Germany didn't know how long he'd been walking, or at what point he decided it safe to stop running like hell, but he did know that if they didn't reach the base soon he'd drop stone cold right where he was. It was bad enough fighting in the below freezing world of Siberia, separated from his army and chased into deep wilderness, and then walking for who knows how many kilometers now, but there was no way he'd survive a night alone in the woods with the supplies he had left. And Italy certainly wouldn't.
Even if the little pasta freak were a picture of health, he wouldn't last five minutes in the harsh environment - and right then he was no picture of health. For seemingly the hundredth time that hour, Germany's wearied blue gaze flickered down to his sleeping ally still cradled like an overgrown baby in his arms. He'd tried to lift him over the shoulder at first, but quickly realized that only elicited more screams and loud sobs of pain so he'd switched to princess style. The Italian still cried and moaned, but this way he wasn't alerting every Russian within five kilometers of their location. And he'd managed to cry himself to sleep. Germany sighed and marched on - he'd do everything he could to reach that base before his legs gave out.
Just because he was a country, that didn't mean he was invincible. Actually, his original strength had given out long ago, he simply moved forward on numb legs and arms too sore to care. How did it come to this? He wondered vaguely, but didn't bother giving it much thought. If it wasn't the dull ache eating his limbs or the cold air leeching away what body heat he had left, it was the gentle incessant tugging that urged him to sleep. To just forget about everything and let the deep realms of unconsciousness take control, take him away from the quiet, bloodless death that would surely follow were he to collapse on a snow bank in surrender to the elements.
But Germany couldn't and he knew it. It wasn't just his life he had on the line after all. He had Italy to worry about - Italy, his only friend. Italy, whose heart was still too pure to stop. And as of now, Italy was the only reason the German nation resisted welcoming death's sweet sleep with open arms. That was the thing about countries dying - they never knew when they'd wake up again. Usually until someone found their body, which out in the middle of nowhere was indefinite. If at all. Who knows how long... Germany was snapped out of his quickly spiraling thoughts by a low moan and a shift in the weight he carried. Bloodshot amber eyes met his own, for once wide open. They shrunk and watered soundlessly, unshed tears threatening to fall.
"Please, Italy. Don't cry." He begged, trying to conjure back the authority his deep voice could hold. "Tears will just freeze out here."
His crumpled ally didn't respond, but to Germany's relief he didn't start sobbing again. He just swallowed and sighed, his breath visible in the air as his gaze flickered back down. They shifted to rest in front on him, on his legs, and turned wide as saucers. Mein Gott, he's seen it. Germany thought, firmly clasping a gloved hand over the Italian's mouth before he could scream at the sight again. It was as if each time he awoke he forgot he was missing more than half a leg. One fatal misstep on the battlefield and it blew clean off, leaving a sizable stump in its place. He was honestly lucky to be alive more than anything. But luck could only go so far, and blood loss was still a contender. Germany managed to quell the initial flood with some spare first-aid bandages, but when those quickly soaked through he had to give up his thick winter jacket, still wrapped tightly over the stump. Partly the reason why the German was so numb now.
"Shhh, shhhh." Germany awkwardly calmed him. "Ah... there, there. You're a country, it'll heal eventually."
Italy hyperventilated and grabbed Germany's military shirt in desperate fist-holds, somehow still able to fight the onslaught of tears. On instinct, Germany did a quick 360 sweep of the wooded area around them, Italy's noise reawakening the cautiousness from earlier. Luckily, there didn't seem to be anyone remotely near them, but that still didn't count out wild animals. His attention returned to the fearful Italian who still hadn't found his voice, shushing and even rocking him like an infant in his arms. Begging him to stay quiet.
"G-Germany!" He finally gasped out, the sound much too weak. Germany warily pulled his hand away from Italy's mouth.
"Yes, Italy?" The larger nation responded.
"I-I... I don't -," He whimpered and stopped, closing his eyes to block the waiting monsoon behind them.
Germany suddenly remembered that screamed, despaired phrase he'd called out the day they first met. Italy was sobbing then too, his pasty white hands clasped together in prayer for his life, he'd said those same words: I don't want to die.
