Dead silence. That's all that ever passed between the two, anymore. Italy sat quietly in his chair, zoning out on the door, while Germany sat next to him, pretending to listen intently to the speaker. It was like a cruel joke how the two's seats were always assigned very near to, if not next to each other. It was , of course, up to the host country to figure out the seating arrangements, and since the meeting was being held in Berlin today this should not have happened. Germany had made absolutely sure that the seats were arranged so that Italy was placed as far from his as physically possible. He was nearly positive that Prussia had something to do with the change in arrangement, since his brother took so much pleasure in meddling. Usually just to piss of Germany.
The air was tense and uncomfortable, but not out of hate or spite. For Germany it was out of regret and guilt and every other feeling of the sort. He was positive that Italy had stopped speaking to him out of spite, though. After what the tall blond nation had done to that small Italian, he would be surprised if Italy so much as looked at him ever again with anything beside hate and fear. WWII had changed everyone, but it didn't seem to change anyone as much as it had changed those two.
After Italy had surrendered Germany had beaten him to a pulp, right there on his front step. He had beaten the defenseless nation who had come back to beg for forgiveness. The worst part was he didn't even know that Italy had no other choice. He'd just assumed that he had done it to hurt Germany, to break his heart. He never stopped to think that Italy wasn't that kind of a person. He had never done anything purely to hurt someone, in fact it was the exact opposite. It seemed like everything the Italian did was for someone else. Sure he messed things up a lot, but he was still trying. That was why he had surrendered. He was trying to help his brother and himself. The Italian had mentioned on that day that he was trying to save Germany, as well, but the German still didn't know what he meant by that.
After Italy had left his home Germany had stayed in the same spot on the floor all night, having cried himself dry. At about one in the morning someone had broken down his door. He already knew who it would be, and he knew that whatever Romano was going to do to him he deserved. So he took the beating like Italy took his. He probably could have fought back and he probably could have won, but he just quietly allowed himself to get kicked around, as the older of the two Italys screamed at him, told him what he'd done to his little brother, told him how long it was going to take for him to get better, told him how much Italy had cared and how Germany was a monster for what he'd done. He told him how Italy had threatened to kill himself rather than surrender, he told him that Italy was still threatening to kill himself. All those words had hurt more than any of the punches, kicks, and cuts.
Just before leaving Romano knelt down and looked Germany straight in the eyes with a look so terrifying it could give Russia a run for his money. His face was drawn in a snarl as he spoke. He said that the only reason he was going to let Germany live at that moment was so that if his brother ever killed himself he'd be able to come back and shoot Germany right in the head.
For the first time that night, the blond spoke, "You'd be lucky if I didn't shoot myself first."
It was true, too. If Italy ever killed himself, especially because of what Germany had done to him, he would put a bullet in his head right then and there. He would rather be dead than live with what he'd done. Maybe Prussia would be left with the country, and in that event it would be safe to say that all of Germany would go straight to Hell, but he wouldn't care because he wouldn't have Italy. Without Italy the whole world would be Hell, anyway.
After that night he managed to pull himself together and fake his strength, once again. He pretended to be strong, unwavering. He pretended that it hadn't effected him. Time passed, sixty-nine years passed, and things had not changed much. He now had an irresponsible older brother living in his basement, and they'd been doing world conferences ever since the cold war ended so to prevent that sort of thing from happening again. Besides that though, everyone was outwardly the same, more or less. Maybe Russia had gotten slightly more insane, maybe China had started cracking a little too. Japan had gotten a lot jumpier, thanks to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but he was still him, and everyone else was still everyone else.
Except Italy.
He had become significantly less cheerful. When he smiled it was obviously faked, when he spoke it was with significantly less enthusiasm. He seemed to have become shyer, and quieter. He bit his lower lip a lot and started biting his nails, too.
The German had overheard Hungary speak one day of how she hadn't seen Italy like this since 1806. Germany had no idea the significance of that date and told himself he'd find out later, but never remembered to. Not like it mattered anyway. He couldn't even seem to remember anything before 1815.
So he sat and pretended to listen to whoever was talking. He couldn't find it in him to focus with Italy this close. He didn't like being this close to someone he loved so much. He felt like he was posing a threat to the Italian, like he was going to break him by being to close. Every time he chanced a glance over he seemed somewhere else, his mind wandering far off to a place that Germany could only hope was happy. No one could really tell though, since the look on his face was simply blank.
xxxxx
Italy wiggled his toes in his shoes and looked straight ahead at the door, daring himself not to look at Germany, who always seemed to be too close. Italy was always afraid of being too close now, always afraid that if he got near Germany he'd get upset. He was still convinced that Germany hated him, and still convinced that he had every right to.
He was a little confused today, though. The meeting was in Germany, so naturally where the event was held, catering, seating arrangements, ect. was all arranged by the German. So why did he put their seat next to each other? Italy hoped it was because he had forgiven him, prayed it was because of that. He sat there at the table, anxiously drumming his fingers and wiggling his toes hoping, praying that maybe Germany had forgiven him.
God knows Italy had forgiven Germany, long before he'd even lain a finger on the auburn haired man.
