross armband around the sleeve of his khaki uniform.

British.

There was a tired but kind expression beneath a head of messy blond, almost golden hair. He had the sort of face that belonged to someone who helped steady frightened men rather than shout at them.

"Good morning," the man greeted in English. "Or rather, Froh-uh Vy-nock-ten, I should say." He grinned as if he hadn't murdered the pronunciation. "Do you mind some company? The lot over there has gotten a bit too lively for my liking."

The German boy didn't answer. His expression hardened, eye flicking over the man, measuring him.

"Ah...kann ich... sit... sitzen?" The medic had a very clear limited use of the German language. "Ich sitzen... with you? Sit with you?" He finished in English. "I—I don't suppose you speak French?" He smiled sheepishly. "Francine has taught me enough to hold a conversation. Parles-tu français?"

Ludwig's mind moved through the situation. Every instinct drilled into him told him this was wrong. Their uniforms alone told him this was wrong. If he allowed this, if he entertained this for even a second—

Go on, Gilbert's voice pressed in his mind, softer this time but no less persistent.

Ludwig exhaled slowly through his nose and his gaze shifted back to the fire.

"Your German is terrible."

The man blinked before his brows shot up in surprise.

"Well I'll be damned," he chuckled. "You do speak English. Haha. That's jolly good! Because I can't speak a lick of proper German." He needlessly admitted.

Ludwig said nothing.

"Then I reiterate. May I?" He gestured to the empty crate next to Ludwig. It was meant to be burning material when the current wood ran out.

"It makes no difference to me." Ludwig muttered.

The man nodded once in appreciation and lowered himself onto the overturned crate with a quiet grunt. He stretched his hands toward the flames, palms open to the warmth, and exhaled softly, the fog of his breath drifting through the cold air.

Up close, Ludwig could see the exhaustion in the man's face. The skin beneath his sunken eyes was dark with fatigue. Ludwig shifted his gaze away, his jaw set.

He hadn't meant to let the man stay, and yet, he couldn't burn away the inconvenient truth that he hadn't wanted to send him away either. For a while, they merely sat there, sharing the warmth in the quiet while the distant voices of their comrades carried across the battlefield.

"Arthur," the medic said eventually, glancing over at Ludwig with an unassuming smile. "Arthur Kirkland." He introduced himself.

"Ludwig," Ludwig said quietly, offering his first name only. He didn't owe him anything more.

Arthur studied him. Ludwig looked young. That, unfortunately, wasn't uncommon. He had seen too many boys since the war began. Faces barely out of their teen years thrown into the trenches. They shipped them out, sold on the illusion of patriotism, but the uniforms didn't change what these soldiers really were.

Boys. They were just boys.

Arthur couldn't help but feel the same quiet instinct he often felt towards the younger soldiers in his own regiment—the same urge to look after them, even if the war had thrown him and Ludwig on opposite sides.

"Ludwig," Arthur repeated. "Pleasure to meet you. You look a lot younger than most of the men out here," he remarked. "If you don't mind my asking, how old are you, lad?"

Ludwig glanced over at him.

"Seventeen."

The answer settled heavily in Arthur's chest. Well, that would explain it. He looked like a kid because he was one.

"I see," said Arthur quietly. "You lied." He wasn't accusing the boy. He was merely stating a fact they both knew to be true. Many boys had lied to meet enlistment requirements.

Ludwig held Arthur's gaze, unflinching. If there was judgment to be had, he would meet it head-on.

"Well, there you have it," Arthur sighed tiredly, retreating his gaze back to the fire. "Seventeen."

That was the youngest he'd met out here.

Ludwig returned his gaze to the fire as well. "Germany needed soldiers," he stated flatly.

The medic let out a small, humorless breath.

"England too."

Arthur’s thoughts slipped back home, to a small kitchen warmed by a proper hearth. He thought of Francine standing at the table, sleeves rolled, flour dusting her hands as she laughed at something he'd said. He thought of the soft patter of feet that announced his little boy, Alfred. The image of his family lingered just enough to hurt.