"Italy, you're going to be fine." Germany reassured in his most confident voice. "I've put a lot of distance between us and the Russians, so they won't be able to find us out here." And neither will the paramedics. The unspoken words hung in the air.
Italy nodded anyway, accepting his friend's tale out of naïvety or denial - Germany couldn't tell which. He continued walking.
The silence stretched on for nearly an hour after that and the Italian's quick breathing never slowed to normal. Germany's stomach dropped when he dared to look down and see the fragile man's eyes wide open, staring up at the vast sky with an expression contorted in agony. His face is too pale. He noticed. But at least he's still breathing for now. Delicately, he moved to untie the jacket from his stump, getting no more than a pained grunt from Italy. This Germany found more worrisome than if he'd screamed.
The jacket came off drenched, but fortunately it managed to slow the bleeding a little. It definitely wasn't gone, but he might not die from blood loss. Or more likely Germany was too hopeful for his own good. The jacket had proven good for a tourniquet and general dressing. What really worried the German however, was the telltale red streaks traveling down the stump, puffed red and angry at the end. It was unmistakably a sign of early infection, and - Himmel, arsch und Zwirn! - all because he'd forgotten to properly clean it when he had the chance. He'd been so flurried and panicked before it slipped his mind. All he could think about was stopping the blood... Gott, there'd been so much blood.
Swallowing hard to suppress his emotions (he didn't want to drive his friend even further into shock), Germany tenderly rewrapped the jacket so the dry patches could catch blood. He made sure to loosen the knot so the pressure didn't shut down Italy's nerves, and he kept walking. He had to keep walking. It was a good thing he had his radio on him when the incident struck, otherwise the German would have no clue where he was going. He roughly estimated they had another two kilometers to go, two kilometers too long at their current pace. He wished he could only walk faster, but his body already felt frozen over as it was and he didn't want to risk collapsing when they were so close. If he fell, he didn't think he could get back up.
Time crept by, the slow and steady terror it was.
Germany didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he felt a hand press against his face, breaking him out of his stupor. Amazingly, he'd never ceased his stride. Startled, he looked back at Italy who, with a delirious smile, didn't pull his hand away like he normally would whenever he caught himself overstepping the German's small space bubble. No, this time the hand lingered, even daring to travel down the sharp jaw line where it remained undeterred by either party. Germany was too shocked and tired to think of batting away the delicate touch, and Italy didn't seem to mind in the least. His drowsy grin complemented watery eyes, seeming to gaze at the baffled German in a new light.
"When we were spying on America's camp remember?" Italy mumbled in a daze. Germany, not sure how to respond, simply nodded. Italy's smile grew a little. "They had a song playing... or someone was singing it... I remember it now. They played it all the time."
"You should get some rest, Italy. We're almost there." And you're not making any sense. Germany thought worriedly.
"They can't take that away from me!" Italy cried out in a sudden burst of energy before receding back to General Winter's slumber.
"What? Who can't?" Germany asked, curiosity getting the better of common sense. The Italian's head lolled back to gaze at his friend in amusement.
"No, the song." He giggled, which sounded suspiciously like gasping for air.
"They can't take that away from me." He sang as if to prove the point.
Suddenly, it dawned on Germany just what his pasta loving friend was babbling on about - an overplayed love duet on American radio. It personally drove him nuts at the time, but Italy found it sweet. Either way, the lyrics would forever be engrained in both their memories because of it. But why is that what he remembers - now of all times? Germany wondered.
"Yes, I remember." He admitted, finally able to lower Italy's hand from his face. He felt his forehead - ice cold to the touch but sweating like a dog in the heat of the day. His eyebrows knitted together in concern. "... You should really be sleeping,"
"The way you wear your hat." Italy interrupted, voice slow and smooth. He paused and waited expectantly.
"We're almost there." Germany swallowed uncomfortably, gazing ahead once more. Italy sighed, sullenly watching his breath in the air.
"I don't have all night." He mumbled.
