This is my first of a few Hetalia stories to come. I am now obsessed with Hetalia thanks to a friend of mine. This is dedicated to Optimistically-Hopeless :D Hope you all like it. It's very much GermanyxItaly. They're my 2 favorite characters by far. XD Please read and review. :D
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, but it's on my wishlist to. XD
Who Knew?
"Italy!" Germany screams in a very pissed off tone. Italy is running way too slow with Germany behind him. They've been training for weeks now. It's during World War II and Italy still isn't fit. Not in Germany's eyes. Actually not in anyone's.
"B-but I'm hungry and my feet hurt," Italy moans.
"I don't care!"
"Yes you do, otherwise you'd just let me give up and eat," he counters in an over emotional moan. Germany is shocked. Not really by the words, but the meaning behind them. The truth has a way of doing that to you. He's right; if I didn't care I would have given up on him years ago. Actually I care a little bit too much. Italy can actually make a valid point. Who knew?
Even though he knows it's true, he doesn't say a word. But he does want to. Instead he looks straight forward and picks up the pace. There's a confession inside of him, but he's too stubborn to admit it; barely even to himself.
They continue to run and as time seems to drag on Germany feels like kicking himself. There's a thick silence between them. For once neither of them knows what to say. Now it's Italy's turn to think. Why can't he admit he actually cares about me as more than just an ally? I've told him a bazillion times how much I care about him. Why can't he say the same to me? I think he needs to let lose a little, but how?
"Can we take a break? Just a little, teeny, tiny one?" Germany slows down with a confused look on his face and stops running. He keeps slowing until he stands completely still. Italy runs a small ways further until he realizes his friend is immobile.
"Germany? Are you okay?" Italy turns around and jogs back to Germany. "Are we giving up?" the lazy man says with half confusion and half glee. Germany is speechless; he can't figure out what to say. He stares down at his feet looking for words and encouragement.
"Germany?" Italy's scared now. This isn't normal whatsoever. He's not used to the German having no choice words to say. Is he broken? Hungry? Maybe he's going to die! Ah! Germany! Don't die! Of course he starts freaking out and assumes the worst is happening instead of what it really is.
"You're right Italy, I do care," he admits in a soft voice. He is tired of running, and in more ways than one. If Italy would have listened to his tone he would have sensed something deeper. The confession he had so desperately wanted was just stated in Germany's own way.
"See! I knew you cared about me," the brunette says while going for a hug. Germany's hands go out and stop the encounter. Italy frowns until he hears the next words.
"Let's take a lunch break. But, only a break. We'll continue to train in half an hour." That made Italy happy enough.
"Yay! Pastaaa!" Italy yells while running at triple speed. At the mention of food he forgets all about how frightened he had been. And how Germany had pushed him away. He actually was patient in his own impatient sort of way. It just depended who it concerned. He could wait for Germany to open up completely, or as much as he possibly could. They have all the time in the world.
"Verdammt Italy! You can run for pasta but not for training?" Germany is only a little bit mad. Pasta was the man's greatest weakness. The Italian was funny in his own little way. It was nice for Germany to have someone so different from himself that he could call a friend. It made him stretch out his arms and embrace his feelings, as frightening as they may be. In many ways that country was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Before long they reach their picnic area. Naturally Italy gets there a couple of minutes before Germany. Only because food is involved, of course. A bowl of steaming hot pasta in tomato sauce is his lunch. Germany pulls out a wurst sandwich. Cold. How Italy's food stayed warm from this morning and Germany's was frigid, he didn't know. And how anyone but a German can find it delectable is a mystery.
"Do you want a bite?" Italy asks sincerely.
"Nein, thank you, though," Germany says while staring quizzically at the fork in Italy's hand.
"Why? Are you afraid of my germs?" Italy says this and sounds like an eight year old mocking a friend because he's afraid of cooties.
"Of course not!" he says offended. Germany nods his head upwards. Italy understands. He puts his fork in Germany's mouth. Teeth bite down and suck up the delectable noodles. Obviously neither of them realize how awkward this seems. If France had been watching they would never live it down.
