AA/N: This takes place sometime about three hundred years in the future.
Warning: major character death
However, I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I usually write past tense, so writing present tense was a little hard. Please let me know what you think!
The world is about to end, and Germany only listens to the pellets of rain against the window panes like the bullets he knows so well, the splintering cracks of lightning like fire, the din of thunder reminiscent of the bombs that drop from planes so many miles above.
It's been centuries since he's felt the wrath of war, but the memories resurface far too easily, always a constant burden, always on his mind like a parasite.
He feels a pang as the world is being washed away three stories below him. The world conference room is a way to hide from the swarming water and death in the streets, but not for long. For once, all of the countries, enemies and friends alike, have gathered willingly and silently to embrace the Earth as they used to know it, to embrace the end. For, as soon as their country is in ruins or every last citizen dies, they will die, too, one by one. And hopefully, none of them will be the last to die, but someone will have to take the spot.
Germany looks down at the ground from the glass that obscures his vision with its fog and tiny droplets running down the window like tears, like the Earth itself is crying. He's done some terrible, terrible things over the course of his existence, and if he could go back through the twisting, bending fabric of time, of course he would change it. There isn't a day where those thoughts work their way through his mind.
But he's also done well in the world, becoming successful and powerful, riddled with allies and a world leader in science in technology; his position is enviable and within the hour he will be giving it up.
He can't go back, and he can't continue to succeed, because he is watching the world come smashing down with the people he has known for an eternity. It reminds him painfully that planet Earth is a place dominated by humans who believe that they know and own all, only to have everything they have ever created, all that they were proud of with the passion only humans could have, be swept away by the end of the world.
Germany can't tear his eyes away from the sight as the water rapidly rises over the Swiss grasses and flowers, flooded and killed by rain. He's the only one, however, watching the catastrophe play out before him.
It's an obligation, he supposes, someone needs to watch it go.
America is in hysterics- he loves the world, loves living, too much. It's a shock beyond comprehension to see him cry, because anyone who knew America even remotely would expect blatant optimism to pour from his every word no matter the situation. But his body is shaking with sobs as he cries into England's shoulder, who obviously is at a painful loss on what to do. America is not an ounce of his usual bravery, but England manages, just barely, to ease him- he rubs slow circles on his back, over five hundred years of pent up emotion (what emotion it is, Germany cannot place) exerted in an effort to make it all okay when the end is finally nigh.
Yes, Germany is alone, but when he speaks his brother's name, Prussia is suddenly there at his side, as if he had been anticipating it.
"We're very different, you and I," he confesses, "but you're my brother, and-" he stops mid-sentence, his words sounding horribly foreign and forced to his own ears.
Prussia is silent, like the whole room. Dark shadows cast over his face in strange angles, and it dawns on Germany that they are both very tired of all the chaos they have lived through, regardless if it was worth it or not, and for that reason, neither of them are able to speak for a moment.
A rumble shakes the ground, Germany's heart dropping into his stomach as the whole company shudders and quakes. America is sobbing harder still, remarkably attached to the world he has known centuries less of than most of them- he is ignorant of death, but Germany doesn't blame him, for what is life worth if you do not love it more than you can say?
What is life worth if you do not die? Germany ponders, because even if the countries are immortal, they are not insured with life if their people do not live. Germany sighs, America being a shock of common sense for him, a shock that came far too late.
As the ground shakes again and countless lightning bolts scar the sky, everything becomes all the more unbearable. For a million reasons that he cannot sort out, not now, Germany feels tears dot the corners of his eyes. He covers his mouth to stifle a sob that he tries to suppress- not because he is ashamed, but for the reason that he cannot draw attention to himself when everyone else needs to have this moment to themselves.
He feels Prussia's arm snake over his shoulders, slightly awkward due to the height difference, but the gesture slows his heart that pounds so loud the room could likely hear it.
Prussia finally speaks, "Bruder, geh zum Italien."
Another tremor vibrates the room and it manages to rattle his ribcage like the bones are tiny wooden bridges teetering over an abyss.
Germany turns his head, a very painful and difficult effort, holds his gaze on a figure curled inward, encased in his own arms as he sits against the back wall, entirely alone. Germany's chest swells as Italy shudders in the increasingly cold room. Something rips through his soul and body like a bullet when he watches the auburn hair shift like autumn leaves and two red-rimmed, stained eyes find his own so swiftly, it's almost instinctual.
His knees feel weak and its all he can do to not collapse in a heap and curl up like Italy has. However, it isn't the shaking Earth that keeps Germany from holding himself up.
Germany and Italy have been able to communicate without words for what seems like eons now, taking one look at each other, and just knowing. So he knows Italy will not object when Germany strides softly across the carpet that is growing damp with heavy rain that leaks through the ceiling and sinks down next to him.
The mere inches of space between them are hot with body heat but it only takes a silent minute before the space disappears, and Italy's arms are locked fiercely around Germany's chest, his head tucked over his shoulder, and it is the most painful thing ever when Italy's tears stain his clothes.
"Germany…" Italy says, his hands gripping Germany's uniform, "...Ludwig." He says his human name with finality, as if it gives him satisfaction in saying it.
"Feliciano," he responds, saying it in a way that is terribly solemn, but more intimate than anything he's ever said- thank God he's saved these emotions for Italy.
"Why is the world ending?" He says, and his voice is painfully innocent.
Germany could mention a hundred scientific, religious, or even philosophical reasons, but the only words that pass through his lips are hushed, "I don't know."