"Didn't need to lie about it, though," Arthur's tone was light as he continued. "They came knocking anyway," he chuckled softly.

He'd been conscripted.

Ludwig's brows furrowed faintly. Most around him had chosen this. He'd never considered the idea of being forced into it, as Arthur had. If men were being conscripted now, then it must mean there was a lack of willing participation. He wondered if maybe the people back home were finally coming to their senses and realizing that war wasn't glorious.

"Do you regret it?" Arthur asked casually, pulling him from his thoughts. "Enlisting, that is."

The German boy stiffened beside him. "No. Of course not." The military had done a fine job conditioning him for him to say otherwise, even if his thoughts didn’t exactly align with the words that left his mouth.

"Yes, I see. Well, good on you then." The medic knew better, but he played along. He would not get into a conversation the defensive boy would likely not have with him. Instead, he shifted his gaze across the field where the football match had turned chaotic. Someone had slipped and taken another man down with him. It caused a roar of laughter from both sides.

Arthur quietly laughed along. "Not exactly Hyde Road standards, but it's somethin', eh?"

Ludwig looked up at the game and then back at Arthur. The boy didn't laugh. There was nothing humorous about this situation, nor did he know what a 'Hyde Road' was. He shifted his unamused gaze back to the foolish game and said nothing.

"Tell me something, Ludwig," Arthur continued anyway. "Why aren't you out there humiliating my countrymen in football?"

"Why should I?" the boy spoke, his voice quiet. "Why should I act like this means something."

Arthur tilted his head. "Doesn't it?"

Ludwig's eye flicked up, enough to meet Arthur's, but his gaze did not linger.

"Nien."

"And why is that, lad?"

"Because we will return to the trenches," he said with all the confidence of someone who knew this wouldn’t end well. "Then we will try to kill each other again." His voice was perfectly desensitized to death. "Playing football does not change that. It's pointless." He watched the laughing men. "This doesn't change anything."

Arthur once more looked out at the same scene, and he drew a different conclusion. It was life, in the middle of No Man's Land of all places. A place with a reputation built entirely on death. Yet, among the barbed wire, shell craters, and the remnants of destruction, there was a fragile moment of peace—a rebellion against the despair and death that surrounded them.

Arthur gave a quiet hum, somewhere between agreement and thought. Ludwig anticipated a counterargument perhaps, however Arthur said nothing further on the matter.

"What's happened to your eye?" The English man asked instead, gesturing to his own face.

"Shrapnel," Ludwig replied while reaching for a long stick and using it to adjust the burning firewood.

"That dressing's old," the medic pointed out. "How long ago did this happen?" The boy's gauze was faded with stains of old blood. It couldn't have been recent.

Ludwig thought about it briefly. "Last week."

"You mean to tell me you've had that dressing on for seven days?" Arthur repeated back to him, slightly mortified. That gauze should have been changed days ago. He'd seen it time and time again in the medical tents: if the injury didn't kill a man, infection could certainly finish the job. "Need I warn you about the dangers of sepsis?"

"There haven't been resources," explained Ludwig, slightly annoyed. "The last medic who checked it said it was fine."

"The medic from one week ago, I presume."

The boy remained silent.

Ludwig watched as the medic didn't hesitate to reach for his satchel.

Arthur rummaged through it briefly before deciding he could work with what he had. He very well doubted the boy would follow him into a medic's tent anyway.

"I've got clean gauze," he announced, "and some antiseptic," he added. "I can certainly do something about that, if you'll let me take a look."

Ludwig stared back at him blankly. The idea of letting the enemy treat him wasn't normal, even under today's circumstances.

"That will not be necessary." Ludwig declared. "I am not one of your soldiers." This strange display of amity was already difficult to accept, but this? This wasn't safe. "I am German," he finished, as if it that alone would settle the matter.

"Hadn't noticed," Arthur replied, though his sarcastic rebuttal had no real bite. "That doesn't change the fact that you require a medic, and seeing as I am one, well— I'd say we're exactly where we're meant to be, wouldn’t you?"