"Mmm," he says, "sehr gut."
"Thanks, Germany! Glad you like it," Italy says while lighting up. "Oh, you have sauce on your face," he adds with a small laugh and big smile. Germany looks uncomfortable as Italy takes a napkin and wipes the tomato sauce from the corner of his lip. Both pairs of eyes meet and Germany sheepishly smiles while Italy's stays planted. Italy gets back to his pasta dish and the blonde sits on the bench beside him. His body is still for a moment before he gets an idea.
"Do you want a bite?" he asks offering the unique sandwich. Surely it was only for an acquired taste. Italy looks at it like it's English food.
"No thanks, I'm good." Germany scowls, but doesn't yell. He understands that Italians are very picky eaters. Their food choices were vastly different. Besides, more for myself.
They continue to eat and Italy talks a little bit. Responses from Germany are mostly nods of the head or small answers. After they're finished Germany organizes their belongings and looks down at Italy, who's sitting on a concrete bench.
"Okay, time to get back to work." Before Italy can complain Germany holds up his hand and Italy stops.
"Silence. We have no choice. Do you want to win the war?"
"Of course I do, but-"
"No buts!" Germany says cutting him off.
"Haha, you just said 'butt.'" The Arian does a face-palm, then stares at Italy.
"Italy!"
"Eek! Okay, I'm up!" Italy jumps up onto his feet and almost loses his balance. Instead of letting him fall Germany grips his arm and uses his strength to keep him upwards. A sheepish look spreads over the clumsy man's face.
"Sorry."
"It's alright. Come on," he says in a hushed tone which makes Italy feel better. The Italian might make a lot of mistakes, but unlike other countries, Germany forgives him and deals with it. The blonde might be loud and scary sometimes, but he didn't care. That's what Italy loved about him.
"Let's go," Germany says with a wave of his hand. They start off into a jog, then pick up speed. Italy's actually going a little faster than before lunch. This time they're running next to each other instead of in a two person line. Words unconsciously slip out of Germany's mouth. They surprise him.
"I-I'm proud of you Italy. Glad you're keeping up for once." He glances at Italy and their eyes meet. Surprise covers his face, though that's not abnormal. They had a way of surprising each other.
"Aww, thank you, Germany!" The little comment gives Italy a boost of confidence and energy. Germany picks up on it. It probably won't last, but I'm glad he's finally trying. Maybe if he's distracted he'll run this speed longer?
"Say, Italy, do you want to talk about something while we run?" Italy doesn't realize the other man is trying to motivate him. Instead he thinks he's trying to open up.
"Sure! What do you want to talk about? Food?" Italy asks while winded. Germany sighs, but agrees.
"Sure, if we must."
"Okay, I'll start…" I wouldn't imagine otherwise, Germany thinks while mentally rolling his eyes. Italy goes on to talk about every type of pasta and pizza on Earth. Or Germany swears that he does. How is he so longwinded? Instead of listening to the almost breathless man he takes this time to think about preparations for the war. He's so into his mind that he doesn't realize something approaching.
"Ah!" he screams as he falls right into a sticky situation. A mud puddle. "Verdammt!"
A bust of laughter escapes Italy. The muddy German's hair is now all messed up. The mishap and uncleanliness embarrass him.
"Italy! It's not funny! Help me up." The laughter stops, and Italy goes to extend his hand. Germany smiles. Why's he smiling? His internal question is soon answered. With one swift movement Germany pulls Italy towards the mud.
"Ve! Germany!" During the fall he flails, then lands on Germany's chest. All the while Germany laughs. The hit doesn't hurt that much. Mud thoroughly covers them both. Italy pouts, which seems to satisfy Germany to some extent. He's letting lose a little. Guess I got my wish.
"There. Now we're even." The pout on Italy's face gets stronger.
