For the first time ever, Germany had no complaints about the state of his friend's uniform.
Smartly creased in straight lines, not a speck of dirt, no loosened tie. The jacket had even been altered so it couldn't be pulled down to cover his hands.
He hated it.
Looking down at the peaceful face, just as he always looked when sneaking in a nap rather than training, he found that he hated seeing this ordered, crisp version of his friend.
"Please, don't put him in uniform for it," He had begged. "That's not him. It would be a lie."
He couldn't swallow. Had he drunk anything today? Had he eaten?
"Mr Germany, the arrangements do not concern you." Veneziano's boss had snapped.
He hated this. He hated how there was nothing he could do.
It should have been him up there.
He bowed his head and removed the cross from around his neck.
"Here," he murmured. "Take this."
He gathered it up in one hand and with the other, lifted the cold, stiff hand of his only friend, placing the cross between them and lowering the Italian's hand to trap it there.
Dear readers,
I'm not sorry.