Ludwig's expression hardened. "No. That is a reckless mindset," the boy scorned. "You could be treating the same man who's going to put a bullet between your eyes tomorrow."

"I could hardly blame you for that, now could I?" Arthur countered. "You'd simply be doing as you're told, the same as I would. Lucky for us, those rules don't apply today." The British medic winked.

"I'm German," Ludwig firmly restated.

Arthur quirked a brow. "Yes, we've established that bit already. It doesn't matter your nationality. I'm above wasting this opportunity because our countries decided we're meant to shoot each other."

Ludwig stared back at the medic. This—this was exactly what he warned himself about. Harmless gestures that weren't really harmless at all. The roles dissolving into something dangerous. Accepting it would be to cross the line. He couldn't. He had to remember the line. This man had no reason to offer him anything. They weren't friends. They weren't even allies.

"...Why do you speak to me as if we are not enemies?" Ludwig demanded.

"Well I don't see one in front of me." Arthur said without an ounce of doubt.

"Tch," Ludwig's scoffed. Yes, of course that was his answer. Arthur was just as foolish as the men playing football.

Arthur's eyes softened with thought. "They can make me pull the trigger, Ludwig," he said, "but they can't make me hate the man I shoot."

"I'm not asking you to be my comrade," Arthur added, sensing the boy was refraining because of the implication that this would require them to be more. "I'm merely asking you to let me do this. I was a doctor before the war, this is sort of an itch I have to scratch. So indulge me, won't you?"

Ludwig hesitated. Naturally he did. Everything in him had been hardwired to resist.

"Fine," Ludwig finally muttered. "Do what you must." He complied, still reluctant that this made any sense at all.

Arthur began immediately. He kindly asked Ludwig to shift his crate to face him, and pulled a third crate closer, where he began laying things out.

Ludwig watched quietly, assessing Arthur's hands as they sorted through his things. His gaze studied the medical supplies before flicking back up to Arthur's face. The medic's quiet focus only backed his intent to treat him.

Ludwig didn't know how to feel about that. On one hand, he would appreciate not having to constantly distract himself from the pain. On the other, this was against the rules.

And he had yet to figure out who he was without them.

"Alright," Arthur said. "Let's have a look at that eye of yours then." Using a pair of scissors, he carefully snipped away at the old dressing.

Ludwig's hands rested on his knees, fingers curled around the fabric of his trousers. He sat still while Arthur peeled the gauze away. The blood-soaked material had long dried and stuck against the wound. Arthur was being as gentle as possible, but there was no way of making this completely pain-free.

Ludwig sucked in a quiet breath.

When the gauze finally came off, Arthur stilled.

The skin around Ludwig's left eye was bruised and inflamed. Pus secreted where the metal fragment had cut him in the inner corner of his eye. The eye itself had crusted badly.

And the smell...

It was faint, but unmistakable. The boy was showing signs of infection.

Arthur didn’t recoil or gasp at the sickly wound. That would be uncouth for a doctor. Besides, he'd seen worse. So much worse.

"Have you had any fevers in the recent week?"

"No."

"Any vertigo or disequilibrium, anything like that?"

"No."

Arthur gently tilted Ludwig's chin so he could observe at another angle. He used a finger to gently feel around the swollen and bruised skin.

Ludwig winced. It hurt. He couldn't help the grunt that escaped his lips.

"Hm. Can you open it at all?" Arthur asked him. Blood and mucusy pus had dried on his lashes and appeared to be sealing the eye shut.

Ludwig was certain he couldn't, but he tried regardless. The muscles around his eye twitched, and Ludwig winced when he strained too hard.

Arthur gave a small nod and had him stop trying. He'd seen enough.

"It's infected," he told Ludwig, voice steady.

Ludwig figured as much. They really were short on supplies. He'd had no choice but to endure it, much like everything else in this godforsaken war.

