Author's notes: This was written for a table challenge over at Livejournal. It is almost nine o'clock in the morning and I have not slept yet. I feel like the marrow is flowing out of my bones to be made into extra essence because I failed to make some over the night and my body is starting to die. I'm not feeling particularly speechful right now and my English literacy is going down exponentially as I type. Perhaps I'll add in a more intelligent comment later when I've rested.

Anyway, I hope you like it! Careful with war themes.

DOWNFALL

Germany coughed smoke from his lungs and squinted through the flying dirt and the clouds of human panic. He examined soldier to soldier, looking for the colours of their uniforms rather than their faces for the sake of expediency and the longevity of his eyes. They were all combat green. Some were the colour of mud, an occasional few were the colour of piss, but all with an underlying shade of green.

There it was! The one blue uniform stood out even in the cloudy air and blurred vision. "Italy!" he called out.

"Germany," said Italy as he turned around, smiling in a strangely calm manner for someone so easily scared. He ran toward Germany, arms outstretched.

Germany shot him. Then he jolted in his bed, head slick with cold sweat, heart palpitating.

He slid sluggishly to the floor and spent the rest of the night there, unwilling to sleep near the naked man who had snuck in bed with him earlier.

.

That morning, Germany left for work without waking Italy. For the past few days he had been making rounds through his troops, upholding the proper discipline needed for the war effort, but today he shut himself in his office. He quickly ran out of paperwork, so he made calls; he called his bosses, he called subordinates. At some point, in a delirious whim, he called France. The call went surprisingly well for several minutes, France seeming to think he was a bad prank from England, until Germany became impatient and asked rather bluntly for military plans. The response he received was a full minute of silence and a shrill scream, and then the line went dead.

Italy finally caught up with him when he went out for lunch. The inside of his office had started looking smaller and smaller until he needed to be somewhere else, but seeing Italy's face directly underneath his made him reconsider his decision.

"Germany, you've been neglecting your duties," Italy said. He rocked on his heels playfully and tapped Germany's nose. Germany turned around to leave the restaurant and eat somewhere else, but Italy moved around to block the exit. "Did you know what I did today, Germany? I went to all of my troops and made sure they were all doing their soldiers' duties, and they all asked 'Where's Germany? Where is Germany slacking off to?' They said it about you this time, veh, not me!"

Every time Germany blinked, the inside of his eyelids were filled with smoke. His fingers tingled. He felt a jolt through his nerves, as though compensating for kickback. He tried to avoid blinking, focusing on Italy's face- no, not his face, couldn't look at Italy's face- focusing on Italy's hair curl. The little curl bobbed excitedly with each of Italy's syllables. His eyes were drying out and starting to sting-

- smoke and the smell of gunpowder, the jolt through his body -

"Germany, can't you tell me what's wrong? Germany! You don't seem very well." Italy reached up to Germany's face and massaged the corner of Germany's eyes. His fingers felt like magic on Germany's skin, and slowly he felt relaxed enough to focus his gaze between Italy's eyebrows. "Germany," Italy whispered, his voice reined in, his tone full of pleading concern.

Germany took in some deep breaths, going through strategies to efficiently calm a stressed mind. A few minutes later, after some false starts, he said to Italy, "Why are you friends with me, Italy?" Each word was placed carefully as though they might shake the world and chase Italy away forever.

Italy's smile shrank, his hands lowered. His eyes rolled up, then to the side, then self-consciously returned to Germany's face. "What a question to ask before lunch," he said with a quiet laugh.

A waiter was gesturing to them with menus in his hands. Germany could barely consider the escape potential of a table and a menu to bury his face into, which moments ago he desperately wished for. He spared a moment's thought to wave the waiter away before gently guiding Italy to a more secluded corner of the restaurant. He took both of Italy's hands in his own and stared hard between Italy's eyebrows. "Why are you friends with me?" he repeated earnestly.

Italy squirmed a little against Germany's unintentionally strong grip, then gave in and let out a ragged sigh. "Germany," he started, and paused for another minute. "You're what I would want in a friend. All that I would want."

Germany's thick fingers clamped harder with nervous energy, and Italy flinched. Seeing that reaction and realizing the strength of his grip, Germany released Italy's hands so quickly as to toss them away, his face flushing red. "I can't be that!" he exclaimed. "Look what I just- I could hurt you, Italy, and not even know-" A new horror dawned on him and he felt like he could faint. "I could be hurting you already, I could have hurt you in the past, and I wouldn't know-"

"Germany," Italy whispered damply. He drew his arms gingerly around Germany's large back and pulled him into a hug, just a little too weak and a small tremor in his hands when trying to rub soothing circles on Germany's back. "You're a good friend," was all he could say.

.

Germany dreaded receiving news from the Italian military, because it meant something Italy couldn't tell Germany himself, which meant Italy was in danger.

Italy, contrarily, seemed not to mind sending news from the Italian military, and even appeared to enjoy it a little. "Every time, Germany is more heroic than before," he tells Germany one day while tending to wounds Germany had received defending Italy from England. "The sun lighting your muscley figure when you advance over the horizon, veh, it is breathtaking."

Germany almost mentioned the load of intelligence he had lost to England because of Italy's loose lips, but the smell of smoke stopped his tongue. Instead he found himself looking all over Italy's body, checking for every scratch and bruise and scar. "Please stop these. . . 'taking the initiative' missions of yours," he settled for.

Italy ran his fingers along Germany's chin, slowly turning Germany's head to face him. "I just want to help you, veh," he said. "To have Germany running all over the world taking care of his and my needs, isn't fair."

