All Germany remembered of the beginning was a haze of hate, cruel grins and a dark sense of satisfaction.
From then on it was solely half remembered memories blurring together seamlessly, too many to fully sort in his mind and too much regret for his actions to even think of trying.
He'd done terrible, unlawful. inhumane things, and for what? God, he didn't even know anymore. The 'cause' now seemed nothing more than another excuse for pointless bloodshed.
But perhaps that wasn't the only thing that pained him.
Sometime in the endless bodies and spilt crimson, the death and war must have gotten to his poor ally, and Italy gained some backbone and left the Axis.
His mistake was visiting Germany afterwards.
Was is for closure? An attempt to make Germany see the error of his ways? Either way, it didn't matter. He'd been blinded by hot, possessive anger, and weirdly enough, desperation. Those filthy Allies had no right to touch his Italy. And then he felt the sudden need to show Italy that he was going to always be Germany's.
What happened the next few hours? Maybe he'll never know that either. All he recalls from that fateful day is looking down and seeing those fearful eyes staring up at him through matted, bloody hair.
What claim did he ever have on Italy? All he'd been was kind, one of those countries that didn't have an ounce of malice in him. And how had Germany repaid that? The unspeakable things he'd done to the brunette… All because he realized Germany wasn't the Germany he remembered? That what they were fighting for wasn't right?
Then he'd dropped him in front of Romano's house. Germany released him by his hair, and the petite man fell to his knees with a pained, raspy cry exiting his lips stained red. He's your little slut back, he'd snarled, dripping with such loathing and hostility that the southern half of Italy had actually flinched.
That horrified face that Romano made was haunting, and his frightened voice as he called for Spain was even more so. He'd left then, knowing the Spaniard could be quite… violent when someone he liked was injured so severely, and Germany had no interest to deal with such a nuisance. The Allies were annoying enough.
That was the last time he saw Italy for what seemed like an eternity. Then he lost everything, and that eternity became even longer. In that eternity, he'd had a lot of time to think. A lot of time to regret.
When he finally saw him again, it was at a world meeting, of which the previous he had been absent. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked dangerously thin. Even his smile looked tired and forced. He winced when he moved, and kept his eyes down. Even the countries who barely knew the normally bubbly nation kept glancing over to see if he was alright.
The meeting went by slowly and every nation found themselves tense, especially Germany. It had been long enough that most had forgiven Germany for what he did, knowing that it wasn't him but his county. Others, namely Poland and Romano, still blamed and despised him.
He didn't expect Italy to ever forgive him. He'd beaten and violated his former ally's petite form and had never showed any remorse or even faltered the entire time. How could anyone ever forgive that?
However, even if the apology wouldn't be enough (nothing ever would be) he couldn't walk away that day before voicing it. It was the one of the many things the poor Italian deserved, and the blonde needed at least for the other to know he was sorry.
After the meeting was finally finished, just as everyone was going home, was when he approached. Romano had not been pleased, fixing him with a glare almost exactly like the look in Germany's eyes in the night. This time, it was the blonde's turn to flinch as he paused in .
But Italy was quick to speak, tugging on his shirt and whispering in his brother's ear. "Five minutes, and if he touches you I swear to god-" he hissed, and Italy nodded in return.
As soon as they were alone, Germany's words get stuck in his throat and all he can get out is I'm sorry- before the brunette's arms were around him. Hesitantly, he hugs back lightly.
"It'll be okay," he whispered so quietly.
He moved back in with Germany a couple years later.
It was almost back to normal, before this war. Even Italy was almost back to his usual self. Well, almost.
Italy didn't sleep naked anymore, didn't intrude when Germany was taking a shower, and was never seen without a shirt any longer. No one said a word, no one asked, not one person even questioned it. He'd been traumatized, injured beyond belief. It wasn't anyone's place to question. Yet, Germany still wondered , even if he was the last person who had that right.
But Italy wasn't the only one that had changed. Germany was kinder now, less likely to yell and much more laid back. He'd seen the consequences of order, after all. No one questioned this either.
Perhaps this stalemate would have gone on for much longer than it had if fate hadn't decided to intervene.
It had been in the early morning, and Germany had awoken thrashing and sweating, only to find Italy's unofficial side of the bed vacant. Slipping out of the covers, he stood and stumbled to the bathroom, throwing open the door like some kind of madman.
The sight before him made him go completely white.
The shower was on, and Italy was nude. He was almost like Germany remembered. He still had that feminine curve in his back, his uncovered limbs still long and thin, but with the slightest muscle from training.
However, there was one thing Germany did not remember on Italy. He was now covered with long, terrible scars.
He swallowed thickly. Oh Gott, that's because of me! His hand then tightened on the door, and the weak wood fractured under his strong grip. Are those...are those whip marks?! He then did something so Italy-like, looking back on it, he found it ironic.
He ran away. Where? He didn't know. He just had to get away.
Eventually, he found himself on a hill looking out onto the ocean, staring at the horizon alight with varying stages of red, orange and pink. A short while later, that's where Italy found him, too.
His dark hair was still dripping wet. There was some kind of a weird mix of a towel and robe hanging of his scarred shoulders but completely covering his 'vital regions', declaring him officially safe for the eyes of children. He smiled sadly and sat next to him on the grass.
Germany didn't know why, but the floodgates suddenly opened. All those tears he'd been holding back, all of those times he'd wanted to cry but couldn't just all came out. He was openly sobbing now, his tears dripping shamelessly while his sobs wreaked his normally perfectly postured body. Surprisingly, when he looked over, Italy was shedding tears as well, his silent but just as genuine.
For the longest time, they just sat there and cried, and when all the sorrow had been drained from their bodies, they just embraced. This time, the hug wasn't something light and meaningless. This time, it couldn't have been more full of feeling. Germany's hug was all Italy, I'm so sorry I'm so, so sorry, and Italy's in return was solely him accepting that and replying in return it's okay, it's alright now, I forgive you.
When their arms had returned to their sides, they had come to an understanding. Like the thin, fragile lines connecting person to person, it was breakable, delicate.
Because that's what their relationship was now.
Delicate.