"But," Arthur added, making sure the word landed. "It's treatable," he assured. "Another week and perhaps you'd be having a very different conversation." He added lightly as an afterthought.

"...Then," Ludwig said quietly, "It is good that you are here." He was unable to meet Arthur's gaze, but his sincerity was there all the same.

Arthur smiled softly. "Let's get you to open that eye, eh?"

Arthur reached for a piece of cloth and a brown glass bottle. He tipped a generous amount of its contents onto the cloth.

Ludwig braced himself as Arthur brought the wet cloth closer to his face.

Arthur’s steady hands worked deftly to wipe away the build-up on his eye. Dried blood and crusted pus loosened under the cloth, and the medic cleaned it away. Once satisfied, he set the cloth aside and reached for a small glass bottle.

Ludwig's gaze followed it. "What is that?"

"This," Arthur said as he unscrewed the container. "This will help flush the eye."

Ludwig met the medic’s awaiting gaze and nodded, letting him know it was okay to continue.

Arthur proceeded and tilted Ludwig's chin slightly upward. He gently pulled the boy's lower eyelid down, as much as the sealed eye allowed without hurting the boy, to create a small opening.

"Try to relax," he instructed. "Look towards the fire."

Arthur poured a steady pour of the solution over his eye. It ran down his cheek, carrying away gunk and discharge that’d been trapped under his eye.

Ludwig remained perfectly compliant the entire time.

In fact, Arthur wasn't sure whether the kid was remembering to breathe.

He'd come to learn that if his patients focused too much on the pain, they would fight treatment. The best thing to keep their mind off it was to engage them in conversation, and while the boy wasn't putting up a struggle, he could use a good distraction. So, Arthur did what he always did. He talked with his patient.

"Ludwig," he asked casually, "Where's home for you?"

"..."

"Germany."

Arthur chuckled faintly. There was a sense of humor somewhere in the boy. Either that or he was a very literal fellow.

"Well, yes, naturally." Arthur used his pointer finger and his thumb and attempted to pry the eye fully open. He reached for the cloth again and used it to wipe the fresh blood ran down his face instead.

"What I meant is, do you live in a city?" Arthur rephrased, shifting his efforts on gently massaging the stubborn eye. "Or do you perhaps live in the capital?"

"I live in the countryside," Ludwig answered curtly.

Arthur brightened in response. "Well how about that! I'm country-born and raised myself," he shared enthusiastically. "I moved to London when I was about your age. I studied medicine and history there, I've been in London since. I met my Francine there, you know. Anyone waiting for you?"

Ludwig sighed. This Brit sure liked to talk.

"Just my brother." He responded.

Arthur didn't ask about parents, which the boy was young enough to have. Should they still be alive.

"A brother! Jolly good. What's his name?"

"Gilbert."

Arthur chuckled. "A lovely name. Is he older or younger?"

Ludwig didn't say anything and Arthur noticed the thoughtful expression on the boy's face. He decided not to press the conversation. Making him remember home might not have been the best the idea.

"Older." Ludwig answered after enough time had passed for Arthur to assume he wouldn't. "He…did not want me to enlist," Ludwig continued, furrowing his brows, remembering the arguments leading up to his enlistment and then the silence that led up to his departure.

Arthur listened silently.

"I told him it was my duty to our nation." There was no pride in the boy’s words now. "But I... I shouldn't have signed my name."

It was the first time Ludwig admitted that he regretted his decision. To anyone, to himself. He was adamant about keeping up with the illusion that he wanted this, that he wanted to be here. It gave him some semblance of control over a situation that was far from tamable.

But he didn’t want to be here, only, it was too late to take it back.

He shouldn’t have gotten on that train. Damn his officers. Damn his nation. Damn this pointless war. Damn it all.

It was too late to take it any of it back.

Arthur's expression dimmed. He could imagine it, a frightened older brother trying desperately to stop someone he loved from walking toward the war, and a younger brother too determined to listen.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, lad." He sympathized. "You wouldn't be the first bloke who got swept up in the patriotism. Your heart was in the right place, I'm sure."

