Sometimes, even within the confines of war, there is peace. There are limits to how much people will fight, despite the widespread destruction that vehemently claims otherwise. For all the battles fought under the drive of storms, there are some thunderous nights that empty the streets of gunfire and footfalls. Lightning flashes overhead and soldiers pull back to their camps on either side of this decimated village.

The residents have long since fled, and their houses remain now only as husks; memories of what once was and places for dying men to take cover in their final moments. There are no streetlights this far out in the countryside; smouldering torches have been placed in crevices and corners, giving off more smoke than flame as they pop and hiss in the rain. They are not there to light the way for passersby; they are there to mark the borderline of hostile territory.

He is the hostile territory; the enemy of the world. And while no country is its leadership, sometimes he feels the rage within them and hungers for the power they are trying to achieve. He is at war within himself as much as he is at war with anyone else. Though he has little influence over this machine, this intruding corruption, it is not within him to hide- he belongs here, with his people, with those who are afraid to fight for themselves and so fall into fighting for what they fear. This, the mud and the bombshell craters and the villages destroyed- this is where he belongs.

There was a garden here once, he notes, boots heavy in the black mud where he stands. There must have been flowers- he wonders what the colours were, and how long their sweet smell lasted against the stench of gasoline and gunpowder that now permeates the frigid air. Though the storm has swelled, there is no wind to speak of- the downpour is torrential, though not torrential enough, he knows, to wash away the blood that has been spilt from here to every corner of the European coast. He has already begun to write the apologies he will speak when this is over- he will pay for his sins a thousand times- he will be glad to, if it means flowers will grow in this bloody ground again.

"Germany?"

He turns at the sound of a quiet voice, hardly heard over the rumble of thunder. The owner of that voice stands by the nearest house, his form small and shivering in the dying glow of a torch. Its warm but wavering light bathes him in a halo of yellow and gold, the deep reds of embers seeping over the paler parts of his skin. He looks soaked through and worn down by the abysmal weather. He was not made for lands such as these, but for white marble coasts and ancient cities bathed in sunlight. And yet he has come here, sworn to follow the footsteps of his ally, his friend, his-

"Italy." Germany sighs, where he would normally reprimand. "Go back to the tents. It's too cold out here."

"Sì, it is." Italy answers, crossing his arms over his chest; as defiant a gesture as he will ever make. Germany steps within the circle of light and fleetingly imagines Italy being the source of it. Where this whimsy comes from, he doesn't know. Perhaps the same place Italy's whimsy disappears to at times such as these. His face is set so differently now; the full line of his mouth pulled thin with concern- eyes wide and searching, not forced closed by a wide smile.

"You'll catch your death." An expression; they both know that death is merely something to observe, for ones such as them. A dream, he thinks, nothing so peaceful can truly exist for us. Sickness, however, is a reality.

"Go back to where it's warmer."

"It's not warmer there. Not without you." Italy protests softly, and Germany thinks of the frozen, damp ground, the tarpaulins that barely keep the rain at bay- the American soldier he killed last week, who fell bleeding at Italy's feet.

This is what I have brought you- pain and destruction and fear.

"Feliciano-" he begins, but cuts his words short- he does not know where they would have gone.

"Ludwig." Italy answers him, eyes still searching, rivulets of water catching in his eyelashes, running down his cheeks, shining on his lips. He looks at Germany- this unwitting monster, this conflict in the form of a man- and he remains undaunted. It is a mystery, Germany thinks, a miracle, how a man afraid of his own shadow is not afraid of such an entity as him.

You are an enigma, an undeserved blessing- you are but a desperate wish to me.

Something bright and wanting crashes through him, and he breaks, surges forward and covers Italy's mouth with his own. Italy reacts immediately, returning the kiss as fervently as it was given. His hands are numb as he takes fistfuls of Germany's coat, holding tightly to the thick material where it bunches at his waist. Germany pushes Italy's matted hair back from his face, warming his hands on the heat of Italy's neck. One kiss dissolves into many, the shared warmth of their mouths spreading through their bodies, repelling the stagnant cold surrounding them.

The tenderness is overwhelmingly rare in this place; the ruins of a once happy home. Germany can hardly bear it, the sins of his people, and how easily love makes them forgotten. Tears well up and pour forth from his eyes, indistinguishable from the rain- the tears, at least, he can be cleansed of.

When their need to breathe outweighs their need for each other, they separate, though not entirely- never entirely. Germany's head falls heavily to Italy's shoulder, and he weeps silently, thoroughly, shamelessly despite his guilt. Italy holds him upright, hands rubbing soothing circles into his back, lips pressing constant to his temple.

"Vieni a dormire, il mio amore." Italy beckons, voice the sound of waves rushing upon the Roman coast. "Vieni, e ti terrò."

Germany does not know if he can sleep, in the same way he does not know if he can ever atone for his sins.

But he will try.

Translations:

Vieni a dormire, il mio amore. = Come and sleep, my love.
Vieni, e ti terrò. = Come, and I will hold you.