Germany let himself slide down the wall of the shower until he sat completely; knees up to his chin and his arms wrapped just enough to keep him there. The water hit him and slid down painfully. The setting was far hotter than he would have normally chosen, but he had a reason at this point.

It had been quite a while since he'd had shame to wash away. It was disgusting; and his body reacted with clouded eyes and the want to vomit.

The whole thing must have been a failure on his part. After all, he'd followed everything the books had told him line for line… Or maybe he'd failed somewhere along the way. Perhaps he'd missed a step, somehow, in his numerous re-readings. If he had been more diligent, such a misunderstanding wouldn't have happened.

And he would be…

No, probably. Italy would have been right there, instead of probably being scared off to the very southern tip of his territory for who knew how long. The books more often said that the woman returned with…

Was that what the whole problem had been? Was it that he hadn't found the right book, or was it that his abilities to follow directions were slipping?

It couldn't have been the books; instruction books didn't lie. He must have misread the situation, and thus searched for the wrong source to ease his problem. He tried to think where he'd mis-stepped.

Italy gave him constant affection, broke into giggles every time Germany was near him, and then the gift… It was the act of lovers, or at least that's what everything told him.

Except for Austria, who'd become completely disinterested the second he heard that it was Italy's doing. That should have been a sign.

Germany let his head sink a bit lower as he realized he'd blinded himself out of loneliness and ignorance. How many times did Italy do that with other people, anyway? He'd even seen him do that with Prussia, and they saw each other maybe an hour over the course of an entire week, if that. He hadn't seen much of Italy interact with other casual acquaintances (there was nothing but war shared between them), but he figured it had to be more of the same.

How many times had Germany shown affection in the past, and it had only been greeted with fear and confusion? There wasn't love, it was just… an Italian thing.

Hungary, because she'd banished Austria from speaking to him, had basically said as much. She'd told him that he needed to be himself in these sorts of things, and this bizarre behavior was probably what had gotten Italy so confused. But Germany had been himself. When that didn't work, he'd tried being someone else, and when that didn't work he'd tried following instructions. There was no positive result except for himself becoming more enthralled and Italy remaining just as oblivious.

Maybe he just wasn't meant to have a relationship. Prussia certainly seemed adamant to stay away from others, perhaps he knew something Germany didn't about what it took a nation to survive. They were there for their populations, after all; their own satisfaction paled in comparison.

It wasn't at all a surprise when Germany heard the bathroom door open and a familiar voice call his name. Italy had an almost supernatural ability to enter the German household regardless of permission of barricade; essentially since they'd met. And he'd never cared much for privacy, especially that the sound of a shower running meant that knocking was appropriate.

Because he'd anticipated it, Germany didn't turn his head.

"Is Germany okay?" Italy asked. "You ran off very fast, and you didn't even get anything to eat…"

"I've been feeling sick," Germany told him, stared at the tile in front of him through the sheet of water. "I'm sorry I've been acting so strange lately; I didn't mean to worry you."

Before he was able to protest, Italy sat in the shower in front of Germany. While his back took nearly the full impact of the water, Italy slid a hand under the blond bangs to feel Germany's forehead.

"Germany is a little hot," he said with a frown. "I should make you some soup, it will make you feel much better." He smiled broadly. "Chicken and tortellini… Ricotta or pork, which one do you have more of? Oh, and I can put in onion and garlic and…. Do you have tomatoes? I don't know; what kind of herbs do you have?"

He went on and listed seemingly a million herbs named in Italian, his face only centimeters away from Germany's; which was more than close enough to taste what had probably been caprese salad on his breath. Italy was almost completely on top of the taller man. That, in addition to the heat from the shower, made Germany's face flush horribly.

If they had been in one of his books, he would have taken hold of Italy and kissed him deeply. Italy would have understood everything Germany had failed to communicate before, and returned the gesture. And then they would have…

Thankfully, Germany had enough military training to keep himself composed in such a position. He was sure that, if his will had been weaker, he would have scared Italy off for good –if his rush of emotion and/or lust wasn't taken as fever or just a German thing.

He wondered if Italy would ever understand. Smart as he could be, he was rather frivolous about issues Germany wished he would take seriously. Even if Italy did understand, and even if he reciprocated, would he be the loyal partner that Germany wanted him to be? He loved to flirt and be flirted with, and he was far too inconsistent in actually being around when he was needed (if his record for service was anything to go by).

He should have analyzed this better before he'd leapt into the situation; it wasn't like him. What the hell had gone wrong in this…?

"Why are Germany's eyes so red?" Italy asked. He'd come so close that Germany couldn't see him anymore. There were two huge, brown shapes before him; blurred by steam, far-sightedness, and… soldiers didn't cry, so it was only a combination of those two.

"West has a head-cold."

The two looked over to find Prussia in the doorway. The older man wore his annoyance very plainly, and Italy shrunk down in the wake of it. "Get away from him before you catch it."

"I was gonna…"

"The kitchen's downstairs, you know that." Prussia jerked his head in the direction of the stairwell. "Move."

Italy frowned, but got up and trudged out of the bathroom; each step left a large puddle on the tile, and probably gave the same treatment to the carpet.

Prussia gave his brother a look that was… was that Prussia's version of being apologetic? What had he done that had been so bad for him to actually concede to acknowledge he'd been wrong?

As the door closed, Germany heard his brother offer Italy dry clothes, and defenses of their full (but definitively German) pantry begin.

Germany was allowed to return his attention to the rapidly-cooling water that hit him.

This was ridiculous. He had a war to fight; an empire to protect and run. This idiocy with feelings was just that. He had far too much to do than to sit in now freezing water and mope about something which would probably never happen.

Germany stood and shut off the water; dried and dressed himself. He headed down stairs and across the house, listened to the crescendoing conversation about travel stories which were food-centric; something which had nothing at all to do with how he'd acted for the entire week.

It was fitting, and a wonderful feeling for everything to be forgotten (and, hence, forgiven). To Italy, at least, everything would seem to go right back to normal.

All for the best.

Germany adjusted his posture to be a professional level of relaxed and headed into the kitchen.

AN: I do love Gertalia, it's such a fun pairing; and they're so adorable together. But the more I watch Italy, and his reactions to Germany, the more I question whether his feelings are anything more than platonic. Sad as I am to say it about the OTP I had before the end of the first episode, I don't think so. At least, not at the point the series is now.