Mewsol and twilightwolfqueen409 present
A Thousand-Year Masterpiece
Summary: Feliciano finally has become himself again after centuries of isolation. After finally opening his heart to the world, he decides to share a story- one that spans more than a thousand years. "Ludwig..." Feliciano spoke, his voice pained. "I will sit here as long as I need to, even if it takes forever... only until I have found the answers to my heart's questions..."
Pairing: GerIta (Germany x Italy)
Even now, looking back, it's hard for me to believe what I've become. So much has happened lately that I just can't put it all here. Sometimes, I wonder, how on earth did I become so open? So extroverted. Introvert was the word they used to label me with, and I was fine with that. No one bothered to talk to me anyway; I was still as carefree as I used to be.
Happiness can be achieved in many different ways. I achieved my own through drawing and painting. For many years, that was all I ever did. My life had no meaning to it other than to fill up each and every empty canvas. My brother, at the rare times when he would come to my house, would look at me funny and try to talk to me, but fail every attempt. I had lost my speech from my mindless painting.
People always say "the Italians are the best lovers." I can prove to you, with my own self, that I am the exception. I always told myself I could never love. And it was nearly true- the only person I had any affections for was my brother, but I never even told him that I cared for him, not one bit. I break every Italian stereotype ever created. I'm not some ordinary Italian that eats pasta, takes siestas, and talks to everyone. I'm Italia Veneziano, Feliciano Vargas, that's who I am. The personification of North Italy. And for once in my life I am not proud of it.
Nations live very long lives. And in my long life, I've seen myself change so many times I can't even keep track. But then memories eventually surface quickly and I am able to look back at everything like I am now. That is what a nation must do- keep track of its history so it can be preserved for future generations.
But I am not keeping track of my history. History is not memories, history is written down in books by biased individuals who get all the information wrong. I'm the only one who knows my true "history", but what I am about to tell you is not my history. It's my memories that I have held dear to me, the memories that appear in my paintings when my subconscious controls the paintbrush in my hand. For once, I can truly tell my story, one that has never been shared before. My story is filled with war, sadness, heartbreak, happiness, and one special person who just dragged me out of my shell and made me who I am today.
This one special person… I feel like I must talk about him before retelling my long story that spans many centuries.
His name is Germany, Ludwig Beilschmidt. But many years ago, I am sure he went by another name.
He is not a fantasy; he is not the perfect man. But he is a perfectionist. He looks tough on the outside, but in truth he is really kind and sincere. He's a neat freak and a workaholic that always goes by what the manual says. If the manual told him to strip naked for no reason, then he would. Maybe.
And he's got this sweet, gentle smile that almost kills me on the inside because of its rarity. No matter how much he denies it, his hands are so soft; whenever he touches my face it feels almost heavenly. Even though heaven on earth is impossible when surrounded by sin. And his eyes, oh God, his eyes. I could gaze into them for hours, but we can't last a minute staring at each other without giggling. Yes, even a man like him laughs, and his laugh is almost, if not just as amazing as his smile.
He's not without his flaws, but I still love him just as much, if not more for them. He says he's not the best at affection, and I would say that a quarter of that statement is true. He is just as affectionate towards me as his actions dictate. He can't come up with pickup lines at all, but I tell him to try anyway, just to see what he says. And honestly, he makes me laugh every time.
Honestly, I can accept his cooking, but it's not really tasteful. It's definitely better than British food, but certainly not as good as pasta. I'm usually the one who cooks for that very reason. But when it comes to baking, I am the one who fails and he's the one that prevails. I eagerly await nights when he makes us dessert.
I could keep talking about Germany, and how wonderful he is. But to be honest, I would prefer to tell my story, rather than going on about the man I love. Because that is not a story, but me throwing compliments that Germany gets awkward around.
Maybe after I am finished telling it, we may finally be able to see how much we have grown- not as nations, but as humans.
Ludwig, this story is for you.
