The Taste of Summer
Prussia always said his little brother was too stubborn for his own good. Now, for the first time in his life, Germany was beginning to suspect that he was right.
It wasn't even close to noon, and already the air was approaching the approximate heat of Satan's left armpit, and Germany was sweltering. He had forgone the high-collared jacket in favour of a black, sleeveless undershirt (he's stubborn, not mad), but the rest of his stifling combat gear was firmly, almost defiantly in place. He had a certain image to uphold, after all.
But now that he was well and truly sweating in his boots, Germany was cursing that image, along with the Allies, the sun, and most of all that damned Italy, who for the third time this week hadn't bothered to turn up for training. Germany swiped ineffectually at his streaming forehead. Verdammt…
"Germany! Hey, Germany!"
Hah. Speak of the devil. Germany didn't even bother to look behind him; he could hear the little Italian puffing towards him like a steam train. Instead he closed his pocket-watch with a snap, and, with a Herculean effort, managed to hold back a sigh.
"Guten Abend, Italy," he said dryly. "You're late. Again."
"Mi dispiace, Germany, but look what I found!"
Oh, Gott. Germany turned with no small amount of reluctance, expecting to see Italy clutching a lost kitten, a lame puppy, or perhaps a stray American. Instead he found himself looking at something pale yellow and vaguely cone-shaped – it was difficult to tell exactly what it was, however, because Italy had thrust it so close to his face that Germany immediately went cross-eyed.
"It's gelato!" Italy sang, and Germany recoiled slightly to avoid getting a noseful of the stuff. "Romano and I used to have it all the time, but I haven't been able to find any here until now! Lemon is my favourite but I got an apple one for you, because I know how much you love that apple scrudel thing or whatever it's called. Go on, Germany, try it! It's really really good, and it'll cool you down, too!"
Germany blinked. "Er… you brought this… for me?"
"Sì! I ran all the way here because I didn't want it to melt before I could give it to you." Italy laughed breathlessly, and just like that, the heat in Germany's cheeks was no longer entirely due to the sun. "Actually, it did melt a little bit, so I had to lick it… but don't worry, I'm sure it will still taste fine!" he added quickly, completely misreading Germany's stricken expression. A sudden, unbidden image had just sprung into Germany's mind; Italy's lips moving over the ice-cream, the tip of his tongue trailing the length of the cone to catch the drips… Ach, verdammt! Germany pressed a hand to his forehead, blinking in shock. What the hell was that?!
"So you'd better eat it quickly," Italy went on, utterly oblivious to Germany's sudden discomfit. "If you-"
"Nein!" Germany cut in, a little too quickly, a little too loudly. He took a sharp step backwards, determinedly avoiding Italy's gaze. "Nein, danke, Italy. While I appreciate the thought, we really do have work to do."
Italy fell silent. Germany shifted awkwardly; he could feel Italy's gaze on him, and sure enough a glance was all it took to confirm that the little brunette nation was staring at him with eyes full of confusion and hurt. Ach nein, not the puppy-eyes! Germany began to squirm. Unlike Germany, Italy had ditched his proper military attire for shorts. His boots were nowhere to be seen, his shirt was rumpled, and his normally exuberant mop of hair was hanging limply in the heat. And he was still holding out that cursed ice-cream, the root of this whole regrettable situation. He really did look pitiful, standing there so hopefully.
"Oh," Italy said at last, lowering his gaze. "You – you don't want it?"
Germany could have torn his hair out. Instead he sighed, stepped forward, and gently took the ice-cream. Italy let out a little gasp and looked up at him, and Germany gave him a small, wry smile.
"Danke, Italy," he said softly, before taking a tentative bite.
"Is it good?" Italy asked eagerly, watching with clasped hands as Germany closed his eyes, savouring the taste of apple, cinnamon, vanilla, and another flavour he couldn't quite place. After a long moment, he nodded.