Arthur recalled the earlier days of the war. Everyone he knew was going. His friends. His neighbors. His bloody pastor. Everyone.

"I just want to go back home." Ludwig’s voice shattered the medic’s heart. He sounded so defeated. So lost. So innocent. A child, Arthur was reminded once more. He’s just a child. His front lobe wouldn’t even develop for another eight years.

Arthur stopped treating him to place his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He gently squeezed it. "I’m sure of that too, love. This war won’t last forever, we just have to keep on keeping on." Arhtur figured it would be good to remind him what he was fighting for now, and that was returning to his brother. "Your brother Gilbert," he started, "he's back home now, yes?"

"Ja— er yes," Ludwig replied. "He tried to enlist as well, after I told him what I had done, but he was not allowed."

"Oh?" Arthur wondered out loud. "Why's that?"

"He has a heart condition," Ludwig explained quietly. "The doctors said he could not serve."

"I imagine he didn't take it well?"

"Nien. Gilbert was very angry. He punched the examiner in the face and had to be physically escorted out of the establishment."

It was for the best, Ludwig thought to himself. Gilbert wouldn’t have made it as far as him out here.

Arthur chuckled softly. "It does sound like he cares a great deal about you."

"Ja... he does. My brother has a good heart."

"Write to him," Arthur said quietly.

"I do write."

"No," Arthur said gently, "no I don’t mean an update letter where I’m sure you minimize the realities that surround you. I mean, really write to him."

Ludwig frowned. He wasn't sure what the medic meant.

Arthur noticed his confusion. "The next time, you ought to tell him you love him."

The suggestion visibly threw the German boy completely off guard. "What? Nien, I..." Ludwig looked genuinely uncomfortable. "We do not usually say such things."

"Course you don't. Men are idiots who mistake pride as strength. Don’t be an idiot, Ludwig. Write him that letter." Arthur's encouraged. "Older brothers need to hear it more than they let on."

Ludwig frowned, unconvinced. "He would think something terrible has happened to me."

Arthur chuckled. "Something terrible has happened to you. You joined the army."

That earned him an unamused glare from his patient.

"You don't have to write poetry, lad. Just," he paused. "remind him what he means to you."

"He… he already knows," the German boy murmured with a lack of confidence in his own answer.

"Does he? becuase given what you told me, it seems to me that he might assume you chose the war over him."

Ludwig bristled at once, betrayed by the medic’s conclusion. "That's asinine. I didn't, I thought—

"I know, love," Arthur interrupted softly. "You need to tell him that."

Ludwig rewound the last memory he had with his brother. Despite his opposition on his decision, Gilbert had still seen him off. He'd still hugged him goodbye. He’d forced a smile to overshadow his teary eyes as he waved Ludwig off. Gilbert tried his damn best not to let their last memory be tainted

And last thing he'd done was pull away from his embrace, with too much left unsaid, and now there was a war between them.

Arthur pretended not to notice the shift in Ludwig's expression. He gave the boy the dignity of turning away to "rearrange" his supplies.

When he returned his attention to his patient after a considerate moment, Ludwig's gaze was downcast in defeat, showcasing his surrender to the illusion he'd maintained all these months.

Arthur smiled sadly. "Chin up, love. How about you try opening that eye now?"

Ludwig nodded.

"Easy," Arthur coaxed, guiding the boy through it. "Don't strain yourself."

After one week, in a matter of seconds, his eye opened.

"There we are!" Arthur cheered. The medic used the cloth to wipe away the excess fluid that spilled out. The eye was bloodshot, looking a lot like a took fist to the face, but it was finally open.

"Can you see out of it? You probably won't see clearly right away, and don't worry, the blurred vision is normal." Arthur assured. "However, if all is well, you should be able to see me."

Ludwig blinked slowly, gradually adjusting to getting his sight back.

"Yes, I can see you."

Arthur sighed in relief. "Oh, wonderful. There's a bit of good news."