"Yes, you do. We're almost there -,"
"Mmm-mmm." The Italian persisted, shaking his head with the stubborn will of a toddler.
"Italy, you're not dying." Germany argued in his stern commander voice.
"But if I were -,"
"You're not."
"But if I were," Italy pressed. "Would you sing then?"
Germany visibly sighed and met his pleading gaze. "Ja. If you really were."
Italy smiled. "The way you wear your hat."
Germany blanked, mouth open but refusing to form the words. Italy's hand wrapped reassuringly around his.
"They way you wear your hat." He repeated patiently, soft like he'd heard on the radio. Germany sighed in defeat.
"The way you sip your tea." He sang in his considerably lower tone. Italy's eyes sparkled with gratitude.
"The memory of all that." Germany couldn't help but marvel at how beautiful his ally's voice really was - even now.
"No, no, they can't take that away from me." The two synchronized. Italy's rasp of breath did not escape the German's notice.
"The way your smile just beams." He intoned.
"The way you sing off key." Italy ended with a laugh they shared.
"They way you haunt my dreams." Germany drew out wistfully.
"No, no, they can't take that away from me." Together, harmoniously.
"We may never, never meet again..." Italy croaked. Germany frowned.
"On the bumpy road to love." He sang his part anyway.
"Still I'll always..." Italy whispered.
"Italy, this isn't a good idea. You should be saving your breath." Germany criticized. "We're almost there -,"
The Italian once more shook his head stubbornly.
"Always keep the memory of." Germany sang resentfully.
"The way you hold your knife." Italy's voice was soft, too soft. Orange light flared in the distance.
"The way we danced 'till three." Germany's hope flared with the light. Maybe a hundred meters more, they'd make it! Just needed to hold on a little longer...
"Th-the way you..." Italy sucked in a lungful of air, then another more desperate than the first.
Germany broke into a run, his frozen muscles screaming in protest. He didn't need any more warning to know his one and only friend was dying in his arms. His legs ached painfully - it was a wonder they flew at the speed they did, tearing through the white foliage in a fury that challenged the German's charge into battle. Many even an Italian in retreat. His mind could only focus on the warm glow of the camp, slowly enlarging with his rapid progress. In a matter of minutes, his military boots stomped right through the entrance as a loud, terrifying roar demanding help thundered in his ears - his own voice. Germany silently thanked his ability to scare into submission, even if the new power often scared him.
Organized chaos ensued; soldiers shouted and threatened before recognition drained the color from their faces, commanders approached with a meaningless mix of questions and orders, but no doctor fought his way through the crowd. Germany's throat was parched dry by the time he quit shouting in jumbled German - everything danced red and black before his eyes when at last he staggered into the infirmary sector, unconscious Italy in tow. Nurses lifted him onto a stretcher and just like that the frail Italian was out of sight. There Germany collapsed on his knees, finally allowing exhaustion to overwhelm him.
He stayed like that for awhile, leaned against a pole supporting Italy's operation tent, and allowed himself the sleep he'd fought so hard against. Well, he tried anyway. His eyes closed without complaint, resting in a peaceful blackness, but sleep did not come. Germany's mind was wide open. He rested in a thin wool blanket (a nurse must have slipped one on beneath his notice) and simply sat for he didn't know how long. When his eyes opened again, he saw his legs and hands trembling. He swallowed, trying to think, but the lingering numbness he still felt coursing through his body must have found its way to his brain because no thoughts came.
And yet, Germany smiled. It was instinct, somehow his shaking blue lips knew before he did - it was all okay because he saved Italy. Italy was safe, so it was all worth it. More time passed and the German entertained himself watching nurses and doctors scramble across the camp from tent to tent, shouting orders while disappearing and reappearing in perpetual motion. Sounds of pain and harried speech emanated from the makeshift operating tents. He took in all of this as the apathetic observer, accepting the ongoings normal as a trip to the grocery store. It's the demand of war after all. What really plagued Germany's mind was Italy. He'd wrapped the stump, slowed the bleeding, treated it the best he could... surely it had to be enough to keep him alive for the doctors.
