Title: Muse
Character(s): N. Italy + Germany
Summary: Italy is an artist. And Germany is a canvas that Italy can't quite perfect. GerIta.
When Italy's Grandpa Rome fell, all that he had left for the memory of him was a case of pencils and paints and all things associated with art. For so many years, Italy kept everything sorted, clear – away from clashing and botching up.
He needed those memories of Grandpa Rome. Each stroke of the paintbrush was like a memory of sea salt across the beach, or reminders of learning to swim that very first time...
Italy shakes his head – he wills away the bad memories. If anything, they only make him more persistent to never mess up his box of art – his box of memories – and to keep everything well-kept.
Germany often jokes that the only thing that Italy will ever organise is his paints, but lately Italy just doesn't know why he bothers. The colours on his canvas don't seem to complement each other anymore and he has no idea why.
(Germany's a sketch that Italy can't complete.)
Germany lives in a world of black and white. No grey, no silver outing. Just a black and white world where there is always a right and wrong and no in between. There are no colours in his world, and god, Italy just doesn't understand.
"Germany..." Italy whispers one day from across the room. He doesn't expect Germany to hear him, but he continues anyway. "Why are you so difficult?"
With a pencil, Italy tries to sketch Germany – anything to capture the blonde in a way that shows how beautiful he really is – and he continues for hours. The lead thins out, and Italy's just so frustrated because he's an artist and what's an artist if they can't capture beauty?
[He doesn't know.]
The pencil snaps in his hand.
[He doesn't understand.]
Germany looks up, and Italy has to fake a smile and give up on his colourless task for now. He has to lie and tell Germany that yes he's okay, and no he hadn't realised that he'd broken his pencil.
The truth is no, he's not okay, he's trying the impossible. And yes, he had noticed that he'd broken one of the pencils that he'd used years before with Grandpa Rome. He pushes it into the bin without a glance.
(Germany's a muse that Italy can't handle.)
"Any thoughts on how to..." Italy can't comprehend what's going on in the world meeting because he's trying to add colour to Germany, trying to bring in a new light. Though it's highly obvious that he's not even paying attention, none of the countries comment as Italy grazes his sketch pad with each stroke of his pastels.
He hopes that Germany doesn't notice that he keeps looking at him – Italy hopes nobody does. He keeps going, using each pastel, each colour, and blending the colours in a way he'd never thought he would before.
It's not right, Italy thinks angrily, a single pastel drawing shouldn't be this difficult.
"...alright Italy-san?"
The sudden sound causes Italy to jump, and he looks over at Japan. All of the countries seem to be looking at him with a mixture of emotions – reminding Italy so much of a mosaic – and he sighs on the inside when he realises Germany's not even a part of that art.
Italy smiles his signature smile, and tells Japan he's fine. Everyone continues with the meeting leaving Italy back to his broken masterpiece. No one notices the shine in his eyes, telling them that he's breaking from this one little imperfection. Italy grits his teeth angrily, after all, why have talent if you can't use it?
[He doesn't know anymore.]
Romano glances at Italy's pastels.
[He just wants to understand.]
He raises an eyebrow. It takes Italy a few minutes to realise that all he's got left of his pastels is the dust on his fingers and colours on a drawing that's the colour of terracotta and mahogany.
(Germany's a painting that just won't come to life.)
Italy traces the scars on Germany's arms. The blue-eyed German snores softly and at that moment Italy feels the bravest he's ever felt before. He traces each scar individually, taking a moment to remember where each one is, before grabbing his easel and bringing out his kaleidoscope of paints.
This time, Italy tells himself, this time I'll achieve it.
The brunette flicks his paintbrush against the canvas. His eyes squint in the darkness as he tries to capture Germany's elegant good looks. His wrist relaxes and he feels like he's back to the old days – when he used to be so carefree with his work. So laid back, and not so judgemental of himself.
Something doesn't quite feel right.
He blends the colours together, trying to capture the symmetry of his sleeping friend, and he keeps blending the colours, until they're unrecognisable and all his paints dried out. He balls his fists together. Why can't he create something beautiful instead of tarnishing the original?
[Why doesn't he know?]
Germany opens a sleepy eye.
[Why can't he understand?]
He looks at Italy with a frown. Italy tells him he couldn't sleep and wanted to paint the night sky. Germany smiles sheepishly, half asleep, and warns him that he needs to try to sleep. Italy promises that he will after he's put his possessions away.
Italy throws the dried paint in the bin – he sets the canvas alight and tells himself that talent is just as unpredictable as a fire.
He doesn't tell Germany the next morning why his hands bandage up.
(Germany's a moment, but Italy doesn't the right lens.)
"Smile Germany, we're on vacation."
There's no way that I can go wrong this time. Italy promises, this is going to be a breeze.
Italy holds the camera up to his face, keeping his hands steady and adjusting the shutter speed. He puts the ISO to 30 and waits for Germany to smile. He waits. He waits for that perfect opportunity, and as soon as he clicks the button, he knows he's got it.
He looks at the picture – he doesn't have it. He just can't capture it. His bottom lip trembles slightly, and he tries to stop it, because they're on holiday, and this shouldn't matter so much to him, but it does.
Italy's grip around the camera tightens until his fingers are as white as the white in Germany's world. He smiles at Germany and tells him that the pictures perfect.
It's not. Tears well up in his eyes, and before he knows it, he's crying. He feels so useless – after all, who's Italy without his art?
[He doesn't know.]
Germany pulls him close.
[He doesn't understand.]
He mutters comforts into Italy's ears.
(Italy is an artist. And Germany is a canvas that Italy can't quite perfect.)
Additional Notes:
Okay... so GerIta is my OTP. This is my first try writing these two, so if you'll tell me how good this was, then that will be appriciated a whole lot. Anyway, though it doesn't really show any romance in this, I think that there are subtle hints. Anyways, if you want to request a piece from me, then go ahead and I will write any pairing dedicated to you. (Add in a prompt if you'd like.)
Anyways... Hope you liked this. Until next time! Mint~