The medic reached for a tin can. He swabbed a scoop of cream with two fingers before applying it to the wound.

"This will help bring down the swelling and help it heal properly." He explained.

Once Arthur finished with that he prepared a fresh bandage. However, rather than applying it, he decided he would give the injury a moment to breathe. In the meantime he packed away his supplies and tossed the old dressing into the fire.

The pair watched as the flames devoured the material.

"You have a family also?" Ludwig asked as the old gauze became ash.

Arthur walked back to his crate and took his seat. "Yes," he said quietly. "I do. My wife Francine is expecting me back." Arthur's emerald eyes brightened at the memory of her. "She's an angel that one, oh I'm sure of it. We've got a little boy. Alfred." Arthur's gaze softened at the mention of his boy. "He's four and he likes toy soldiers," Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "Bit ironic, that."

Ludwig would ask about regrets of joining the war, but Arthur had already stated he wasn't here by choice.

"Do you worry about them?" He asked instead.

Arthur sighed deeply. For a moment, the medic looked less like a soldier and more like a homesick husband and father stranded far from where he belonged.

"Oh, every day, Ludwig. Every day."

"But never mind that," he quickly said. "’My Francine says that if the horrors persist, then so must I. So," Arthur said, getting up with a grunt. "I shall. A good husband doesn't just let his wife talk. He listens to her."

Arthur took the new dressing he’d set aside and secured it around the boy's head.

"There we go," he smiled tiredly. "Much better."

Ludwig lifted a hand to touch the clean bandage.

"You'll want to change that every three days if you can manage," Arthur instructed, before realizing the likelihood of that wasn't high, considering what Ludwig told him about limited resources. He reached back into his satchel and retrieved more gauze, along with the metal tin containing the antibacterial cream.

It was his last one.

"Here," he said, easily handing the extra supplies to Ludwig. "I won't be able to clean it for you next time, so just try not to leave it on as long as the last one. Apply the cream every other day until it gets better, or until you run out."

Ludwig looked at him, and Arthur nodded, offering a reassuring smile and encouraging him to take it.

Ludwig slowly reached out and took the supplies, accepting something he wasn't sure he deserved.

"...Thank you."

Arthur stared back at the young soldier. "It's my pleasure, Ludwig," a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If Gilbert isn't here to keep an eye on you tonight, I’ll gladly do it for him."

Arthur dug through his coat and produced a pack of fags. He placed one between his lips and almost offered one to the boy before stopping himself short.

Probably not a good habit to get him started on.

Arthur put the pack away and reached into the pocket of his coat once more. This time he pulled a bar wrapped in foil paper.

"Fancy some chocolate?" He asked, holding the sweet toward the boy.

Ludwig wasn't surprised to see chocolate. The British soldiers had been sharing chocolate and tobacco with the Germans all morning. He stared at the candy, then back up at Arthur.

"I don't need it. It is yours."

"I've got more than one bar," Arthur swiftly assured. "I have a small kit filled with them."

Ludwig still didn't take it.

"My, you are one stubborn boy," Arthur muttered.

See, even he agrees. Gilbert’s voice in his head teased.

"Very well then." Arthur pressed the chocolate into Ludwig's hand.

The German boy looked down at the chocolate resting in his palm, before setting his stern and expression on the British soldier.

"Oh, don't give me that look. Consider it a Christmas present."

Ludwig sighed. Sure, why not.

"...Danke."

Arthur watched as he's slowly unwrapped the bar and broke off a piece before putting in his mouth.

"Good, isn't it? I've eaten two bars myself already. Mother never let me have sweets as a child. She said they'd rot my teeth. So as you can imagine, I've compensated greatly for sweets as an adult."

"I did not know English rations contained chocolate," Ludwig said thoughtfully.

Arthur chuckled softly. "They don't," he said. "Not that size at least. That's not from our typical rations. It's a gift," he explained, "From Princess Mary. Her Majesty decided it might boost morale. She sent out tins with chocolate and tobacco to the troops, though I doubt she imagined we'd be sharing it with the Germans."

