Early Summer, 1945.
He dimly looked around the destroyed and looted living room of what used to be his home. His furniture had been turned over and torn to pieces, art he valued torn from their frames, graffiti covered or burned. Remnants of their break-in littered the ground; shell casings and empty clips, deserted bags and bloodied rags. His home had been used as a staging place, and a basic hospital. His dining room table was splattered with blood and unmentionable liquids. The tables were used for kindling for a fire. He ran a bloodied hand over the spot where his table tops should have been. The motion smeared blood on the metal frame.
Everything was gone in his kitchen, the cabinets torn to pieces, and hate notes littering the fridge. He slowly made his way up the stairs, trying to see through the sudden stream of blood dripping into his eyes. He wiped his forehead, noticing the abundance of blood. It was truly over. He let the sudden tears forming fall without a word, and continued his ascent to see what was left of the upstairs.
The hallway should have told him that there was little hope of anything left. Blankets were tossed and soiled, left for anyone who dared to enter again. Feathers from torn pillows trailed from the three rooms. More images were torn and destroyed. The first two rooms were both looted for anything they saw of value, and then turned into a macabre showroom. As he stumbled out of the second room, clutching his mouth to hold the rising contents of his stomach, he caught sight of the last room; his room. The room he often shared with his old ally, Italy. His old and only best friend.
The tears came harder as he pushed opened the door.
The room was a disaster. The bed was ripped to pieces, turned over to one side, blocking the window. The part facing it was painted with a Nazi symbol, and the words 'Bloody Home'. His closet was completely pillaged, whatever clothes they didn't like or didn't care for abandoned on the floor, decorated with drops of blood. His dresser was smashed to pieces. He couldn't keep the saddened sounds in this throat as he noticed the paintings that Italy had framed and done for him in piles of ash.
He rummaged through the remains of the dresser, hoping they didn't notice the false bottom of it. He found the loose panel of the bottom, and nearly tore it off its hinges. The box was still there, the paint chipping and slightly charred, but it was still there. He just hoped nothing was missing.
He took the box gently out of the ruins, and held it up to see it. The decorations painted by himself still looked like new, besides the obvious damage. He had tried to paint for Italy, to see if anything he had learned did stick with him. Italy was amazed at how it looked when it was done. He knew they did something with it, and put the small things they wouldn't want to lose in it, but the gaps from the war burned deep.
He set it on his knees, and opened the tiny lid, feeling the smooth edges of the box. The three items that had been put in were still there. His and Italy's rings from the failure of a Valentine's Day, ending only in confusion, but both agreed to hold onto them if anything could change.
The other object was Italy's Iron Cross.
"No…."
He slowly picked up the cross, running his finger over the front slowly. When did he put it in the box? He watched as a tear splashed on the surface, running pink down the metal necklace piece. He shook hard, trying to figure out why he would leave this, the only piece he had left to know Italy still felt something for him, in the box. He flipped it over, and couldn't believe what was inscribed on it.
'No matter how long, I'll always love you'
He curled his fingers tighter around it, crying out for a life long lost. He press the Iron Cross to his head, letting everything out that had been held up since Italy's break from the Axis. He held onto it for every hope that one day, he could get back his life, and maybe repair what was broken.
He closed the small box, keeping the Iron cross and throwing it around his neck to remember. He barely had left his room's threshold before America and England were upon him. He did not resist as they pulled him out and away from the ruins of memories possibly forever lost.
Italy couldn't stop fidgeting. He was going to drive himself off the barely visited edge if he didn't find out. He flopped over onto his stomach, groaning into his pillow. He was still sore and bruised from the war, but the knowing feeling that something was wrong would not go away.
His door creaked open, and his eyes were glued onto Romano, who walked in with an unreadable face.
"What's wrong fratello?" he asked his brother. Romano looked at the empty neckline of his brother and sighed.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this but….I think something's happened to the potato bastard"
Italy stopped breathing. He stare unblinking at his brother. How was it possible that his gut was right, that something horrible was wrong? He went for his neck, looking for the Iron Cross normally lying on his collarbone, to find emptiness. He had forgotten that he had locked it away, mostly in fear and depression. He looked at Romano frightened.
"Please tell me you have something, anything, else, Romano…."
"I don't, I'm sorry" with the bitter words, Romano slammed the door shut behind him. Italy's face dropped from its stressed shield, into bitter anger at his brother. He grabbed the closest object, an empty glass cup, and hurled it at the door, watching it smash into pieces with a satisfying crack. Italy panted, arm still frozen from when he threw it and roared out.
Romano chose the wrong time to be…what was it that Japan called him, tsundere? He was furious that he would have no help in finding Germany, to make sure he wasn't too hurt from the war. He hated to admit it, but he knew Germany would be hurt from this.
He jumped up from his bed, and over to his large windows leading out to a balcony. He threw open the windows, letting the large burst of wind fling everything loose on him, and stepped outside. The air was still slightly copper-tinged from the war and the flames. He looked out to the direction of Germany, and swore to find him, and he had a feeling he knew where to start.
