June 18, 1946 was to be the most terrifying date for the main members of the Axis Powers-Germany, Italy and Japan-the winning Allied Forces had agreed. They were to be tried early for causing the unnecessary death of millions of innocent lives; they were to be given no more chances. France and Russia were especially keen on enforcing this declaration.

Hearing your fate echo against the walls of a court room specially built into a World Conference building was, to say the least, nerve wracking and frightening. But the blonde haired, blue eyed personification of Germany showed no emotion at all, only taking deep, calming breaths at random points during the judging, while his ex-comrade Italy sat a couple seats away from him, squirming and sobbing, wondering and waiting for his own verdict to be read from a mere piece of paper. The tranquil nation of Japan sat on the other side of him, and seemed to be a bit calmer than the Italian, but not as serene as the blonde.

It seemed fascinating to the German that an entire nation's fate, including all his or her people, rests in ink on a chopped down tree. Something that once was but is no longer alive. The thought of something once being alive but not anymore suddenly hit the German like a tidal wave, and he almost lost his composure, but swiftly willed himself to recollect his thoughts onto something else. Like Italy.

His nose crinkled at the thought of how Italy betrayed him just in time to save his own skin-how selfish of the man! How could he choose to leave Germany and Japan to face the Allies with aid only coming from worn-down allies and troops.

Glancing over at Italy with hurt and betrayal clearly glimmering in his deep royal blue gaze, who met his eyes slowly, the German missed the last thing that America had said to him, so America repeated it rather impatiently.

"Germany!" The American snapped at the man. Germany's focus quickly turned back to America, who growled out, "What was the last thing I said?"

"...I'm not sure."

"And why are you not sure? I'm positive I made myself clear, right gentlemen?" For emphasis, America swiveled his head from side to side, looking at all of the nodding heads of his allies. Then he turned back to Germany.

"Because I was too busy thinking about all the ways I could smash Italy's head into the desk before you could stop me."

Italy's wails could then be heard as the auburn haired man curled up in his chair and buried his face in his hands, but Germany didn't even spare him so much as a glance.

"Hey! That's your god damn ally! Don't you dare talk about him like tha-" England jerked up out of his chair and slammed his hands on the court table holding him back from going and strangling the blonde man.

"Last I checked," Germany sharply interrupted, rising quickly as well, and mimicking England's actions by slamming his hands on his own desk as well, "an ally is one who stays with you during times of need! Italy was never there for me when I needed him most, and when he was, he did nothing to help me! If I needed Japan, he was there, even though he was supposed to be fighting in the pacific. That's what an ally is-that's what a friend is, damn it."

England paused, obviously not knowing how to react to the firm statements. Technically that was true, but before the Briton could speak, Germany was talking again.

"I don't feel the need to call Italien an ally-he doesn't need or deserve to be graced with that title." With that all out in the open, the blue eyed man sat back down.

Italy's loud crying was all that could be heard for several moments before America spoke up once more.

"Russia." He flagged the steely-faced Russian's attention, who looked over at him briefly. "Please, escort Italy and Japan out of here."

Russia smiled, although it was obviously forced and lop-sided, and got up, walking over to the Italian. Italy just kept sobbing at first, then eventually got up and followed Russia behind Germany and over to Japan. Japan got up with slight hesitation, staring at the blonde a few seats away, but then walked out with the other two men. The German hadn't looked at either of them the entire time they were getting up, only concentrating his blue orbs on the wooden fibers of his chestnut colored desk.

Once America saw Japan and Italy were safely out of the room, he glared daggers at the man sitting down a few yards away and spoke.

"That is no way to talk to people, even if they did betray you."

"Oh? Hey, England, what did you feel like after America left you crying in the mud, broken and whining to the heavens, to go back and have a nice beer with your soldiers?"

England visibly tensed, for he had not sat back down yet, and spluttered a bit before Germany answered for him.

"You felt like shit, didn't you?" the German's eyes were staring blankly at the desk now, his mouth pressed in a firm line.

America glanced over at the Brit- concerned about him. The emerald eyed man's eyes were wide, and mouth was slightly hanging open. It took a while for England to answer, but eventually he answered with a very quiet and broken "yes".

Germany forced himself to smile a small smile and he looked up at the fellow nations. England was now sitting back in his chair, leaning over with his face cradled in his hands.

