A/N: How it works, is that each member of the G8 has an appointed sin (even if they have more than just the one…which they do, actually, and don't we love them to bits for it), described by or from the point of view of another. Probably from the G8. Just so everyone there gets a turn, aww how sweet. Though I'm not sure.

And yes, I am aware that there are seven Deadly Sins, but I'll cross that bridge when it comes, keheheh….

Also, inspiration is as ever sorely needed. Especially which sin to appoint to which, and such. (Not to mention, I am completely stuck as to which category to put this thing under, and what rating. Ugh.)

Disclaimer: the Wizard of Oz isn't mine either, sadly. And I'm still poor as heck. (So maths is easy, after all.)

The Eight Deadly Sins

Sloth

It's their day off; just for today, their leaders would take over in all those long, tedious meetings where everyone sat behind flat, monochrome slabs of wood, stiff as boards in starched collars and every one of them with the same Plaster-of-Paris cast for a face. Germany was no different: it was his duty to sit there, prim and severe, like the good little nation he was. When Japan visited, which wasn't actually all that often (they had a mutual understanding: Germany would grapple with Europe and Japan would fell Asia, and each would keep their noses in their own little allotments), they were invariably placed in adjoining seats, mostly for the sake of the cameras. The ones behind all those walled, dead eyes. Beware the critics, lest they find a fault in the film.

Times like that, was when Germany would sometimes slide his eyes out to the side, surreptitiously, to glance at Japan's profile. Only ever that, because with his irreproachable iron-rod posture (but fittingly demure, the meetings were after all held in Germany) and impeccable Western clothing, Japan was attentive if not eager. Japan's eyes never strayed, indeed, the normally dull brown vacuums seemed to glint as they caught every last detail, hoarding every last word or movement as an archaeologist would coins, to pore over later, and extract with scalpels and tweezers – fine, delicate instruments of torture – the clinical, harsh truths, the shadowed implications. So this crown is gold, you say?

For all his focus, though, Germany's sure that his furtive snatches of observation of the nation by his side doesn't go unnoticed. But Japan never does bring it up, and it's not like Germany can.

Times like that, Japan really does…not frighten, no, but worry Germany.

Even now, when all three of them are sharing a picnic meal out in the dandelion-strewn meadows of Germany's extensive back garden, the golden disks of yellow petals a thousand reflections of the midday sun, Germany still feels a tiny sliver of unease swimming in his stomach.

Perhaps it's something to do with the fact that all their 'picnic' really was was three separate portions of food prepared individually by each of them, three plates on a checked red-and-white tablecloth that seemed too big, and too blank. Or perhaps it's because Japan (supposedly one for decorum) has actually taken his one-in-a-myriad variations of rice to a shaded spot under a tree, a little way away, to pick over with smooth, ebony chopsticks, knees folded neatly under him, and the tablecloth looks emptier than ever. It had kept fluttering in the breeze, with nothing to hold it down, no china dishes patterned with honeysuckle and ferns, heaped with tarts and doilies and crisp white triangles of cucumber sandwiches, and so Germany had pinned down three of its corners: pasta-plate in one, his own in another, and a half-empty glass of beer in the third.

It looks stupid, a miserable failure: no material for the cameras today, or perhaps too much. The last corner flaps wildly, like a swan suddenly finding its wings clipped. Germany sighed, pushed the thought of Japan watching him from the shadows away, and turned his attention to Italy.

Brown-haired, slender, lying languidly in all that green, fingers that wield paintbrushes in the place of spears laced behind his head, eyes closed in contentment. The sun shone feather-light on the arch of a cheek, and a bee skimmed low over the tip of his nose, then circled in and out of his stray curl, before moving on, a tiny speck that soon disappeared, taking its soft buzzing with it.

Relaxed enough to fall asleep. Meaning, then, that he was relaxed during training, before and during and after meetings, in the middle of a battlefield…really, all he seemed to do was sleep. That, and stuff himself on his beloved pizza and pasta, gazing dreamily out at passing girls. Not to mention all that clinging and hugging and crying. But primarily the sleeping.

That was the problem. Italy was still wrapped in thin, light, gauzy fantasies, still airborne on the Renaissance, even though those fine, white-marbled wings had long since flown off. Looking at him, you'd think that they'd taken him with them, willowy gondolas weaving through the pillars of stone palaces, for all he paid attention to the war going on around him.

The only exception to this was when Germany had all but bodily dragged him onto the battlefield. And then, had Italy run. Like all the hounds of Hell had manifested themselves into the form of a few rows of tanks. Or even just the one, and their own one at that.

So it was surprising, really, that barring his none-too-infrequent breaks (siestas, God forbid), and between those long periods of cringe-worthy cowardice and no less so affection, Italy really was quite adept at manufacturing them. Though he probably saw them more as thousands of metal-crafted slot-together creations, each a smooth-running assortment of skilfully-fitted…what, exactly, Germany didn't know and sure as Italy's slacking didn't have the idleness to think upon. But whatever it was, it wasn't the massed bulk of heavy, grinding, black-oiled war machinery.

Germany would know that. He'd tried to point them out as such to Italy a while back, and that lithe form had shrunk back, what was clearly a spasm of horror and revulsion clawing at him. And Germany had almost dared to hope that the dozy, carefree little nation finally understood. Had finally woken up, as it were.

Fat chance. All the incident had served to do was spur Italy on, not to be industrious, but to run all the faster. Right into Germany's arms, as if he were trying to knock him off-balance. It was all Prince Charming could do, to not throw him right back under the crushing wheels. Italy would understand. After all, he had been the one to so gleefully (so Germany 's heard, though he can't for the life of him imagine it) exercise that quaint tradition of kicking deserters, those miserable, deluded wretches, it would have been death both ways, didn't they know, didn't they at least want the more honourable one? to the snarling regiments of beasts. All so very hungry.

That would quite ruin the whole fairy-tale that Italy at least was living in. Prince Charming did not desert his damsel, much less heap coals (or tanks, for that matter) onto their head. He does imagine, though…

He wouldn't. He won't. But, to see him sprawled out right there and sleeping…

Italy shifts, sighs, and rolls over so he is resting on his side. His eyes flutter open, one of the rare times that they do, and they are like the first drops of fresh, uncorrupted resin that wells from reddish-brown barked trees, untouched saved for a secret glimmer of warm, soft sunlight, filtered through tender half-translucent butterfly wings, lilting tints of young green that tremble and sway high at the treetops. Where blue skies weaved lullabies in and out of the rainbow, where the rain was the dulcet pattering of melted lemon drops, and the chimney-tops were but red brick squares, from where they, Japan, Italy and he, would hold hands across the backs of blue birds.

In that instant, Germany hunches over on himself slightly, breath catching and quickening inexplicably, as if to make up for the blood that curdles in his veins, coming to an abrupt stop, frozen without warning by shock, by the intensity of his longing. And he knows he can't hate Italy.

(No, but tanks, decimating the stretch of woods Italy hid himself in, cracking the trees, smearing the no longer pure resin, damage, terrible, irreversible damage….)

Italy watches him with clear, gentle, innocent eyes, and smiles.

(….he hates him, he hates him, for daring to dream.)