Italy is so close that Germany's own words are caught in his mouth, and for a split, half-a-second he wonders what it would feel like to press his own lips to Italy's own, but now is the most inopportune to open (reopen, if he's being honest with himself) something this delicate, something they can never, ever, nurture or develop.
He's wasted so much time worrying over stupid, stupid things, and now, when it counts- when it counts more than anything in the history of life- Germany is in no position to tie up everything he's compiled with Italy over the years into a neat package. Nothing can be fixed, and he's leaving everything on this world behind in an untidy manner- how very unlike him.
The ground shakes violently and Italy grips Germany harder. There's a loud thump, and a shriek from the other side of the room. Germany leaps to his feet, stopping with a jerk when he sees the scene before him.
Finland and Sealand are screaming over a body, long and thin, sending Germany's stomach straight to his feet- one's gone, there will be more to follow.
"Sweden, Sweden!" The panic and grief wrought in Finland's voice is heartbreaking. Sealand screaming, "Papa, wake up!" is pure torture in the way that no child should ever scream or cry with this much pain.
Disturbed, Germany returns to his spot next to Italy, "Sweden's dead," he whispers, "His population is probably gone."
"Are you sure? Maybe he's just hurt-" Italy mutters, his lip quivering violently.
Germany shakes his head slowly, "All gone."
They are silent, and the rain pounds harder and Finland cries louder.
As the minutes tick by, Italy's hand intertwines with Germany's, the latter stroking the former's palm with calloused fingertips. It's growing darker outside, not because of the night, but because the Earth is being swallowed whole by huge waves of rain. The water is up past the first floor now, almost eight feet of rain flooding the building at its base. Germany doubts the water will ever reach them; it's more likely they'll die of population loss before anything else. He prays to any god that will listen to kill him before Italy- watching Italy die would be the worst thing imaginable.
But with every second he can feel himself grow weaker. He can feel every citizen's death like a needle in his side, the loss of his language and culture like a stab wound.
"Feliciano," he says once more, the name rolling off of his tongue, and Italy looks up weakly. The words that fly from his mouth are something he doesn't mean to say, "No matter how much time will pass, you'll always be my favorite in the world."
Italy gasps, tears filling his eyes, and Germany is suddenly astonished at what he said, not knowing the source of the words, terrified that he has hurt Italy.
"Someone, a long time ago," Italy hiccups, "said that to me."
Germany cannot respond, there is no way to respond, so he says nothing.
Not only is he at a loss for words, but Italy leans over with swiftness and kisses him softly, gently, and it is the most familiar thing Germany has ever felt. His lips taste sweet, like Italian herbs and flowers, and even though both of them are crying and the kiss is agonizingly bittersweet, Germany has never been happier.
The world is ending, and Germany is filled with joy.
He touches Italy's hairline, soft and light to his coarse hands; despite being in a room filled with over two hundred people, they are alone. It's been ages since he met Italy, and through fury and fear he is finally happy for a brief moment, and this moment is worth more than power or money.
The lights flicker out, the electricity gone null. Belgium and Netherlands have collapsed side by side, France, England, and America hold the lifeless body of Canada. He holds Italy a little closer, panic rising in his throat.
Germany closes his eyes, caressing the sharp angles of his jaw, touching his cheeks and his lips. He runs his fingers over the outline of his eyebrows as Italy curls closer to him.
In Italian, he tells him he loves him.
Italy replies in German.
Lightning stings the sky, wind howls furiously outside. Each German death that he feels becomes more pronounced as his citizens drop out of the millions, and he can feel the beautiful monuments of Berlin become swallowed by water. His head pounds terribly when the last speaker of Alte Deutsch drowns in Baden-Baden.
"Italy, do you feel it, t-" Germany looks down at Italy's small frame against his, and the chest does not heave with life anymore. He blinks away the shock, heart racing and breath shallow.
No. No, no, no, no.
Italy had been dying faster than he and had said nothing. He had not complained, had not cried or said a word depicting how fast his population had gone.
Germany grabs the limp shoulders and shakes him, yelling out his name, holding him against his chest. Part of him listens for a heartbeat, but it is not there. He can feel Prussia's arms pulling him away from Italy's body, but he resists and, feeling weaker and weaker by the second, collapses next to the ally of whom he had met so long ago.
This is not happening, this is impossible, this could never happen
"Italy, Italy, no," he says to the unresponsive body, "You're not weak, you never were."
Italy- beautiful, wonderful, kind, joyous Italy- is dead in his arms, and it hurts more than a thousand bullets, more than feeling the deaths of his citizens. This is the most painful thing in the world, and Germany feels like he's drowning. Italy is dead, and he is the last person to ever deserve death.
Shaking, he kisses him once more, a good-bye touch on his lips. Italy was never weak because despite knowing he was dying, he said nothing about his well-being, choosing instead to stay by Germany's side for these few, precious moments. Italy's population was smaller than his, but not by a lot, so Germany will feel the wrath of death soon.
But Germany is glad he himself will die in minutes because he doesn't think he could handle this much longer.
His fingers tremble as he brings Italy towards his body and he sits against the wall, holding him, holding the man who had brought him so much trouble and joy in his life. He kisses his forehead, each of his cheeks, and his lips one last time as tears well over the rims of his eyelids and splash onto Italy's olive-hued skin.
How beautiful he is.
There is a sharp clap of thunder, and the last German dies.
Ages ago, the Holy Roman Empire promised Italy he would one day return.
And he had.