Dawn's orange fingers grasp at the horizon, at the rooftops in the distance. Germany watches them slowly climb and stain the inky night sky through the grubby glass of his study window, his eyes burning and red with the lack of sleep. He's perfectly aware of how disheveled his appearance lately, but his obsession with appearances helps him to hide that. With his slicked back hair, neat uniform and polished boots, he barely looks any different. No one cares enough to look closer to see his sore, tired eyes or how he's been growing paler than usual lately. Even his Fuhrer who claimed to love his country with his entire being doesn't notice any difference as he hammers instructions down upon the weary nation.
If anyone had noticed they probably assumed it was the war taking it's toll. Things had been... somewhat difficult of late, to put it extremely lightly. He could feel every shell shatter his land, hear the soldiers dying on the battlefield and the prisoners in those damn camps. His people were dying with every passing second, but there was nothing he could do apart from listen to their screams in his nightmares and share their horrors. He had spent wasted years growing stronger, only to be rendered useless when his people needed him most- by his own leader.
Even with all his allies- Japan, Austria, Finland, Italy- he had never felt more alone. Things were just going from bad to worst and Germany wasn't sure how long he could keep up his façade- remain the stoic face of a strong nation with every confidence in his government, in himself.
He runs his fingers through his hair, dry and as lifeless as his damaged farmlands. Unfortunately war was not the only thing weighing on his mind these days.
As expected, he soon hears a door open further down the corridor, a gentle creak as someone peers out into the vacant hallway followed by a long, wailing one that hurts Germany's head. He makes no effort to move and only continues to watch day invade the night. He doesn't even hear the door of his study opening.
"Germany?"
He waits. His body feels too heavy to move, weighed down by war and sadness.
"Germany, you're up really early... Earlier than usual."
He feels a pair of spindly arms wrap themselves around his neck, fingers toughened by artist's tools brushing his cheek and his body tenses. Partly out of the paranoia that now permanently grips him and because it shouldn't feel so good, so comforting, so right to be this close to another man- it's wrong. "I was unable to sleep."
Italy makes an unhappy little whine, and Germany can feel him nuzzling at his neck. He feels his temperature rise. "Poor Germany... Ve, what's wrong?"
Everything, Germany immediately thinks, but he bites back from saying it. He's the strong one out of the pair, he can't let himself be seen as weak- not by Italy or his enemies. He stays silent once more.
"Germany..."
Italy moves to look at him, blocking his view of the window as open, brown eyes stare into shielded blue ones. It hurts to look at Italy so close, now that Germany knows what's going on. Italy has felt the pain of this war too, and Germany knows it won't be long before he waves that bloodstained white flag. He doesn't have long left before he wakes up to a cold, empty bed.
But he can't blame his ally, or even his annoying brat of a brother. To give Romano credit, he was smart for wanting out- though not so smart as to allow Germany to find out. They both know that the other knows what will come, but they dare not speak of it. Germany can pretend he's perfectly alright and Italy can cling to him even more than usual. That is how they will spend their dwindling, final weeks together.
Italy has been looking at him all this time, but Germany still has no words to give him, no reassurance or orders. Nothing. The smaller man sighs and presses a fond kiss against Germany's forehead- like he usually does then laughs and tells Germany he's kissing his frown away. But even Italy finds it hard to laugh now.
"I'm going to make us a nice breakfast!" Italy declares, giving Germany another quick squeeze before skipping back to the door. There's a limp in his step, Germany notes. "I'll call you when it's ready."
"Understood."
Germany listens to him pad away through the house, hears him coo at the dogs once he's downstairs. How he'll get through the mornings without Italy, he doesn't quite know yet. This damn war would cost him his best friend- the man he's been hopelessly love with for years, no matter if that means he should be shoved in those camps and branded as a sinner, untermensch. It's a one-sided infatuation that could cost him dearly.
He supposes that he is not excused from blame; he had been just as caught up in his Fuhrer's speeches and ideas as his people at the start of the war. He had blindly obeyed orders, beat other countries into the ground- Belgium, he always remembered, how she had fought him with her fists and drove him back all those years ago, and how he had simply shoved her aside and destroyed her land, and all without a second thought for the good of his nation.
Deutschland über alles indeed.
But the splendour had long faded, and Germany knows he will soon fall. The nation closes his eyes and silently accepts this fate, listening to his friend in the kitchen and allowing himself to bask in whatever small dosage of happiness he has left.
Deutschland über alles –Germany over all.
Untermensch – Sub-human. The word the Nazis used to describe people they thought were inferior.