There were two flame reviews from the same person, but I decided not to respond to them. The only thing I'm gonna say is: "I can do what I want. It's my story. Everyone's opinion is different. Fight me."
Also, for other reviewers, if you don't want me to show your review when I respond to it, tell me, and I'll just put my response and leave your actual review out.
Fan_Fan_Fan_to_Pan_Pan_Pan: wHOO-IE MOMMA, Italy is... he's crazy! I wonder what made him like that? Anyways, great job! I'm loving this!
Me: Thank you so much, I'm glad at least someone is enjoying my story. Maybe Italy's that way from spending so many years being raised by Rome.
I would like everyone to know, a review that has all negative comments and mentions nothing positive is called a "flame review" and is not appreciated. Please people, show a little decency.
Sometime during WWI
Germany was very cautious with his Italian charge from that day forward. Of course, after a while of solitary confinement, Italy became a little less hostile. Soon, Germany felt as if it was safe to let him walk around the house sometimes, though he never left the Italian out of his cell after dark. Italy always refused to eat Germany's food, though he still grumbled about being "starved". Germany didn't trust him enough to let him make pasta in the kitchen, though.
He'd whined about being bored for the longest time, and it was really grating on Germany's nerves. So, finally, he gave Italy something to play with: a ukulele. He figured, due to Italy's rich history of art and culture, music would likely be something he could throw himself into. And he was right. The Italian spent hours on end just playing the instrument in his cell. And not only a week later, after a long day out of his confinement, he came to Germany with the ukulele in hand and an optimistic look.
"Hey, Germany, I wrote you a song!"
"Really?" Germany looked taken aback. "Why?"
Italy shrugged. "Just wanted to express how I really feel about you."
Well, that sounded innocent enough. "Okay, let me hear it."
Italy nodded, his fingers playing across the strings, carrying a calming, cheerful tune into the air... and then he began to sing.
Germany, Germany,
Germany is a really, really, boring place.
Just 'cause I'm your captive doesn't mean you can starve me,
But your food sucks anyway.
Seriously, I'd rather drink England's poisoned tea.
You can't even make decent pasta,
Well, that's Germany.
Tell me, are you even smart enough to breathe,
I'd think you'd be too lazy.
Your patheticness makes me want to claw out your eyes,
And use them in meatballs.
Is it normal for military commanders to drink so much beer?
Though you really shouldn't leave your glass alone.
You'll see why soon.
He winked.
Even the girls from Germany are more rugged than you are.
Go die~!
Germany stared for a moment, his brain trying to process the last few lyrics. He looked at the empty glass on the table not too far from them. That was when his legs gave out. Germany crumpled to the floor, limbs stiff, unable to move. He strained his eyes to look up at the Italian who had just tossed the ukulele aside, causing the sound of splintering wood to grate against his eardrums.
"What did you...do?"
Italy's expression was far too cheerful for the words he spoke. "I poisoned your beer. Don't worry. It'll just paralyze you. That just means I can do this~!" Suddenly, a hard kick landed in his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs and shooting pain through his chest. Two more kicks assaulted him before the Italian turned to the door and strode out confidently, throwing him one last wave.
"Hasta la Pasta, sucker!"
Months later, the War had ended for Germany, leaving him poor and on the worse end of living. Of course, there were always moments Germany could converse with the Allies without awkward feelings. Strangely enough, he and France had become rather close. The Frenchman seemed to have become rather depressed after the armistice, and though Germany had tried to invade him in the beginning, they had made up shortly after. Of course, Germany never wanted War. War meant work, and work was never something he liked. France had never really cared much for War either. Now, they weren't best friends, but at least they didn't hate each other as much as before.
Germany was currently staring at a cuckoo clock he'd received in the mail that morning. It was from France, likely some kind of friendship offering, but there was no way the Frenchman had actually made it himself. He was far too lazy. Maybe he'd had Belgium do the work, though he doubted it. She'd always been quite argumentative.
That was the only good thing to come out of this conflict. Not only had he lost the War, all his money, and had parts of his home taken by France and Poland, but he'd also never recaptured that Italy he'd taken prisoner during the War. Actually, he'd never seen Italy since the War ended, and he never wanted to again. He was one prisoner who was more trouble than they were worth.
