Germany sat quietly on his couch, staring off into nothing. Italy, even though he had a hard time telling what other people were feeling, knew he was sad.

"What's wrong?" He asked, smiling. Maybe if Germany saw him smile, he'd be happy again.

Germany looked up at him, "Nothing, Italy. Go away."

Italy was hurt, but didn't question him. He left the room and found himself in the kitchen, idly staring into the cupboard.

Why does he always tell me to go away when he's sad? Italy thought, I just want to make him feel better, but he just gets mad at me...

He began to absentmindedly sort through pots and pans, acting as if he was doing something, I hate when Germany's sad, and he always says I can't help. I want to help so badly. I Just want him to be happy.

But the problem with that was that Italy wasn't very good at comforting people. He'd smile, laugh, give a hug, and tell them that everything would be okay. This worked with some people, but Germany was far too realistic and blunt. He knew that no matter how many smiles, and laughs, and hugs one person gave a problem wouldn't go away.

"AH!" Italy screamed, having dropped a very large pot on his foot. He heard Germany groan loudly from the living room, and snap at him,

"Was are you doing?"

Italy sat down in a chair and put his foot up, "Er, nothing. I'm okay! Don't worry, I'll put these back...eventually." He looked at the large pile of cookware he'd made.

Germany looked in from the living room at the mess and Italy, "Feet off the table! And put those away now, unless you plan on cooking with them!"

Oh great, I just made him angrier. Italy thought, sadly, All I ever do is make him mad.

He put his foot down and sighed, "Scusa...I'm putting them up right now."

"Danke." Germany said flatly.

Italy stood slowly, unsuccessfully avoiding putting weight on his injured foot. He whimpered, sinking to the ground, biting back the instinct to ask Germany for some help. Get up, he'll get mad if he sees that you hurt yourself again. Italy scolded himself, in his head.

He grabbed the back of his chair and pushed himself up, lifting the injured foot off the ground. He loudly hopped on his good foot over to the counter, "Italy? Was in Gott's name are you doing?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Italy yelled, now leaning on the counter, sorting through the cookware, making an obnoxious racket.

Germany, very much annoyed, stated, "I'm just going to go up to my room. When I come back down this better be cleaned up."

Italy hastily replied, "Yes sir!" And fell to the ground as soon as he heard Germany's bedroom door slam at the top of the stairs, unable to stand on one leg any longer.

I'm so stupid. Italy thought to himself. I should just leave before I make things worse.

He pulled himself up with the counter and managed to get the rest of the pots and pans stacked messily into the cupboard. I'll stack them nicer for him later.

Italy limped over to the door and carefully slid on his boots. He put on his jacket and yanked the door open, taking one quick glance around the house. I shouldn't have even come over. He sounded grumpy on the phone, too. I should have known when I try to make things better I just mess them up.

He turned out the door and left, slamming it a little harder than he intended. Mostly out of frustration with himself. Stupid.