It had to be.
...
Germany woke to the unmistakable sound of someone screaming.
Instinctually, he shot to his feet and unholstered his weapon all in under a second, cold blue eyes darting around with the alert of a seasoned front-liner. What he found was far from the expected invasion. He was still where he'd fallen asleep last night, up against a pole supporting Italy's operation tent. Countless identical structures stretched on around him, somewhat calmer than the night before. But Italy's was far from it. Another bloodcurdling scream erupted from inside, panicked and overlaid with loud sobs that caused the German's heart to pound in his chest. He prepared to march right in, gun still poised to fire, before nearly running over a smaller man in his way.
Infuriated out of fear, he fixed his iron glare on the man who'd just recomposed himself, then... Germany relaxed his stance with recognition. Japan's face was beet red in embarrassment and it was then he remembered the quiet nation's strange aversion to being touched. And by shoving him, he most likely crossed some other highly offensive Japanese social boundary. Scheiße. He was hard enough to figure out as it was, the last thing he needed was to stress something already stressed. But more importantly, why was he here? The last Germany heard of him, the Asian country had been fighting overseas.
"Sorry, Japan. I didn't look where I was going." Germany apologized quickly, still flustered from the screams.
"It is no probrem." Japan quickly assured and bowed his head in respect.
"I thought you were stationed back in Japan. What are you doing out here?" Germany asked, eliciting a surprised look from his ally.
"Germany-san, I aporogize. I assumed you were the first to know..." Japan for once put away his poker face to show true sorrow.
Germany visibly paled. Immediately disregarding his earlier concerns about courtesy, he shoved the startled Japanese to the side and burst into the room where three people crowded a bloodied stretcher; one of whom was still screaming things in heavily accented Italian. The voice was nothing like Italy's - gentle and sweet, always changing octaves as if to mimic singing. This voice was grated and course, currently going off on a tearful rant no one but him could understand. The nurse and doctor were silent, allowing Romano his moment of denial and fury. Germany froze where he stood at the entry; all he could see from there was a leather army boot splattered red and an auburn hair curl that continued to defy gravity.
Maybe that was all he needed to see. If he just stayed there, didn't come forward, didn't acknowledge this was happening... it couldn't. The scene in front of him was too surreal to be true. The words didn't match in his head. Italy dead. It didn't make sense. The whole sentence of two words was so absurd, laughably untrue. They didn't fit together at all. Italy dead. It was an oxymoron, as ridiculous sounding as definite maybe. Italy dead. All Germany could see was random flashes of Italy. Italy, not dead.
Italy laughing at the dumbest things, missing the point completely. Waking up to find Italy curled next to him in bed, his breathing so natural and even. Even then he would find a way to sleep in from training. The smell of garlic following him wherever he went. Italy gagging the first time he had Germany's wurst, Germany dumping water on his head in response. Italy in a box of tomatoes. Italy giving him roses on Valentines Day. Italy pledging his undying loyalty when everyone else turned their backs. Italy wishing on a star. Pinky swears. Hugs. Pasta. Singing. The only person on Earth Germany would never truly understand... was not gone.
"Che cosa?!" Romano whipped around to face the German, shaking with rage. "Che cosa è che fa qui?!"
He stormed closer, shoving himself into his face so Germany had to look Italy's mirror image in the eye.
"How dare you show your face to me after you kill him!" Romano screamed, breaking his Italian rant. Germany glared and said nothing. "I SAID HOW DARE YOU, POTATO BASTARD!"
"A Russian rocket -,"
"Bugie!" Romano shoved Germany with all his strength, doing nothing to move him. "You lie to me like you lie to fratello! You a-kill him yourself because you're done a-using him, ah? Lo sapevo!"
Romano furiously started beating on the German's chest with his fists, ineffectual to the larger nation.
"L'hai ucciso! L'hai ucciso e sentito nulla!" He wailed, not allowing Italy's ally a word in. "You used him and threw him away like garbage when you were done."
"Nein. Italy's my friend. I tried to save him; I did everything I could to -," Romano slapped Germany right across the face.