"And what did you call him, England? What did you tell my brother dear America was?"

England was practically sobbing quietly now, and Germany applauded himself for breaking the nation without even doing much. Blue orbs scanned over to America, who was staring, heart-broken, at the Briton.

"...Unspeakable things... I called America unspeakable things because I was so frustrated with him..."

"Exactly. So what makes you think that me not calling Italy and ally is worse than what you called America?"

France shifted in his chair.

"Yes, yes, enough with the touching Revolutionary war moment!" The Frenchman snarled impatiently. "Can we get back to the judgements, s'il vous plaît?"

"Shut your god damn mouth, you frog!" England screeched at France, uncovering his face to show tears running freely down his cheeks. "Just shut your damn trap..."

The Englishman suddenly got up, knocking his chair over, and ran out of the room, yelling something about going to the bathroom to gather himself. America let him go, but not before giving him a friendly hug and an "It's okay, Iggy, It's okay...".

"Germany, are you ready to accept your punishment?" America swiftly turned around to face the Aryan.

"Yes."

"Very well. We, the Allied Forces, have deemed you responsible for the hundreds of millions of lives lost on both sides of the war-"

"What? That's ridiculous!"

"-and you shall by executed tomorrow, the 19th of June, 1946 for various war crimes. You will be executed via firing squad, and your comrades will be forced to watch. That is part of their punishment, as well as yours."

"...What about Italy and Japan?" Germany was silent, his eyes wide. Have these men no mercy? How could they lay all the blame on him?

"They will pay as well, albeit they won't have quite as severe punishment as you." America responded softly.

"How could this be fair judgement? This is not fair in the slightest!" Germany yelled desperately, his stoic mask crumbling, his face twisted in fear.

"Neither is what you did to us!" France shouted back, rage evident in his eyes. "Do you think that invading and killing is fair?"

Germany was silent for the rest of the listing of crimes he had committed, instead thinking deeply and sorrowfully about his impending doom.

Italy peeked out from behind a corner belonging to the inside of a long hallway.

"G-Germany? Can I have a word with you?" he whispered pathetically, looking at the Germany who was watching the rain pour down through a rather large window.

"What do you want?" the question was sharp with no kindness or sympathy.

The Italian flinched and inched closer.

"I heard that you... I heard your verdict... I wanted to apologize, I wanted to say that I'm so sorry! Please, please underst-"

"Shut up! Don't you dare tell me to understand what you did! What you did was selfish, Italy, and real friends don't leave each other to die! I trusted you, Italy, and you let me down. That's what I'm really upset about. You betrayed my trust..."

Italy started sobbing again and wiped at his eyes with his hand.

"I'm so sorry, Germany... I'm so sorry..." the auburn haired man went to hug the German, but Germany outright pushed him against the wall and stalked off with his hands in his pockets.

Italy sunk down against the wall and cried for about an hour until America finally found him and carried him to his room.

Meanwhile, Germany went to go and have one last beer with his older brother, where he decided that he had one last important thing to do before he was killed. Getting up from his place at the bar and bidding his brother farewell until tomorrow, he walked back to his hotel alone in the rain.

Italy woke up earlier than usual the next morning. He had no choice-America had come and gotten him to go to Germany's execution.

The former Axis Powers all had the chance to walk with their former comrade, only Japan and Prussia accepted out of all the nations that were taking sides with them, either by force, annexation, or free will.

When the Italian got a good look at the German while walking along a dirt path over to the field where the shooting was to take place, he noted that the blonde looked absolutely terrible. There was a nasty looking cut starting from his right temple, traveling down his face until finally stopping at his jaw line. He had a black eye, and several smaller cuts on his face and what Italy could see of his neck. The man seemed to be afraid of everything-the birds, the trees, even his own brother he flinched away from while muttering nonsense.

What the hell had happened to the proud, perfect Aryan that Italy had once known so well?

Once Germany was escorted to the field and lined up right where the firing squad had aimed in practice only minutes before, Russia blindfolded him and Germany whispered something to the Russian before handing him a little slip of paper with a shaking hand. Russia had nodded at whatever the German had said, smiled coldly, and walked behind and to the side, over to Italy, Japan, and Prussia.

