I can't even write fluff simply! I was trying to be really impulsive with this writing. It was more just, this is how things are. I had no idea where I was going with this. I just wanted to cover a really intimate, /real/ coverage of Germany's journey of learning to know and growing to love Italy. It's not even a pairing fic, honestly!
Enjoy!
Italy was so bizarre.
So many things Germany just wasn't used to.
His continuous, dazzling smile. The radiance in everything he did and the dreamy quality to everything he said. Forever trapped in a child'd body filled with sunshine and dreams and fantastical things.
At first, Germany had thought Italy as silly. At first, he'd thought him as pretty ridiculous.
How could he go through hard times and still smile? Did he not understand?
Germany pondered it so often it sometimes interrupted his work.
Why were his negatives emotions so rare, and blissful nature to continuous? Was he dumb, retarded? Too empty-headed to understand the mechanics of the world?
This uncomfortable skepticism was only challenged when he saw Italy work.
Italy's work wasn't like Germany's. It didn't involve paperwork, or stamps of approval. It didn't involve handling data, processing reports or the mass production of cuckoo-clocks.
When Italy was singing and cooking and painting – that was his work. That's when Germany had seen him concentrate, that is when he saw real focus and well…passion.
Not concentration from bending over a desk with spectacles slipping down his nose or anything like that. But he spend hours on paintings, beautiful, huge, amazing paintings. When he sang, he improvised (quite amatuer) lyrics and melodies, his songs simple and on how he was feeling. So he sang joyously often. When he cooked, he created lovely dishes that even Germany could not deny him a flustered compliment or two.
It made him wonder if Italy understood the world in an entirely different way. He wasn't concerned by the qualities of a solar system, but was absorbed by whether he could count all the stars in the nightsky. He didn't care for studying engines, but riding a bike down a particularily steep hill— even if he fell and scraped his knee – brought him unimaginable joy. He was bored by tactical logistics, but if he came across a flowered slope on a beautiful day he wouldn't hesitate to throw himself tumbling down it in fits of giggles. He was not interested in any sort of paperwork, but that moment when he achieved standing up a sheet of paper just the right way so that it stayed standing without his hands supporting it was responded to with pure delight.
For Germany, when he was first began to cope with this behaviour, it was bewildering and quite concerning. How could you possibly deal with someone so far from reality? Especially when they try to make you particupate in their lunacy.
When Germany made Italy train that one time and they were running past a lake, and Italy spotted a little row boat tied to the shore under the shade of a tree. And why had Italy was so dead-set on bothering him and harassing him with unending persuasions to get into that ridiculous little boat, interrupt their work-out altogether, and sail them mindlessly around a lake in the sun on a perfectly good day for training?
Why? Why had Italy imposed on an activity so utterly pointless where Germany was concerned, so completely wasteful? Why did he ask him without shame to join him to sing songs, or to build sandcastles complete with pebbles and shells at the beach? Why he insist on watching (and helping) Germany cook when the want to bake took him, or insisting on what a beautiful day it was for sightseeing/picnicing/football/daisy-chain-making/getting lost or whatever little random activity tickled his fancy.
But the fact was, Germany got into that little boat. He picked up the oars, kicked them from the shore and rowed them through the water, out of the shade and into the sun. Italy had chatted about how beautiful the day was, how nice it was to be sailing, and 'ooo was that a fish?' met with a violently rocking vessel. He'd tried to do that thing where you did fishing but only with a line of string, a hook and a piece of bait tied to your toe. Only to realise he had neither string, hook or bait, so he resorted to simply dangling his bare feet over the boat and enjoying the water.
The fact was, Germany occassionally sang (harmlessly short) songs when prompted, and he was very proud of his last sandcastle going on sandfortress. He let Italy don an apron and help bake cakes and confection, even if the kitchen was a mess in the end of it and the cakes slightly off-kilter. Germany let Italy take them on wild days out where he insisted they got lost just to have the thrill of finding new things and finding the way back. He packed a hamperbasket when Italy was convinced that today was absolutely perfect for a picnic and they couldn't possibly pass up this glorious, shining opportunity as if it'd be their last. Germany played football with him until they ran out of water and stamina, and just lay on the grassing panting for breath and talking about whatever had popped into their heads.