"Don't call Feliciano that. You lost the right." He spat.
Germany's patience disintegrated. He growled and unholstered his weapon for the second time that morning, not taking aim or clicking the safety off, but holding it steady in his arms. Romano took a step back, but his accusing glare didn't waver.
"So now you kill me?" He muttered darkly. "Fine. One day someone will teach you you can't massacre all your problems."
Germany left the tent wordlessly, leaving behind a shaken Romano and a nurse and doctor without a clue. Japan's poker face had returned, silently watching the German leave before sliding into the tent. It would be fifty-five years before they spoke again.
...
That same month, Romano with the country of Italy declared war on Germany and joined the side of the allies.
The fight at last came to an end two years later. The world slowly healed, but two were left to hurt.
Italy slept on, they thought, in the twins' bed at home. Romano kept him warm so when he awoke his body wouldn't be freezing with death. It was a common nuisance with coming back to life - he would come back after all. They always did. Spain meanwhile spent an unholy amount of time beside Romano, eventually having to move into the Italians' home he visited so often. Together they waited by the bedside - just waited. A sound, a movement, a breath, a twitch, any sign at all they waited for. At first, Romano figured his brother didn't return because the war hadn't ended. But then it did. Some came by to visit: Austria, Hungary, Japan, France. America tried coming once to boost his image as the world's hero, but was quickly turned away by a violent Romano and an apologetic Spain.
Germany came by every day after the war and was turned away every time. After awhile he stopped expecting to be let in. He simply arrived at the Italians' doorstep, waited for Spain to answer and tell him that no, Italy hadn't woken up, and left a small basket of tomatoes for the two before leaving disappointed. Germany dealt with the pains of his country stumbling back on its feet, the aftermath of one of history's greatest tragedies weighing on his conscience. Those words never stopped ringing in the German's head: You can't massacre all your problems. He knew that. There were many times when the pain of his people mourning overwhelmed him, bringing the man of steel to his knees in tears. And still he waited for the comfort of an Italian he couldn't save.
The daily basket of tomatoes became Spain's daily white lie. Romano thought they came from his own garden back home - he'd never eat them if he knew the truth. It simply killed the Spaniard to see his poco de tomate in such a state and to have to tell a heartbroken Germany every day that his love still hung in the void (Spain knew the look of a man in love no matter how much he denied it). He hated sending the German away. He hated seeing the disappointment in Romano's eyes at the end of another still day and the re-hardened determination he bore in the morning - one that would wither by evening.
But no matter what, he never saw the Italian cry. He was dead set on the notion that Italy would wake up so he never met the crush of losing him. The logic in this, Romano insisted, was the fact that he would fade away if he truly died. He would fade as Grandpa Rome did. Those explanations were the only conversation the two shared in that time. A little over fourteen months passed in this pattern. Romano waited, Germany visited, and Spain comforted both. It's a shame, Spain thought, they have to suffer alone.
It ended on a day Spain managed to drag Romano to the super market, insisting some fresh air would do the brooding teenager some good. He argued, fought, and spent his time bitching about every little thing they came across, but the Spaniard was too overjoyed about the fact he was out of the house to care. It had been too long since they'd gone out together. Spain could already tell the activity brought back some of the fire that dulled with his twin's absence, making his heart swell. Naturally, that led to many displays of public cuddling, face groping, and other affections that further infuriated Romano - much to Spain's pleasure.
Suddenly the Italian stopped, his dark amber eyes wide open. He gasped and kneeled over in pain, holding his stomach. Spain immediately lost control, yelling for help and asking Romano what was wrong all while fussing over him like a mother to her child. He looked on the verge of tears, continuously begging to return home immediately. Worriedly, the Spaniard agreed and they drove in a tense silence back to the twins' home where Italy still rested. Romano jumped out of the car and rushed through the unlocked door of the house, screaming his brother's name. Oh, dear. Spain fretted as he ran after him. I really thought he was getting better.