"Ja. Sehr lecker."
Italy looked relieved. "Oh, good! I was worried that you wouldn't like it – not because I thought I would be wasting my time otherwise," he explained hurriedly, desperate that Germany should not get the wrong idea. "It was nothing like that, I just didn't want you to think I was trying to poison you or anything." Italy spread his hands and laughed. "Isn't that silly? I- oh, what-?"
Germany was holding the icecream out to him, looking more bashful than Italy had ever seen him – more bashful than he had even thought possible for the staunch, usually imperturbable nation.
"Here, Italy," he spoke gruffly. "I… I want you to have it."
"I…" Italy stepped back, looking hurt again. "So, you don't like it after all? I said I didn't poison it – don't you believe me?"
"What? Nein! I mean, no, it's nothing like that, I just…" Germany sighed, struggling to find the right words. Gott, of course he didn't think Italy was trying to poison him; what an absurd idea! "Look at you!" he exclaimed at last, gesturing with the cone. "You look half dead in this heat, Italy. I… I couldn't possibly enjoy this, knowing that you were suffering. So here." He thrust the gelato towards Italy again. "Take it."
For a moment Italy just stared at him. Then, he burst out laughing. "Oh, silly Germany! Is that really what you're worried about? I'm fine, this heat is nothing compared to what we get back home. But if it bothers you that much, we could always share."
Share. That one inconsequential word, and the offhand way Italy said it, was somehow enough to colour Germany's cheeks a deeply unsettling shade of pink. What the hell was wrong with him today? It must be the heat. It is making me delirious, that is all… Gott verdammt, get a grip on yourself, Ludwig! He resisted the urge to slap himself; Italy was already staring at him concernedly, as if he feared Germany was sickening for something. The last thing he needed was for Italy to think he had gone completely mad.
"Germany?" Italy ventured, when Germany still didn't say anything. "Are you all right? You've gone a funny colour… ah, and the gelato is melting!"
Italy was right. Without thinking, Germany moved to catch the melting ice-cream before it got to his glove – just as Italy closed the gap between them to do the same. Italy gasped as his tongue brushed over Germany's, and the blond nation recoiled like he had just licked an electric fence, stammering an apology.
"No no no, it was my fault," Italy cried, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to back away. "Sorry, Germany, I shouldn't have… shouldn't have… shouldn't…"
He trailed off, biting his lip sheepishly. Then, without warning, he threw his arms around Germany's neck and pulled him into a kiss. Germany gasped against Italy's mouth, his eyes widening in surprise and disbelief as he started to pull away, only to realise that he did not want to. His eyes closed, and with a blissful shudder he wrapped his arms around the smaller nation's waist and, crushing their bodies together, returned Italy's kiss with an intensity bordering on desperation. Ah, Gott, a moment ago he had thought the gelato was the best thing he had ever tasted; how wrong he had been! This, the taste of Italy's mouth, its heat and sweetness, the lingering flavour of apples and cinnamon, was unlike anything he had experienced or imagined in all his long, long life. It was the taste of sunshine, the taste of summer – but most of all, it was the taste of him.
He half-expected Italy to pull away, when at last they ran out of breath and their lips parted. But, of course, there was no end to the things this mad little country could do to surprise and delight him. He didn't move; just smiled at Germany like he was the most wonderful, most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Silly Germany," he murmured at last, gently nuzzling the crook of Germany's neck. "You dropped the gelato."
Germany smiled. "Es tut mir Leid, Italy," he said, without a trace of regret. He hadn't even noticed, and frankly, he had never cared about anything less. But he supposed he ought to make up for the waste. He gently lifted Italy's chin and kissed him again, softly.
Summer had never tasted so sweet.
Verdammt / Gott verdammt = Damn it / God damn it
Guten Abend = Good evening
Mi dispiace = I'm sorry
Sehr lecker = Delicious
Es tut mir Leid = I'm sorry