Germany carried him and hugged him and played random games with him and tolerated waking up to daisychains adorning his body when he had dozed in the sun; he painted with him and went out to eat with him – partipated willingly in pretty much everything that Italy was convinced would be the most fulfilling activity to do right now to date.
Because Germany had come to know Italy. To know he was not dumb or retarded or empty-headed. To see past his cowardice and how quickly his emotions bounced back to the most basic, childish of behaviours. To notice that Italy's eyes weren't full of blissful oblivion, but happiness. That the lunacy in his actions was simply his impulsiveness, his curiosity and his innocence.
When Italy had come crying to him after scraping his knee, by the time Germany had fitting him with a plaster he was already smiling and swinging his legs. The tears had been real, sure. It had hurt. But when he was telling the story of that bike-ride down the insanely steep hill, the memory of his stinging knee all but vanished from his mind as far as priorities went.
Germany quickly came to stop questioning the decisions he made, even if he was sure it would end up in some mess either way. Because even if Italy exploded something in the microwave, or if he slipped trying to skid as far as possible down a recently-mopped floor, Germany would be there to pick up the pieces.
Even if Italy felt embarassed, or ashamed, or upset, or particularily touched by a bout of yelling, he was so quick to forget what the fuss was about anyway.
Dwelling on or worrying over things wasn't Italy's style. He treated life with a 'Why not?' attitude. Italy did things he knew were going to feel good, were going to be exciting, were going to be fun, now. How would he know until he tried it?
Even when he himself was flustered by him, Germany was very defensive by others judgement. And so what if what Italy did was childish? He must've touched on something profound, because his happiness was a constant.
A lot of time, ok, almost all of the time, Germany could go so red even his ears and neck were effected; he'd stutter and get his sentences in a muddle, but he'd comply anyway.
And…Germany enjoyed it. Seeing and feeling and being encourage to participate in Italy's impulsions…he liked it. This unconditional love and affection. Complying to all the silly things that were asked of him. Having his embarrassment and hesitation kissed away whenever he felt particularily foolish. Being allowed the luxury of having someone to laugh with and hold and spend time with. Having his flustered efforts rewarded by smiles and celebration and unquestionable love…(b-but not that kind of love! It's just what Italian's do! Italian love was different from G-German…..love…..……right?)
That Italy had wanted to be his friend so badly, so actively, believed in him and was loyal to him and tested his tolerance from time to time…and it made Germany…happy. Even with the memories of the first few times Italy appeared naked in his bed, or how much he used to yell at him. Germany was thankful that someone liked him so much. Germany was happy his friend was so expressive and ridiculous. He enjoyed the radiant smiles and the intoxicating sunniness. He enjoyed Italy's banter and odd behaviours.
Italy really is beautiful.
T-the country, that is.
I've always loved the canon of Germany and Italy's relationship. For me, it's always been entirely platonic. The reason Germany is so smitten is because of their different understanding on social interaction and differences in temperament. He's bowled over by the intense affection and physical touch and declarations of love, but, for the big silly softy he is, can't help being drawn to it. He complies because he's so smitten, so willing to work with someone so happy and happy with him. He always wanted people to like him, right? And Italy, does, unquestioningly. I think that's why he gets so confused about whether he and Italy love each other romantically or just platonically, because of the culture shock. So I love the awesome, complete man-love that they have for each other, the cute dopes. When you put yourself in the shoes of the serious, orderly, technical German, everytime I think of Italy I think of sunshine and running through meadows and beautiful hot days and songs and butterflies and summer and fresh dough and passion and laughter. Imagine how utterly overwhelming that must be for lucky Germany? That he's discovering this new world of all this touching and laughter and randomness and affection. Just thinking about it myself I feel like I'm falling in love with Italy XD Friend love, friend love! Ack I just can't explain it, fills me with warmth and glowyness. So hanyway, I think it's beautiful.
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