Ludwig studied the chocolate and considered the strange path it had taken to reach him.

"Maybe if the Kaiser promised chocolate, more Germans would join the front lines."

It took a second for Arthur to process the tone and the fact that it was unmistakably a joke. Laughter suddenly broke out of him, surfacing with gusto.

Arthur, still laughing, shook his head. "Oh, now there’s some propaganda."

Ludwig stared at him. Today, kindness seemed to sprout like small, stubborn flowers across No Man's Land, but there was something different about this medic. He felt the strange, unfamiliar warmth of trust and curiosity settle in his chest.

Ludwig's lips twitched, and he almost smiled.

"You are strange."

Arthur quipped his laugh, but his grin remained.

"Strange, am I?"

"Yes. You're... a very kind man, Arthur," Ludwig said thoughtfully.

Arthur smiled at that. "Heh. Well, I'm glad you think so, Ludwig. Kindness is the best weapon I've got out here." He paused thoughtfully before continuing. "You said this is pointless," he said, touching up on their earlier conversation. "And perhaps you're right, but this little ceasefire of ours wasn't planned and officiated with a seal approval. This is just a handful of tired men deciding they'd rather share a fire than shoot each other." Arthur gave a small shrug. "That says something, I think."

"It will not stop the war," Ludwig argued quietly.

"No," Arthur agreed. He looked toward the sky. "But it might stop us from forgetting who we are while we're in it."

The German boy and the British medic spent the entire morning talking as the strange peace of today carried on around them. The fire burned low by the time a man with a beautiful mane of blond hair emerged, his cheeks flushed red from drink and cold alike.

"Arthur!" he called triumphantly in a French accent, arms spread wide as he carried himself with unsteady feet. "There you are!"

"Oh heavens. There's my idiot brother-in-law," Arthur muttered.

The newcomer's eyes landed on Ludwig, they widened with delight.

"My dearest Arthur, you made a friend!" he announced with glee, as if discovering some marvelous rarity. "Très bien! You're both coming with me!"

"You!" the Frenchman pointed at Ludwig. "German! Come, come— we're making smoked duck!" The man held up a poor dead bird by its neck as proof.

Ludwig stared at the thing, faintly startled.

Arthur rubbed a hand down his face. "Francis, where did you even get that?"

The drunk man placed a dramatic hand over his chest.

"I helped myself to a Christmas present from the farmhouse five miles from here."

"You stole it?"

"Ou— *hic* Oui."

Arthur groaned quietly. "Unbelievable." Exhaustion clung to his voice, the kind reserved for family.

Despite it, Arthur pushed himself to his feet. Francis had already wandered a few paces away, calling for them to hurry up. Arthur rolled his eyes, then glanced down at Ludwig, who sat rigidly on the crate.

"You coming?" The question landed softly. He’d be thrilled to have the boy join them, but he wouldn’t force him.

Ludwig looked past him toward the gathering Francis stumbled back to. From here, he could hear some of them had broken out into a multilingual rendition of 'Silent Night.'

Yesterday, Ludwig would not have imagined sitting beside an enemy. Much less being invited to eat with them. Orders, discipline, caution—they sat firmly inside him. The war had not disappeared. By morning, they would be enemies again. He knew that.

And yet, Ludwig thought of the terrible German Arthur was determined to butcher just to speak to him.

"They can make me pull the trigger, but they can't make me hate the man I shoot." Arthur's words echoed in his thoughts.

The German boy stood.

"Ja, I'm coming."

Atta boy, Ludwig! He felt the ghost of a hand on his back, gently shoving him forward.

Gilbert.

Arthur's mouth twitched into a smile around his burning fag.

"Jolly good! Let's go dine on the meal that drunken idiot stole for us."

Ludwig felt amusement tug at him, and a small smile spread across his face.

He followed Arthur across the frozen ground, boots crunching softly over frost and ruined earth as they headed toward the bigger cluster of soldiers and firelight together.