The next morning, the conference resumed under the same heavy air. Papers shuffled, translators whispered into headsets, and the nations sat in their neat little rows pretending civility.

Germany, as always, came prepared with bullet points, graphs, and percentages. He spoke with precision, every sentence a sharp line meant to cut through uncertainty.

France interrupted halfway through.
"Ah, so efficient," he drawled, waving a hand lazily. "But tell me, Germany—where in your neat little chart is the human cost? Or do you prefer not to calculate that part?"
The room went still. Everyone knew what he was alluding to.

Germany's jaw tightened. "That is irrelevant to the discussion."

"Is it?" France's voice sharpened. "History has a way of repeating itself when one forgets what came before."

Russia smirked, clearly enjoying the rising tension. England muttered a curse under his breath, already reaching for his tea.

Germany's fists clenched on the table. "I have not forgotten. Do not assume otherwise."

"Then prove it," France shot back. "Show us that your vision of 'efficiency' isn't just another excuse to dominate the rest of us."

The words hit harder than France intended. For a brief second, his own mask slipped, and regret flickered across his face. But Germany had already risen to his feet, voice low and steady.

"You think I want power? I want stability. Order. A world where we do not keep tearing ourselves apart. If you cannot see that, then perhaps it is you who cannot move on from the past."

The silence that followed was suffocating. No one dared speak. Finally, the moderator called for a recess.

⸻

Germany stormed out into the side corridors, boots striking the marble floor. He needed air, space—anything to silence the pounding in his head.

He didn't expect France to follow.

"Wait."

Germany stopped but didn't turn around. "What do you want?"

France caught up, slightly out of breath but still carrying that infuriating smirk. "To talk. Properly. Without an audience this time."

Germany's shoulders tensed. "You humiliated me in front of everyone."

France's smile faltered. "That wasn't my intention."

"Then what was your intention?" Germany snapped, finally facing him. His eyes burned with something raw—anger, yes, but also hurt.

France hesitated. His usual easy wit failed him, leaving only honesty.
"My intention... was to remind you. Not of your mistakes, but of mine too. We both carry blood on our hands, mon cher. Pretending otherwise doesn't make it disappear."

Germany said nothing, chest rising and falling too quickly.

France stepped closer, his voice softer now. "You think I hate you. I don't. But every time I look at you, I see battlefields. I hear cannons. And sometimes... I don't know if what we're building now is strong enough to silence that."

Germany swallowed hard, words catching in his throat. Finally, he managed, "I don't want to fight you anymore."

For once, France didn't reply with sarcasm. He simply nodded, eyes unusually serious. "Neither do I."

The silence stretched between them, no longer sharp but fragile, like the first fragile thread of something that might hold if they both chose to protect it.

⸻

Meanwhile, in the lounge, England leaned toward Russia with narrowed eyes.
"They're getting close. Too close. This won't end well."

Russia chuckled, sipping tea that wasn't his. "Oh, I think it will be very entertaining."