Spain finally found the distraught nation in Italy's room, tearing apart the empty bed through his tears. Wait... empty? Spain's frown deepened with worry. Slowly he approached Romano, his steps cautious but comforting. He honestly had no idea what his little tomato would do next. But certainly not what happened. With no warning, Romano froze, bedsheets in hand, and collapsed into the arms of his former caretaker, sobbing openly. Spain hadn't seen him cry since he was a kid, and even then it was only over a scraped knee. Such an open display of emotion other than anger was strange, foreign even, on the young man's face. Not knowing what else to do, Spain wrapped Romano in a giant hug and gently rubbed circles on his back, quietly humming a Spanish lullaby.
Out of the corner of his eye, the older nation glanced at the glaringly empty bed and his gut clenched. Somehow he felt this was beyond Italy getting stolen or lost. There was something permanent about his absence, final and harsh. He could only imagine how Romano felt. Several minutes later, the Italian's sobs were abating, but he made no moves to pull away from the Spaniard's embrace or speak. Spain felt it was the right time to say something.
"Romano?" Spain asked softly. "Do you want to talk?"
Romano shook his head and sniffled.
"Italy... he's gone..." He cried, feeling a gaping hole where his brother used to be. A part of him had died - or faded out of existence. It was the same feeling of emptiness he'd felt all day, but now it was worse, because Romano was absolutely certain that Italy was gone. Not gone in the void, gone forever. And he didn't know why. He didn't have to explain to Spain the special bond the twins shared, the way their pain and emotions always entwined being bound to the same country. Now the bond was broken, Italy was gone, and Romano was in ruins. And he didn't know why. This wasn't like Grandpa Rome. North Italy still existed, so where was his brother?
"He's gone."
...
Because they left him, Romano and Spain.
Their constant attentions denied his rest.
But the moment they left, oblivion settled.
Italy was lucky in the first place to develop two personifications - North and South for two different governments. But they weren't needed. All it took was one second, one wrong step, and one was gone forever.
The world mourned. It was a nice ceremony, although Italy would've hated it. Too much black, no smiles or excitement. Every direction someone cried - Italy definitely would've hated that. He was a terrible sympathetic crier. But at least they'd managed to ship lots of pasta. Germany didn't even realize how many friends he had until the reception crowded over with sorrowful nations, all somehow touched in their long lives by the lovable Italian. There were even a few human girls there in short revealing black dresses, crying into the arms of a downtrodden France. Italy had a quality to him that drew people in, made them feel loved. And Italy loved everyone.
Germany meanwhile became closed off, isolated from the rest of the world. He attended meetings, met with trade partners and performed other country duties, but at a distance. His body pulled itself through daily routines, but his mind was numb with hurt. He should have run faster. He should have taken more time to bandage the wound. He should have never allowed Italy on the field in the first place. Maybe if he'd been a little nicer, didn't yell at him so much... took more time to teach him and been a better person. Romano was right. Germany killed Italy. The thoughts controlled his waking moments and he lived them in his dreams.
Time lost its meaning. How could it pass without Italy? What was the point in living if he wasn't there? It was lost on Germany how the world could keep moving, time keep passing, when his own stopped in its tracks. He was stuck on that day, stuck for a meaningless, endless stretch of time. Japan and Prussia would often talk but the words were lost beneath Italy's song, Italy's laugh, his voice, his scream, his breath, his hum. Damn it, why? He should be with him now - doodling on his notes during the world meeting and not hearing a word. Thinking about pasta or pretty girls. Humming a cheerful song and smiling absently at the German.
Romano's glare broke through his daze from across the table. He blinked in confusion when he realized he'd been staring at Italy's world meeting chair - now occupied by a much crosser Italian who grunted and looked away when Germany snapped out of it. He sighed unconsciously. That had been happening far too often recently, and it wasn't pleasant for either party. Since their fight at the medical tent all those years ago, the two nations hadn't spoken. They took all measures to avoid running into the other, and if it happened that their paths crossed they acted like strangers. Not enemies, lower than enemies. Strangers.
Germany turned back to the presentation board where America was still trying to set up a video, now with the help of Japan.