Please stop running into danger. "You only give me more work to do if you get captured left and right," Germany said.

"Germany," Italy whined. His spine was arched toward the floor, and he uncrossed his legs with catlike grace to scoot himself closer to Germany. "I need to reciprocate somehow. I promised to be Germany's friend, veh, not his master." He slid his finger from Germany's chin, down Germany's neck and chest, then put both hands on the floor and drew himself closer.

Germany swallowed hard and thought of ice, of freezing rain on the English shore and long, starved wartime winters. "Wh-why did you make such a promise?" he managed, clinging solidly to that heavy guilt.

Italy's mind was elsewhere. "Oh, an Italian man promises many things when he sees a pretty girl. Shouldn't a handsome man be treated the same?" His voice was like silk, his lips curling around them like a caress. His fingers were back on Germany's body, dusting lightly over fresh bandages and freshly-cleaned skin.

Germany was lightheaded from trying to find an appropriate area of their medical tent to look. Their iprivate/i medical tent, that no one else would. . . "I-Italy, I was asking a serious question-"

With Italy's soft lips and practiced tongue filling his mouth, Germany was never able to finish that conversation.

.

"Germany sure likes his potatoes!" Italy was singing, hugging Germany's neck from behind. "Every meal, Germany's eating potatoes!"

"Potatoes are practical," Germany protested as Italy emptied his canteen into a pot he was holding carefully over the fire. "The high starch content and its lifespan in storage makes it a good meal for a soldier. We need a strong energy staple if we're to stay strong." Germany didn't even have to think about this short lecture anymore, he'd given it so many times to Italy.

Italy tutted as he emptied a bag of spaghetti into his pot and searched his bags for a tomato suitable for consumption. "That kind of energy isn't good for the body," he said. He untied a small, jealously-hoarded handkerchief of spices he'd manage to scrape together from their various environments and wafted the scent, taking in the aroma with critical expertise before sprinkling a sparse amount into the pot. "Tasty food is the road to a fulfilling life!"

The smell from the pot was wafting to Germany, and it was making his canned potatoes seem increasingly less ideal. Though he had just eaten, and had disciplined himself well for wartime, his stomach started to rumble and his mouth had reluctantly watered a little. "We can't spare the water in this heat," he insisted.

"Oh, why iam/i I friends with you, Germany?" Italy huffed. "Stubborn! At least try some. I made enough for us both."

Despite his better judgement, Germany accepted a small amount of the finished product, and it was so delicious he wanted to march around the world tomorrow and end the war, to return to a time when food like this could be eaten in good conscience. He rubbed his eyes and willed away the longing for home.

"See, Germany? A tasty meal once in a while won't kill you," Italy said, slapping Germany's back companionably. "You're welcome~"

Germany coughed, having choked on a noodle, and Italy quickly withdrew his arm with distressed apologies. Germany shook them off and swallowed the noodle, then put the plate down next to his tin of potato. He looked at them, comparing them, contemplative.

"You asked me this time," he said quietly. The realization had come quite suddenly to him, and he hadn't understood what it meant yet. Italy hummed in question, and Germany said, "Why you're friends with me."

Italy crossed his fingers, elbows rested against his knees, and rested his chin on his hands. He peered at Germany from this perch and smiled, slow and sweet. "Of course I'm friends with you," he said. "Germany's the best friend anyone could ask for."

"I'm not," Germany protested, but there was a weariness in his words; he'd used this argument with Italy so often that he wasn't sure what it meant anymore.

"You worry that you'd hurt me without knowing," Italy said. He reached out a hand and gathered up Germany's hand in an affectionate squeeze. "I don't worry, though. Germany is a protector. Germany is a hero. I know that Germany wouldn't hurt me."

Germany had no discipline to steady him in this. He had never trained to handle these kinds of emotions, soft and tender, so vulnerable in a way the context of battle would never eventuate. He pulled Italy's hand to his heart. The dam broke, and he buried his head into Italy's chest, sobbing.

Italy soothed him with words like velvet, sweet like honey, and rubbed circles into Germany's back with a perfect steadiness. While Germany was caught in a particularly heavy sob, Italy adjusted the collar of his uniform to hide a row of finger-shaped bruises; thick ones.

"It's not your fault," Italy said to Germany, biting his lip. "You would never do such a thing."

.

The smoke was stifling, but the straining years of warfare had accustomed him to it. He peered through the dust and sweat efficiently as he searched for a blue uniform; he brushed quickly past wounded men, stepped over dying ones. In these dreams, he remembered, Italy would be further from the main battle, just as the true Italy preferred to escape danger. Just as he liked it.

He spotted Italy's blue uniform and rushed quickly to him, remembering with a lucid sense of triumph to toss away his weapons as he ran. He threw off his helmet so he wouldn't hit Italy's skull with it, tossed off his jacket so spare bullet casings couldn't catch Italy's supple body.

Devoid of all potential menace, he threw his arms around Italy, full of giddiness and relief. He finally managed it; he wouldn't be hurting Italy any longer-

A gunshot rang out, and Germany slumped to the ground. He jolted awake with a fading visual of Italy's frightened face, like an animal of prey hunted into a corner.

He laid on his back, gathering up his sheets tighter around himself to recover from his cold sweat. Slowly his heart rate returned to normal.

Then he smiled to himself and breathed a sigh of relief. "A much better ending than ever before," he decided. Then he got himself out of bed to wash up.

There was no one else in the bed. An envelope with a military seal had been left on the second pillow.

Formal Surrender, it said. The war must end.