Not a moment after he thought those things, there was a knock on the door. Germany stood up, taking a moment to stretch his shoulders. He was still stiff from working all yesterday to pay back England. Another bout of insistent knocking prompted him to move faster, muttering under his breath. Who on earth would be coming to his house right now? Everyone hated him. He opened the door, and he was greeted by red eyes.
Germany jumped back in fright, giving Italy the chance to walk right past him without a word. It took Germany a moment to find his voice. "W-what on earth are you doing in my house?!"
Italy had walked into the kitchen and was already rifling through the fridge. "My family's poor, and I'm hungry. And guess what," he said, pulling out an apple, which he bit into without hesitation, "you have food." He said through a mouthful of apple.
Germany only gaped as Italy ransacked his fridge. "I-If you need money, you could always help me work to pay off England."
"Nah," Italy replied, shutting the fridge after putting his finds on the counter. "I'd rather just take what I want from you. Anyway, it's your fault I'm poor, you bastard." Italy was now looking through the pantry. "Your occupation bled the lands dry. And my new boss doesn't care about me at all."
Germany scowled, stepping forward to reclaim his food, but he was halted by a kitchen knife being pointed into his face, freshly pulled from the block. "Why don't you go bug France?" He grumbled.
"Big brother's being a jackass," Italy replied, putting the bread in with the fridge food. "He won't let me into his house because of your occupation. He doesn't trust me because I have 'German ties'."
Germany stared, mouth fallen open as Italy tied the ends of the blanket together and threaded a stick through them to make a bindle. "But France and I are friends..." Germany said, more to himself.
Italy laughed, turning towards him. "Wow, you really are dense." He said, waving the knife in the air as he spoke. "You do realize the person forcing you to work is France, right?"
France? France was the one making Germany suffer like this? How could he? He thought they had come to an understanding.
Italy threw the bindle over his shoulder as he left the kitchen with his newly acquired food. "Well, have fun with your slave labour. I'm going now."
Germany scowled to himself, feeling a need for revenge burning in his chest. France was going to pay.
Months later
Germany had a new boss now, one that understood him much better than anyone ever had. He was an inspiring man who made Germany feel like he had purpose. Now, his boss had inspired him to openly seek revenge for France's deception. Now, their troops were crossing the border into the country, ready to conquer and destroy. For once, Germany's affinity for laziness had been overcome by the need for vengeance.
Germany was writing in his diary when one of his men came running into the room with a panicked look on his face. "Sir, there's terrible news!" He exclaimed, sweat of fear running down his face. "Italy has become Germany's ally! What are we supposed to do?!"
Germany's mouth fell open. That couldn't be true... right? He was about to ask the man for more information, but the soldier had gone white as a sheet. He yelped in fright and scampered out of the room like a rat running from a feline. Germany tilted his head at this display, but he felt a chill run down his spine. Then he heard a voice whisper down by his ear.
"Ciao, Germany."
The blonde Nation jumped up out of his chair, whipping around as he stumbled back, fright making his eyes go wide. Italy had appeared, as though from nowhere, and was leaning on the back of his chair, his little face cupped in one hand as if he was bored. In the other hand, he was twirling a knife absently.
"I've pledged my support to your pathetic excuse for an army," Italy said with a smile that managed to look both angelic and demonic at the same time.
It took Germany a moment to control himself. Fear had his heart beating out of control, and his throat felt tight, but he slowly processed what the Italian was saying. "Wait, why are you helping me?" He asked. This could easily be a trick or a trap. "Isn't France your brother?"
"I hate France for my own reasons," Italy said dismissively, stepping around the chair and sheathing the knife. "I'm not here for you. I just don't want you getting in my way."
Was Italy here for the same reason he was? Revenge? This development very much frightened many of the German troops, Germany could feel it. No wonder: Italian soldiers were terrifying! Italy was clearly still angry about the WWI disaster, and Germany knew that would make this relationship unstable. If they were to fight together, he would have to find some way to appease him. But for now...
Germany sighed. "Italy, can we just forget about our past issues?" It was all he could think to say. He hoped it would be enough of an apology.
Italy watched him for a second before responding. "As long as I get to take the first piece out of France, we can be friends." He held out his hand. "Deal?"
Germany paused. Friends. That was more than he had been asking for, but he supposed it wouldn't be bad. He'd never had friends before, and he wasn't quite sure what it implied, but if it was a show of good will, he would accept it. "Sure, deal." He took the hand.