"Almost got it, dudes! Just hang on!" America flashed a mega-watt grin and started fumbling with the remote again.
"Aiyah, why are we doing this anyway? I just want to go home, aru!" China complained loudly.
"Awe, but it'll be fun to see what everyone looked like way back when!" America cackled. "It'll be like Flashback Friday or somethin'! I bet we looked swag younger!"
Germany caught Poland self-consciously muttering about how totally out of fashion his "flower look" used to be.
"America, this is ridiculous. We don't age. We'll just be exactly the same as -," England growled at being cut off by America yawning. "You bloody imbecile! Don't ignore me!"
The fight escalated the background of Germany's attention. It didn't occur to him anymore to step in and make them all shut up, so he just let them go at it while he waited for the meeting to end. It was already over technically, but the resident "hero" decided it would be fun to celebrate the Friday by watching clips of old world meetings and laugh at how everyone looked. He didn't understand the obnoxious younger nation's sporadic ideas of fun and he didn't think he ever would. Germany was far too tired to put with their antics at the moment anyways.
"WOO HOO!" America fist-pumped the air as the screen flickered to life with another meeting. "MOVIE TIME! EVERYONE SHUT UP!"
You're the only one yelling. Germany griped internally. Nothing of interest happened, for him anyways, it was just a different version of the same damn meetings they still held: America hollered in the opening, Japan agreed with him, England nitpicked, France and China acted superior to everyone, Russia was creepy, and... the present meeting room burst into laughter when the onscreen Germany exploded to shut them all up. They'd been laughing at themselves up until that point, but as soon as he came on, the countries finally got a taste of the past Germany - before he fell into silence. They laughed and snickered in his direction, waiting for a reaction of some sort. But they got none. Germany sighed, refusing to show embarrassment or anger. Let those immature nations have their laugh. He thought. They'll never understand.
"Germany recognizes his friend Italy!" The meeting room froze. Romano choked on his water.
"PASTAAAAAAAAAAA!" Italy voiced, giggling. Nobody laughed now, and no one dared make eye contact with a certain German.
"And vhat ist zhat supposed to mean?" Germany's old voice asked not-so-patiently.
"Ve~ there's angel hair pasta, macaroni, bow ties, lasagna, manicotti, penne, ravioli, rigatoni, spaghetti, tortellini -,"
"I think we get the idea." Past Germany snapped, worsening everyone's discomfort at the sight of their dead friend.
"But I came prepared this time, Germany!" Italy beamed. "See, there's so many different kinds of pasta and so many different sauces and it's a different taste every time! E'perfetto! I think everyone here should eat at least one bowl of pasta every day and then we'll all be happy all the time and we won't have to fight because we'll all love pasta together and hug!"
Romano slammed the door behind him on the way out, causing everyone to jump in their seats at the resonance. Shakily, America reached to turn off the recording, interrupting the past Germany's explanation of why none of what the Italian said made sense. The silence left was even more deafening. China was the first to break it, simply standing up and calmly leaving the meeting room. No words needed to be said. Others quickly followed suit, but Germany noticed Japan stayed behind to collect his borrowed technology. He didn't know what that American was thinking, shoving Italy's death in all their faces like that. Why did he have to be such an idiot? Surely he could've checked the time frame on the stupid film before displaying it for the world. No one got it. No one understood.
He died that day Italy did. He died just as the earth will when the sun burns out, leaving it to collapse in a lightless dark and heatless cold. There was no light for Germany, and the worst part was that he never even knew until Italy's light winked out. He existed in a disbelieving numbness most of the time, and then pain would just hit him out of nowhere. The hardhearted German would collapse in tears, screaming Italy's name over and over. But of course there was no one to answer. He didn't need that slapped in his face; how cruel, how undeserving he was to be the Italian's friend - heaven forbid anything more.