They're both panting lightly from the run. It's not until then that they realize how close they are to each other. Germany clears his throat, but instead of getting up Italy lays his head on Germany's chest. He's stiff and frozen at first, then gives in. Strong arms wrap around Italy as he smiles into Germany's chest. A happy sigh leaves the brunette. They lay there in a tranquil silence for a few moments. It feels almost like they're floating in the ocean and the waves are rocking them gently.
Italy lifts his head up and smiles. Suddenly Germany's lips meet his. Italy's first reaction is to lean away, but Italy never listens to anyone, even himself. Instead he closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the new experience. Germany does the same now that he sees his risky advance is accepted. That was risky. The pair lays there for a while longer, then reluctantly break the contact. Italy suddenly laughs and Germany looks almost mad at the outburst. The scowl is mostly from curiosity.
"You're covered in mud!" Italy says as he looks down at his makeshift blonde mattress. Germany's golden hair is caked with mud and slightly unkempt.
"So are you." Germany says with a smirk. Italy seems to think for a second. The mud plastered to Italy almost matches his hair color.
"Your hair looks cute when it's messy. I like your hair when it's wild like when you are. You're more fun when you stop acting all stuffy. This Germany is molto better." Germany blushes in crimson.
"Danke, Italy. I like your little curl," Germany says while touching the long, bouncy curl of hair. Italy smiles and Germany does likewise. They both know what the strand means to Italy.
"Are we done training now?" Italy asks hopefully. Germany smirks and looks like his usual self again. Strong and controlled.
"Nein, you have a long way to go." He says this, but his demeanor seems to have changed since five minutes ago.
"Ehh!"
"No complaining! Okay, we'd better get up and start running again. We lost a lot of time." Germany wasn't very good with romantic encounters, so all he can do is reflect it. Not that he hadn't enjoyed the little rendezvous. It would be better if he didn't dwell on it too much, though. He wasn't a big fan of change, so the slower it went the better. Italy understands. They had taken the first step, which was always the hardest.
Italy gets up and extends his hand like before, but Germany doesn't take it. For one, because he doubts he's strong enough to help him up, and two, because he thinks it might be a lure to drop him back into the mud. But, instead of spending another second in the filth, he accepts. In a few moments he's up onto his feet without even trying. He's thoroughly surprised. Germany shoots Italy a quizzical look.
"Are you surprised?" Italy asks with pride.
"Ja. Seems like you're getting stronger. I wonder who taught you to train? I should give him a medal," Germany asks jokingly. Of course that man is none other than himself. An old Iron Cross appears out of nowhere and is pinned onto Germany's uniform. Italy does this almost instantly.
"Okay, here ya go!" Germany just shakes his head with a small smile.
"Oh, Italy. You never cease to surprise me."
"I've learned from the best." Italy is sincere, and Germany knows it. If he was an emotional man a tear would have come to his eye. Instead he just smiles and blushes.
"Danke, Italy," he thanks, then playfully punches Italy in the arm.
"Ow," he says with a frown. His arm rubs over his shoulder to sooth it.
"That didn't hurt."
"How do you know?" Italy says as they break into a jog once more.
"Because I would never intentionally hurt you," Germany says. Now Italy blushes slightly.
"I know. I'm glad we're friends."
"Me, too, Italy. Me, too." Germany lightly pats Italy on the back and smiles.
They start to pick up speed and run towards the orange afternoon sun. For once in a long time they both had a smile plastered on their face. Germany was glad he had made a sort of confession. There were more to come, but it would take a lot more courage than he could muster at the moment. When the time was right he was sure he could do it. For Italy he didn't even care that they were training. At least he was with Germany. That was all that mattered at the end of the day. What a kiss! I won't let him live that one down. Hopefully I won't have to. I haven't felt like this in years. He's right, he never would hurt me. I guess Germany does care about me more than he lets on. Who knew?
Yay! First Hetalia Fic is done. Please review. :) Hope you liked it. I reviewe/edited it myself many times and it's now exactly how I wanted it. :D
-Melody