The Allies didn't expect Italy to run in like he was ready for another war. He slammed his hands down hard, staring into England's eyes with a purpose.
"Where is he?"
England, and everyone else, was confused. America started to ask who, but Italy glared at him so intensely, America immediately sat down. Italy returned his attention to England, who was trying to figure it out.
"Where is Germany, England? I know he would be here. I would go ask Prussia, but he's somewhere with Russia"
"Even if I knew, Italy, I wouldn't tell you…"
"TELL ME!"
The room stood still as the yell echoed on the walls. Italy stared with enflamed anger at England, who was taken aback. He wasn't kidding anymore; Italy wanted the truth, and he would do anything. England let out a drawn out sigh and shuffled through the drawer next to him, and placed a folder with a key attached to it in his hands.
"Here. You have an hour"
Italy snatched the key, and broke from his anger, smiling and happy about seeing Germany. America knew what to do. He ushered Italy down a series of hallways, smiling the entire way. Somehow, America was kind of glad that Italy was here. They were all getting worried about Germany.
Italy saw the door before America could point to it. He ran past the American, and slid the key into the keyhole, and stopped. He held the key turned, just wondering what would happen. How would Germany look behind the door? Would he still look like himself, or even act like himself? He gripped the key, not knowing what to do. He had his chance right here, but…
Why does he hesitate?
"Just a warning, Italy…" America said softly. Italy watched as America's face fell.
"He hasn't been himself since he was brought here, well at least what he was before this war"
Italy nodded. He made up his mind, and turned the key as far as he could and opened the door. America reminded him that he had one hour, and closed the door.
Germany had been put in a solitary white room, large enough to probably live in. He was stripped of his uniform and anything closely pertaining to the War. He only had on his Iron cross, a white tank top, and a loose pair of white slacks, barely covering naked feet. He was handcuffed, arms locked together by metal behind his back. He was braced up against the far wall, which dripped with blood. He was only half-facing the door, eyes downcast. Blood seemed to drip everywhere on his face. When Italy stepped in more, Germany looked up at him. His face was completely different, and so empty, so lonely. He didn't say anything to him as Italy let out a gasp.
A line of blood flowed down the left side of his face, down the middle, and another down the side of his face.
"Germany!"
Italy ran at him, tears starting to build at the corners of his eyes. He skid on his knees the last few inches from Germany, landing just in between Germany outspread legs. Germany made no motion, or sound at him about the position. He looked down at the ground, like he was punishing himself from looking at Italy. Italy tried to meet his eyes, to see if it really was him, but was unable. He placed a hand softly on his pale face, and rose his eyes to meet his own. The color of the once bright blue was washed out, the whites tinged with blood veins angry from lost sleep. He was the empty shell of his friend.
"Germany…please, say something…" Italy begged, tears leaving their cliffs. Germany's eyes widened, tears starting to escape him as well. The look that spread on his face, and the tears; it broke Italy's heart. He rested his forehead lightly on Germany's blood-stained one.
"D-Don't cry Germany. I wanted to see you and say…I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry for leaving"
Germany let a soft sob leave his throat, but no other noise came from him afterword.
"I'm sorry for the war, and I'm so sorry for…" Italy let out a gasp, cutting his sentence short as he looked at Germany's neck. Two heavy black cords were wrapped around them. One disappeared down his shirt. He rest his hand on the cords, and pulled both Iron Crosses up into plain view. The back of one shone, the tiny blocks scratched into his bold. He whimpered. Germany had found their box.
"You found the box. You found it…." Italy whispered, clutching the Iron Cross that now meant everything to him. Germany did not nod nor did he confirm it. He simply casted his eyes downward once more, tears overflowing. Italy tugged the necklace over Germany's unresistant head, and pulled it over back onto his, letting it slam hard on his collarbone. He missed the cold touch of the metal.
"I stored it Germany, because I was scared" Germany's head snapped to attention, staring impossibly deep into his eyes.
"I was scared that if I wore it, I would be chastised for it, for still having feelings for you. For loving you…"
"I'm sorry…"
Italy snapped back a bit, surprised.
"W-What?" Germany's head fell into the crook of Italy's shoulder, sobbing loudly.
"I'm sorry, Italy. I'm sorry"
Italy wrapped his arms around his broad shoulders, whispering that it was his fault.
"No…It was mine. Please.." Germany begged. He scooted closer, feeling Italy's hand brace his neck, pulling him even closer.
"Forgive me…"
Italy crushed himself into Germany, smiling.
"There's nothing to forgive, there's only acceptance. It's what lovers do, don't they?" Italy said. Bot raised their heads, and a silent agreement spread between them. They slowly came forward, and their lips sealed the forgotten past.
They always say silence is golden, but it seemed this time hope was golden, and silence was black.
This was just so hard and heart-crushing to write! I cried a few times, honestly. This was a prompt courtesy of ScaryCompanion, who gracefully gave me one since I'm in the middle of a writer's block/lack of interest streak.
Thank's for reading, and expect, possibly, a few more of these one-shots.