He didn't know how he'd survived all the years alone afterwards, or how much longer he could bear it. Could Germany disappear if Prussia were there to take over? He wondered this too often. The German was never one to ditch responsibility however, and he kept telling himself Italy wouldn't want to see him give up. But today... today was simply another reminder that Italy couldn't see anymore, where Italy rested there was truly no escape from. Italy no longer existed, and Germany wasn't sure anymore if he could continue with that truth pounding in his head. His hands visibly shook by the time he reached the main hallway, by then mostly deserted.
"Hey, potato bastard." Romano's course voice reached the German's ears.
He considered ignoring him, but the sheer surprise of the prickly Italian addressing him directly was enough to force himself to turn around. The brother in question was leaned up against the wall, for once not in hostility. To Germany, he actually looked... sympathetic. Sullen. His eyes must've been playing tricks on him - Romano wasn't sympathetic with anybody, least of all him. The Italian coughed to clear his throat.
"So, um. That hamburger bastard's a real idiota, eh?" He said more than asked.
"The biggest." Germany grunted in agreement. Romano nodded absently, and an uncomfortable silence took over. The German shifted, wondering if this was his cue to leave. But just before he could, Romano awkwardly spoke up again.
"He, uh, he loved you a lot you know. Italy." He said reluctantly. "He talked about you all the time. How fun you were, how serious, how pretty and muscular and all that shit. It annoyed the living crapola outta me, actually. All I ever wanted was for him to say something nice about me every once and awhile - but no. He only had eyes for you, ya lucky bastard. You don't even know, do you? You got that stupid look on your face like you don't know."
Germany was speechless. Romano sighed in frustration.
"That's why I hated you. I didn't think you deserved him. You were always yelling, ordering him around and insulting him and it made-a me sick when he looked at you with that goofy smile and doe eyes while you treated him like a piece of furniture. I hated you so much for that." Romano sniffled with a surprising amount of emotion. His speech didn't sound as angry as it should've. "But I, ah, I got some of Feli's memories to fill the space of North Italy since he..." He coughed. Germany thought he saw tears, but didn't dare point it out.
"And I know how wrong I was." Romano grinned weakly. "All those secret smiles. You held him when he cried. You got annoyed when he slept in your bed but didn't stop him from doing it - he was so scared of sleeping alone, you know. And I couldn't always be there. You did everything you could to protect him; you went so out of your way to make sure my little brother was safe and that he knew what was going on. He... he felt so secure with you, a-and happy. Happy was the most important I think..." He trailed.
"I didn't know you cared that much." Romano shrugged. "I need to be angry at something though, so I still hate you even if I know the truth now." He paused. "Just maybe not so much."
Romano left the building, and Germany more confused than ever.
...
Germany was driving back to the hotel with his rental car's radio turned up. He tried listening to America's modern music, but it was such garbage he had to serially sift through all the channels until he finally found one he could stand to listen to: oldie's jams. He wasn't a fan of the name too much, but by the time he found it his standards had significantly lowered. At least this one was softer, nothing like the loud and jagged chaos of pop songs. He relaxed into the ending of a man singing about love trouble and waited for the next track to sink in. His eyes flew open with recognition and he couldn't stop the onslaught of memories that came with it.
He listened for a minute, then muted it before the last two verses sounded. He didn't need music. He didn't need those words either.
"The way you changed my life.
No, no, they can't take that away from me."
A/N: That turned out to be a lot longer than anticipated, but including all the aftermath and healing process parts just felt right to me. I'm sorry if this was super depressing for you, but that was kinda my intention *evil smirk*.
I'm planning on really shifting gears and stepping up my writing, so the big purpose behind creating this (besides the fact I wanted to write Hetalia) was to get helpful tips and criticism from the good people of fan fiction on how I should improve my work. Trust me, your advice might significantly help me improve here. When giving tips, it will help most if you give your input, give a legitimate why and how, and a solution.
Thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed it!
-StripedFuzzySocks-
P.S. - That last scene in the car didn't necessarily take place right after Romano's confession. Maybe in the further future when America next holds a meeting or some other occasion. Maybe years after the last scene. I decided to leave it up to the imagination (: The main point for that was Germany showing strength in recovering.
P.S.S. - The song used is called "They Can't Take That Away From Me" by Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong