It was mostly Germany's fault, he supposed.
Veneziano acted this way with everyone, showed everyone this innocent, trusting affection, kissed and hugged and said he loved everyone, and Germany had been foolish and naïve to take this to heart. To think that Veneziano loved him, loved him as Germany never thought he could be— deserved to be— loved, that Veneziano read past his stammering words and blushing and badly-timed, stumbling gestures and saw how much Germany loved him, more than he thought he could ever love anyone or anything.
Foolish. Sentimental. Weak.
But Germany remembered clear as a bell the first time Veneziano had turned that (beautiful, beautiful) smile towards him and said "We're friends, aren't we, Germany?" as though being friends with Germany was something wonderful, something to be treasured, something Veneziano would never regret once in his life and Germany's breath had stopped in his throat and was it then that he fell in love? Was it later, when he realized that someone relied on him and trusted him despite his blatantly obvious faults? Was it earlier, when Veneziano had first smiled around him and Germany had never seen someone look so genuinely, perfectly happy?
No matter. No matter, because despite America's laughs of "Your language's got words for everything!", Germany still was too cowardly, was and had always been, to look Veneziano in the face and say I love you, still could never find the words to say that even if Veneziano didn't love him back— if, more like though— that didn't matter because he was the first person to ever see Germany as more than an enemy, a threat, something to be placated or fought, to see Germany as a friend, and there were no words that could convey this to Veneziano.
None.
He must really be in love, or masochistic, or just plain crazy, he supposed, because why else would he sit next to Veneziano and listen to him talk about the beautiful woman he'd met, and swallow down a knot in his throat every time Veneziano called him a great friend, such a great friend, and come to Veneziano's aid if he was scared or lonely or sad and protect him and trust him and love him so goddamn much Germany would do anything for him if only he knew how to say it, how to make it so that Italy returned this feeling.
In the novels he read, they overcome this problem at the end. Love is requited, confessions are made, and they live happily ever after. This must be the problem with all one's ideas of romance coming out of dime-store books: one begins to believe that one's own life would turn out the same. Foolish, again, and naïve, again.
He told Prussia, once, as carefully as he could, and Prussia had said if it hurts to be around him, why don't you spend less time with him? You both have other friends, and the thing is. The thing is, he couldn't.
Veneziano was his first friend. The first person around him not out of family ties or political obligations, but out of desire to be around him. (Veneziano was a lot of firsts for Germany— first friend, first love, first kiss (technically), first goddamn near everything.) And Germany knew if he left Veneziano would blame himself for driving him away and Germany could not let that happen because all he wanted, really, at bottom, was for Veneziano to be happy, to keep that smile that set Germany's pulse racing and heart aching.
So Germany consigned himself to this foolishness, to staying by Veneziano through thick and thin, to taking the little drops of affection more closely to heart than ever intended even though he knew they meant nothing, because they had a friendship and he could not let that, too, fail.