Germany's staying in Naumberg for the Hussite Cherry Festival; he has a little house overlooking the outskirts of the city, though he hasn't used it since the early 1900s. I wish I'd come sooner, he thinks, watching the fireflies trail over the tips of long grass. There's just always so much work that no one else seems to be doing.

It's perhaps the first time in years he's had plenty of time and space to himself. At first, he enjoys the solitude. By the end of the third night, Germany is veering toward the edge of madness.

"I didn't think I'd hear from you so soon!" Italy cries out in surprise when he picks up the line. He doesn't even ask who it is, and Germany wonders how he could have possibly known (unless Italy believes he's someone else, which makes more sense than his pleasure in hearing Germany's voice).

"I had. That is. The training program," says Germany.

"Ve…"

"You completely forgot!" The fury falters as quickly as it had come; he himself had forgotten until floundering for a reason behind no reason. Germany clears his throat awkwardly. "The—tactical training for air forces in Decimomannu and Sardinia. If we're going to jointly run it, we need to discuss the details at length."

"Oh, right," agrees Italy, and he sounds bright and cheery and it's so easy to picture him, lounging half-naked on some balcony overlooking the Florence cathedral. Maybe he's eating pasta. Maybe he's watching women.

Germany closes his eyes and, because he's alone, lets the longing rest naked on his cheekbones.

"I suppose if you're not ready," he says, "it can wait a while longer."

Italy protests, but he gives up the ghost easily enough. Work will always be abhorrent to him. Instead, he chats to Germany about the kitchen he's remodeling, the troubles he's found himself in because of his brother, the weather (the humidity never changes), and how much he's missed eating Germany's potatoes and wurst. Germany listens to him—he has been known to do so, to sit and catch on the syllables of Italy's strange and ridiculous words, the tilt of a sigh—and remembers a Buon San Valentino from many decades ago, a small book he's kept at the bottom of his closet (more hidden than the magazines he's ashamed to own), and a memory that is born of scent and color more than sound.

He thinks of these things more often than he'd admit to anyone.

(In time, he's even learned to accept them as they are: truth, diluted with futility. Germany knows—and this makes it bearable—that his persistent longing will never go anywhere far. He won't let it. Italy's already said no.)

"Germany," Italy implores him now, stupid and loyal and troublesome Italy, "Germany, tell me what you've been doing? I've missed you so much! I feel like I can't imagine you at a festival."

"I've been organizing things."

"You're very good at that."

"Hm." A wry smile. "I try."

"Germany?"

"What?" he asks, patiently.

Italy whines a little and then lets out a huff. "Won't you ask me?"

He hates himself, just enough to be proportional, when heat climbs up into his neck and his heart drowns out his misgivings. "Ask what?"

"If I can come stay with you."

"Why would I—"

"Because that's what I would do!"

Oh. Germany folds his fingers over the wrinkles in his forehead, sighing. "I don't—" and yet, there's a part of him that's— "Will you?"

A firefly lands on the window sill, its glow fading in and out like it must take deep breaths to sustain flight. "Then I'm so glad," Italy tells him, voice laughing in his ear, "that I'm on this train."