Germany had more than once asked himself what heaven was like.
„Nations don't go to heaven, Lud", his brother had once said, while shoving a ridiculous amount of pancakes in his mouth, „That would make the most sense, at least. We shoulder the sins of our people just like the ones we have commited ourselves. Even if there was a heaven, we'd never reach it."
That was, admittedly, a very dark prediction.
Germany, however, had decided it would be the best to just forget the subject back then. Brooding over these things would get him nowhere – and only cost him precious time he'd need to invest in more important things. Whatever would await him, it had to wait a little longer, anyway.
But lying here in the slighty wet grass, with Italy only inches next to him, the sun shining down warmly on them, heaven had sneaked up on him again.
This was nothing. Lying here on the field was, literally, nothing, but for Germany, it was everything. It was soft skin, sunny smiles, feather light touches. Whispered promises, quiet giggles, shining eyes. Hands in his hair, on his neck, lips on his cheeks.
Feliciano shared these summer afternoons with him and filled them with everything Ludwig couldn't, and he felt light, stuffed with weightless affection and stress falling off of him wherever the other man touched him.
Leaning over to him, pressing a shy kiss in the others lips, Ludwig couldn't avoid the thoughts about heaven. Maybe, there was no heaven for nations. Maybe, there was no heaven at all.
But here, on this field, on this lazy summer afternoon, he decided they were the closest to heaven they would ever be.