AN: I don't really know what this is. I just felt like writing something that reflected the invasion of Italy after they switched sides and the estrangement between them afterwards.

So this popped out. Hope you enjoy it anyway! :)

The slap echoed off the walls mockingly as the nations stood in a shocked silence.

"You bastard."

They were riveted to the scene in front of them. Never, never had they seen Italy as angry as he was now. Cheeks flushing an angry red, hands clenched at his sides, eyes fully open and glaring poisoned daggers at the blond holding a hand to his red cheek.

"You bastard. How could you?"

Germany backed up a step, hand still pressed to the darkening mark on his cheek. Italy compensated, getting right back in his face.

"How could you march on my land, burn my cities, kill my people? They knew who was coming for them. They saw the uniforms and tried to run, tried to surrender, but you shot them like they were pigs for slaughter. I thought you were my friend, Ludwig. But this – this is something you can't say you thought about me while doing it."

"I-Italy, I –"

"You what? Tell me. Tell me that you're sorry. Tell me that you had nothing to do with it. You and I both know better."

"I couldn't do anything about it! The most I could do was warn you, and I did!"

"THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!"

The shout echoed in the silent conference room. Italy whined and clutched his side, one of the wounds having opened up in his agitation. Germany's hand twitched, wishing he could just reach out and comfort the man, stop the pain and the blood, but he obviously thought better of it and dropped his hand back to his side.

Italy straightened back up, looking Germany dead in the eye. "You were my friend. Despite my brother trying to keep my away from you, despite the attacks, the kidnappings, and harsh training I faced – you were my friend. Why? Why did you do it?"

"I-I..." he took a deep breath. "I didn't want that to happen. But I couldn't stop them. I couldn't go against Hitler! No matter how much I didn't want to, no matter how much my men didn't want to, I had to. And it fucking hurt."

He turned fiery blue eyes on the Italian. "You think I didn't know that it was wrong, that it would hurt us so much more than anything else? But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't go against the man who could destroy my people with a simple order. I've seen what he's capable of, Italy."

Italy's hands clenched tightly. "You are a nation! You are the people! You're their joys, hopes, and failures. The land beneath their feet, the goods that they make and the music that flows from their hearts. If you can't even go against the man that's killing them, then what right do you have to hold that place?"

There was a sharp intake of breath from everyone present. To question the very right of a nation to represent their people, to exist... that was crossing a line.

"Italy, stop."

He took a breath and turned toward the voice, coming face-to-face with France. The Frenchman silently shook his head. Italy closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, slowly feeling some of the tension flowing out of him. His hands unclenched, and he felt blood drip down his fingers from the crescent-shaped marks in his palm. He blinked, and a few tears escaped from the corner of his eyes.

"I hate you. Leave. Just – just leave."

Germany turned and almost ran from the room. None of the nations would forget the look on his face for a very long time.

He's not asking for forgiveness. He's not trying to make it all go away with what he's chosen to do. He's not trying to say the pain, and suffering, and war was an unnecessary sacrifice. No sacrifice is truly unnecessary, even if it serves a cause you weren't aiming for.

But this has gone on long enough.

He just wants all of it to stop.

The acrid smell of powder wafted into his nose as the gunshot rang in his ears. The gun was small, seeming almost like a toy in the palm of his hand. The beautifully crafted grip seemed so out of place, but the initials carved into it marked it for what it was.

A.H.

Who would've thought a monster could appreciate such beauty? Who would've thought the Devil's handgun would look so innocently beautiful?

But he saw it for what it was. He'd seen it lodge a bullet in a man's head more than enough times for the pristine pearl to forever be stained red.

He looked at the man he had fought for, that had seemed like the answer to all their problems when the country was falling apart. The man that had caused the deaths of millions, and for what?

More pain and heartache than a country should ever have to see.

He leaned over the corpse and rearranged the limbs, placing the gun in the limp hand. If it wasn't for the hole in his head, you could almost say he was sleeping.

Almost.

He took one last glance around the room, making sure nothing was out of order, and that no signs of a struggle remained. Assured that there was no reason for suspicion, and that he would not be linked to the death, he turned toward the door.

He took one last look at the room, and spotted the blood red flag on the wall. He sneered at it, and noticed the splash of red on his own arm. Looking down he spotted the hated Swastika pinned to his sleeve. He ripped it off, crumpling it in his hand as he stepped into the well-lit hallway. He closed the door behind him and walked down the hall.

He didn't once look back.

It was over.

The war was over.

No matter how many times he repeated it to himself, he just couldn't believe it. All that suffering, all those deaths... finally over.

He looked out over the burnt skyline of Berlin. Just a few short years ago it had been a bustling city. Funny, how things changed so quickly.

He plucked a grass stalk and rolled it between his fingers before breaking it into even pieces. When he couldn't get them any smaller he opened his palm, letting them fly away on the breeze.

He laid back on the grass, and watched the clouds fly by in their airborne dance, feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time. He had dozed off when he heard the crunch of grass. He stiffened, but didn't open his eyes or get up. The person sat next to him, and he caught the smell of pasta.

Italy.

Germany tensed as Italy spoke. "My country hates you, you know. Hates you for what you did, what you put them through, what you cost them. I can't say I blame them."

Germany sighed. "I know. I can't say I blame them either. Too many bad things happened in the War. Too many things that we did."

He didn't know why Italy was here, but he wasn't about to complain about it. He'd missed his friend and his clingy ways, good pasta, and constant smile.

"I lied."

Germany screwed his eyes shut tightly. "About what?"

"When I said I hated you. I lied."

He gasped and shot up, hope blooming in his chest. He looked at Italy, and felt his heart refill at the sight of his friend's smile – his real smile, not the fake one that he showed to everyone. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he preferred this one so much more than the one he used to see on a daily basis.

Italy looked to the side, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "I didn't hate you. I was just really, really hurt about what happened."

He shouldn't have been so willing to put things behind him. He shouldn't have been so willing to forget, even for a moment, that he'd killed millions. But with the smell of pasta wafting on the breeze and a smile he hadn't seen in far too long, he was all too willing to forget anything existed beyond the grass and dirt they were lying on and the blue sky above them.

Germany pulled on Italy's sleeve as he laid back on the grass, and he willingly followed Germany's pull, laying himself out half on top of Germany. He buried his face in Feliciano's hair as he let the afternoon sun warm him for the first time in years.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Ludwig."

AN: Hope you guys enjoyed... whatever this is. A vaguely historical fic, I guess. XD

Reviews make me very happy! 8D