No Matter How Many Years Pass

A Brief Gerita Fanfiction by Rem

Germany hadn't bothered to get a ring. It seemed too feministic for even the man he was proposing to. Of course, he hadn't always thought the love of his life was a guy. He remembered the days he used to dream about the little girl in the green dress, who would dance around the house of Austria with a push broom. He remembered the first day he'd spoken to her. We'll be with each other again soon, okay? For sure, okay? He couldn't promise her that. No matter how many years pass, I'll love you the most of anyone in this world! He hadn't said that out loud of course. Now he'd found Italy, a man, the person he was meant to be with. The little girl seemed like a dream to him now.

"Italy." Germany's voice is quiet. Italy doesn't notice, skipping happily about the room. "Italy!" Germany raises his voice, staring intently at the small man.

"Yes, Germany?" Italy looks back at his best friend, a grin spreading upon his face. Germany's heart warms at the sight of Italy's smile.

"Italy, there's something I've been meaning to ask you…" A lump catches in Germany's throat. He feared the answer to the upcoming question. Italy couldn't read it in his face.

"Yes? C'mon now, Mr. Germany, don't leave me guessing like this! Germanyyyyyy!" Italy stretches the final sound of Germany's name out for a good six seconds.

"It's just…" Germany goes down on one knee. "I was wondering if you would marry me…"

Italy stares at his friend for a second, opening his brown eyes wide. "I can't…" he whispers. "I can't do that…"

"Why not?" Disappointment flows through Germany's veins. The pain hit him not a second afterwards. But Germany wasn't surprised. Italy was unpredictable, loveable, and foreign to him. He knew Italy couldn't possibly love him as much as he loved Italy. Ich liebe dich. Italy had never understood.

"Germany… you are my best friend. But… I…" Italy takes in a deep breath. "I'm waiting for someone."

Holy Rome is dead! Germany screams in his head. But he says nothing out loud. Italy had never told Germany about his love for the Holy Roman Empire. He'd only ever called him "that boy." But Germany knew. He'd known for a long time. Germany turns his face away from Italy, tears close to dripping from his eyes, anger welling up inside him. The world turned to pastels as Germany ran away.

Italy stares after his friend. Oh, Mr. Germany, Italy thinks. I do love you, I really do! I promised myself I'd wait for Holy Rome. You would understand if you knew him, Germany. He told me he'd come back… This was not true. Holy Rome had told Italy he may come back. But over the years, Italy had changed the words to suit his needs. Italy runs after Germany. I need to tell him I still care…

Germany stands under a tree, devastated, but he did not cry. His huge blue eyes had not cried this many tears in years. Decades. Centuries. Not since…

"Germany!"

Oh, what now? How can you cause me any more pain? Germany thinks. "Stop!" He shouts. Italy halts immediately. "Why do you run from me when I chase you, yet chase me when I run?" Italy's eyes widen. This wasn't the first time Italy had heard those words.

"No, Germany! Don't go!" Italy cries irrationally.

Germany starts at this reaction. "I'm not leaving," he says, as gently as he could muster. The urge to yell in anger is nearly overwhelming. "I just… need you to leave me alone."

Italy whimpers and turns away. Germany waits for a few minutes, and then goes back into the house. The delicious smell of pasta wafts through the house. Italy is cooking. Germany smiles slightly. He turns to his room.

Deep in Germany's closet lays a dusty old push broom, nearly falling apart due to its extreme age. Germany pulls it out. He handles it with extreme care, feeling the old wood, the bristly brushes, the smooth handle. It used to be a lot bigger… or perhaps Germany was once a lot smaller. He remembered when the girl handed him the push broom. Back when Germany was not called Germany; his name was Holy Roman Empire. He'd fallen in love with that girl. Her name was Italy. He'd loved her since the tenth century, and she had finally loved him back… just as he left… just as he said goodbye…

No matter how many years pass, I'll love you the most of anyone in this world!

The broom breaks in Germany's hands, and the tears spill over.