Italy could barely even pray for his once-best friend, before a general called out "Ready... Aim... Shoot!", then the shots resounded and Germany dropped like a bag full of bricks, blood spraying out of a bullet wound in his neck and several in his chest. While he lay in a pool of his own blood, birds chirped and sang, tree branches whispered and hummed along with the birds, Gilbert's yelling for his lost brother was all that could be heard.

It was all over now...Germany had fallen. France had gone over, made sure the man was dead, then proceeded to kick the limp body until a sickening crack near Germany's ribs could be heard by everyone. Japan looked like he was about to be sick all over the place, and Prussia was getting filled with rage all too fast.

Running over to his brother, Prussia skidded to a stop and sat down carefully next to the corpse, pushing France away and holding the blonde's upper body in his arms. Then he leaned the head against his shoulder and ran his long fingers through the soft but somewhat matted locks, whispering and singing old lullabies and phrases the German used to love as a child.

It was a heart-wrenching scene; like a father losing a beloved child. Prussia had been a father figure to Germany for so many years, their bond as brothers wasn't too off from being just that-father and son.

Italy once again sunk down and cried for his lost friend, Japan sitting down with him and patting his back, just like Germany used to sometimes do, although Germany would surely never be there to comfort him again, even if he was still alive.

Because Germany hated him, right?

In London almost a month later, the usually cheerful Italian sat stiffly and quietly in his seat, amber eyes merely flicking to everyone who got near him or tried to talk him out of silence. They never managed to, anyways, so eventually they just accepted the new Italy, no matter how weird the difference was.

"Get your god damn hands off me, Red!" a shout made Italy look up for more than a few seconds at a Prussian man prying Russian hands off his shoulders. A sudden anxiety welled up in the Italian's stomach, mixed with a ping of sadness. Every time he looked at Prussia nowadays, his thoughts took him back to a piece of paper Prussia had shown him only a couple weeks back that stated the Kingdom of Prussia was no longer to be abolished, to gain Germany's land (which Prussia agreed with firmly, instead of letting others get to it first. He also thought of making a new state of Germany, but the idea was quickly put to rest by the rest of the world) while still being under the watchful eye of Soviet Russia. Prussia technically was Germany now, and new maps saying such were being distributed all across the world. Tensions were building up between Prussia and the Soviets, America taking the side of Prussia if any war were to occur.

"But Prussia, you are mine, and I'm allowed to do whatever I wish with you. Just be thankful that you didn't end up French property, da?" a cold smile was dancing on Russia's lips, which wasn't uncommon these days. Even if it was fake, the smiles he put out back in World War 2 were much warmer than now, and they weren't even fighting! Not yet, at least.

Prussia once again tried to push the other man away from him, this time succeeding in his efforts, effectively knocking the Russian against a wall long enough to run over to the Italian.

"Italy? Uh, you have a minute?" Prussia inquired, tilting his head to the side slightly and holding up a note that was previously being clenched in his left hand-always a safe distance away from Russia, who obviously didn't want him to have it nor give it to anyone.

"Mmm."

"I take that as a yes. Uh, I found this letter in Russia's room, and since it's addressed to you, I thought I'd steal it and give it to its rightful owner." Prussia put out his hand, and Italy took the note cautiously, eying Prussia the entire time, who only smiled at him and said, "It's from West... Dated back to a little more than a month ago. On the day of the trials."

The mention of his ex-best friend shattered his heart, and he almost thought about handing the letter back to Prussia without even opening it. But curiosity and anxiety got to him and he gently opened the folded up piece of paper, glancing up as the Kingdom of Prussia walked away. Turning his eyes down once more, he read the handwriting that could only be his late friend's.

The paper fell to the ground slowly, and Italy's face was once more buried in his hands and he was sobbing his heart out.

'Italy,

I forgive you.

Your friend/...BFF,

Ludwig

The End

A.N. Phew. Excuse the shortness at the end, it's 2:35 over here... owo;; Germany is slightly angsty. Just slightly. /shot

Now for a lesson on what Gil meant, in case you either didn't catch it, or didn't get it:

Red ("Get your hands off of me, Red!") - Common nickname given to the Soviets during the Cold War

Translations:

French:

S'il vous plaît - Please

German:

Italien - Italy

If I missed anything, feel free to point it out. But now comes bed. *faints back onto bed*

Edit: I fixed the end up a bit so it doesn't sound as rushed. ouo Hope it sounds better now.