Chapter One:

It was a mid-afternoon day late in the month of September. In the sprawling sapphire blueness above, a disk of bright light shone brilliantly. Its rays shimmering off the darkness of a lone cloud looming dangerously behind some distant range. Still golden stalks of wild weeds swayed like waves in the sea as a crisp breeze swept through the valley.

Despite the chilled temperatures, two men could be seen from afar, their statures strained from cold and effort as they ran along a gravel road. Both men appeared to be of their early twenties.

One of them, a tall man clad in a militaristic German trench coat bore short blond hair which he kept slicked back and semi hidden beneath his officers' hat. The other shorter man kept his auburn hair mid-length and parted in the middle so that it gave him bangs, complete with an odd and persistent stray curled hair sticking out on the left side of his head. His entire being seemed casual compared to the blonde man, even despite his own uniform. Even his steps were bouncier and fairly childlike.

"Germany!" the brunette whined suddenly flapping his arms in protest, "it's so cold! Let's just go home!" Germany sighed heavily, as he stood fiddling with his trench coat.

"Italy... I told you to wear a coat. You said that you were cold tolerant."

"W-well it was warmer earlier..." Italy replied, hugging himself for warmth. "I'm sorry Germany..."

The two men were actually in fact more than just normal people. They were also countries. Being a country was filled with benefits- as they lived as long as the country stayed alive, and only died if it was resolved or conquered and absorbed.

But it also had his drawbacks. As Ludwig Weilschmidt, the living embodiment of the country of Deutschland, quietly removed his trench coat and wrapped it around a shuddering Italy, remembered sullenly.

Allies and foes too were predetermined for countries. Their bosses told them who they could befriend and who they couldn't. Like a parent presiding over their children's friends. But Germany, despite his human body's young physical age, had existed longer than any normal person could hope to live. Not that anyone would want to, he thought bitterly.

Italia Veneziano, or Feliciano Vargas was one of those allies. One of those countries Germany's past bosses had had him associate with and befriend. Even when that human war had ended, and their bosses had dissolved their alliances, Germany and Italy had remained friends.

It didn't make sense, but even now their cultures were undeniably linked. Despite their differences, Germany couldn't deny that he enjoyed spending time together with the warm and lovable country. He'd never admit it though.

"Germany," Italy asked quietly, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at Germany, "won't you be cold now?"

Germany forced a laugh.

"Of course not," he lied, "I actually am cold resistant, unlike you. I live here don't I?"

Italy nodded, shifting his eyes down out along the road.

"Germany, I've been meaning to ask you something for a while." The Italian's voice was unusually somber.

"And what would that be?"

"I'm a nuisance aren't I? How... Why do you put up with me? It's not like your boss makes you do it."

For a moment Germany said nothing as he examined Italy thoroughly. Italy's face was turned away and out towards the distant mountain range, but Germany was nearly certain he was choking back tears.

"Why are you asking me this?"

The Italian was silent in response. Odd, Germany thought to himself. It almost seemed like Italy had read his thoughts. But it wasn't like that, not at all. This too, seemed all to well timed, with Oktoberfest right around the corner. Of course, Germany clenched his teeth. It probably has to do with him.

"Feliciano Vargas," Germany began as he placed his hand on Italy's chin to redirect the country's glance, "did your brother Romano say something to you?"

Lovino Vargas, or Italia Romano, (or South Italy as he was known before the reunification of Italy,) was notorious for scheming up ways to get his brother away from "the potato-loving bastard" Germany. He never seemed to cease his insults, or get more creative in them. Romano and his brother Veneziano weren't known for being too intelligent to be honest anyway; as Romano's infamous "mustache" illustrated. No matter what Romano claimed, mustaches, no matter how tacky, are not real weapons.

Italy flushed pinkly at the mention of his name. It wasn't often when countries addressed each other with their human names. It was more intimate.

"U-uhm well..." He sputtered desperately in a futile attempt to avoid incriminating his older brother. "Romano didn't-"

"Aha." Germany's eyebrow twitched slightly as he refrained from a scowl meant for Romano. "Well he likes to say things about me that aren't exactly true. We're friends Italy. Real friends. Whether or not my leader wants me to befriend you matters not to me. This isn't 1941 anymore, and yet here I am out with you making sure you don't become like America with your love of pasta and other foods." The Italian's eyes brightened up as a relieved grin etched its way across his face.

"Of course I knew we were friends! I just wanted to hear you say it aloud. Ohhh~ and Germany?"

"Ja?"

"I like it when you use my real name too."

Germany froze as he took in Italy's words, which for some reason resonated differently than before. Germany searched Italy's eyes for a moment and his face too read something that Germany could not place. But the fleeting expression had gone as soon as it appeared, and without another word Italy had hugged him and dashed off away back down the road.

"What the hell was that?" Germany grumbled to himself as he began to walk after the bounding country, as he himself shivered a little against the cold. "He sure knows how to make an exit."