Italy remember that day long ago when he had gone to try and ask Germany to forgive him, how he'd been beaten, stripped him of the iron cross pendant, and then discarded him on the German's walkway like a piece of trash. He definitely felt like a piece of trash.
After he'd driven home very slowly with a concussion, broken nose, broken ribs, and a broken heart he had toppled over his fence in an attempt to jump over it and passed out in the meadow just beyond. His brother found him shortly after and Italy swore he never seen Romano cry that much and look so angry at the same time. He listened to every word Italy spoke about how he would rather be dead than live like this, and after dragging Italy inside and calling up Spain to keep and eye on the younger Italian, he grabbed a gun and walked out the front door.
Italy screamed and screamed for him to stop, he threatened to kill himself if he shot Germany. He yelled that it was his fault it happened, and he tried chasing him out of the house. Italy was in no state to run, though, and was left watching his brother walk out the door angrily, gun in hand. Italy wondered if he'd ever see him or Germany again, since it was highly likely that one would kill the other.
That was one of the worst nights of his life. There were only four nights on that list. The night when Grandpa Rome died, the night after Holy Rome left, the night he found out about Holy Rome's death, and that night after telling Germany about his surrender.
Italy had come to hate night. He hated waiting through it for morning, he hated waking up alone in his room during it, he hated nights where the clouds blocked the sky because it made him feel like God had closed up heaven from everyone else.
He was thinking a lot about heaven, lately. Mainly because there weren't many other things left anymore that made him happy. There were still things he liked, and things that could make him fell better, but not much seemed to make him genuinely happy like they had when Germany was around.
That was what it was like after he found out that Holy Rome had died, way back in 1806. Things had slowly gotten better, but the day he met Germany was the day that things had really seemed happy again. He was terrified at first, but even though he was his prisoner for a while, being with Germany had improved things so much it was almost miraculous. There was something about him that Italy instantly liked. He reminded him a lot of Holy Rome, and at first that was the biggest reason he liked Germany, but after a while he started liking so much more. How strong he was, how nice he was, how brave he was, how he was always looking out for Italy.
I miss that. He thought sadly.
The two had both given up on fixing things with the other. Italy thought that Germany hated him, and vice versa, but really they were both heartbroken and still in love with the other. It had been that way for far too long.
Italy chanced a look at the German next to him his gaze lingering on the face he'd loved so much. He blinked his amber eyes sadly, examining the German, trying to get a good mental picture of him before the conference ended and it would be another whole year before seeing him again at the next conference.
Without warning, Germany shot a glance back, their eyes meeting just briefly enough for each to know the other had been thinking about him. Italy had quickly looked away, his gaze turning downward on the paper he had been doodling on before the meeting started. He fidgeted uncomfortably and looked back. Thankfully Germany had returned his eyes to who ever was talking.
He looked...maybe he doesn't hate me? Italy thought, a small glimmer of hope fluttering in his gut, Maybe...maybe I should say something? What do you say when you haven't spoken, let alone make eye contact in sixty-nine years?
Nothing. There's nothing I can say to take back what I did. Even though Italy hadn't really done anything wrong. It's not like he wanted to surrender. It's not like he wanted Germany and Japan to lose. He hated himself for those things. He hated that he couldn't have been stronger so that he could have maybe helped, or maybe not have gotten so bad off that surrendering became the only option outside of suicide.
People began standing, grabbing their jackets as they pushed in their chairs, and walked out.
Oh, the meeting must be over...
Italy stood and grabbed the light jacket from the back of his chair. His eyes darted directly to the side to see if Germany had left yet. He was still sitting there, though, his head hung low in what looked like deep thought.
Italy swallowed hard, If you're going to say something to him, do it now!
His mouth opened, but no words came out. Clenching his fists tightly, Italy turned and walked quickly, straight for the set of doors, leaving Germany sitting alone in the room.
Once outside the double doors Italy sprinted, running from all the pain and regret he'd left sitting at the table in the room. He sobbed into the sleeve of his shirt, only one thought crossing his mind. And after all these years, you're still weak! This is exactly why you don't deserve him!
Author's note: And here we have the sequel! It can be read separately from I Just Want to Help, but it's nice to read both since it gives major insight into why Germany and Italy are being so non-lovey. XD It gets fluffier, don't worry dearest readers. This story is going to be kind of a blend of angsty, funny, fluffy, dramatic, and maybe even a little informative when it comes to certain facts such as the history of Germany. (I consider myself to be an expert now, since I spent all day on the internet looking stuff up.)
The rating is subject to change. I'm starting it off as T because I already know that the second chapter on up is going to have some naughty words. It might get escalated to an M rating depending on the violence level and if I ever feel like throwing in a lemon.
Also, if you haven't inferred yet, there is going to be a few HRE=Germany references, and maybe even a full blown reveal in later chapters.
Anyway, that's the end of this horribly long author's note. If you'd like to read the prequel to this sequel I've provided a link below for you enjoyment. :D
P.S. Please review with what you think so far, I like knowing people's opinions on the stuff I write so that if I do something wrong I can not do that again, and if I do something right, you'll see it more often.
Prequel: I Just Want to Help: http:/www. (fanfiction) .net/s/7579550/1/I_Just_Want_to_Help