Chapter 6: Wine

The two worked in the kitchen, Italy insisting on making home-made… soup? Broth? As Germany boiled the noodles. He was content to just watch Italy chop and stir and simmer from his seat on a bar stool opposite of him. Other than boiling pasta, there was nothing for him to do. They talked about things that didn't matter, reminiscing on Halloween parties and Christmas celebrations. Italy introduced the idea that he should host a holiday sometime. Perhaps Easter.

Germany nodded. "It's nice here in the spring."

Italy looked up from his work, brushing hair out of his face and behind his ear. "Yes. The flowers in my garden just start to bloom, and it smells so nice! It's the kind of weather that makes you want to go on a walk and enjoy life, you know?" Though his words were deceptively bright, Germany had noted the fact that Italy had been averting his gaze the entire evening.

Germany smiled slightly, hoping to reassure him. "It would be good to have everyone here."

Italy peered through his lashes at Germany. "Even America?"

"Hmm, maybe not him." Germany joked, standing to stir the pasta.

"Oh, I know you have a soft spot for him." Italy protested, dumping the cutting board into the sink. "Care to wash this for me?"

Germany stepped over and started the water, waiting for it to heat up. The kitchen was starting to smell of spices. "I don't have a soft spot for him."

Italy smiled, lightly pushing into Germany's ribs with his elbow as he walked past him. "Sure." Germany returned the smile. It seemed that now that the touch barrier had been broken, things were finally less tense.

The conversation faded as Germany enjoyed the warm kitchen, the tile underneath his socked feet, and Italy's quiet humming. It was serene and peaceful. He gazed out the window facing Italy's back garden, noting that Italy had strung up strands of round lights through the branches of the trees, barely visible against the searing light of the sunset against the clouds.

"I think Japan is in love with him."

Germany blinked, shocked by Italy's idea. "Really?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. He began scrubbing at the cutting board.

"Mm-hmm!"

Germany towel-dried the board and strode over to Italy. "I don't believe you. Where does this go?" He lifted the cutting board up slightly.

Italy pointed to a narrow cupboard as he stirred the pasta sauce. "There. Have you seen how they interact?"

"Yes." Germany raised a single eyebrow as he put up the cupboard. "They talk as friends." He opened the fridge and peered into the cheese drawer. "You have no parmesan."

Italy set his spoon on a spoon rest and walked over. "How did I run out of parmesan?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you ate it all."

Germany looked over as Italy plucked a note from the door.

Italy read the note in Italian. "I got the last of the Parmesan. The Potato Bastard will take you to a farmer's market and you'll have to get more. Romano."

"Romano took it?" Germany asked, surprised. "He must have stolen it while I was back in your office."

Italy shook his head with a fond smile, too distracted to question why Germany was back there in the first place. "He's sneaky when he wants to be. He wants you to take me to a farmer's market to get more."

Germany hummed. "I'm sure we can find one over the next couple days."

"That would be fun!" Italy agreed, stuffing the note in his pocket.

"So you were saying?" Germany asked, shutting the fridge door. "About Japan and America?"

"Oh, so you're interested?" Italy asked with a grin, untying his apron and hanging it on a magnetized hook on the fridge.

Germany felt his cheeks heat up. "I just want to know how Japan is doing. It's what friends do."

Italy quirked an eyebrow. "Mm-hmm... have you ever noticed that when America walks in, Japan is one of the first to notice? He always seems to have time to watch a scary movie with him, no matter what he has going on."

"That's a friend thing." Germany protested. "I do the same for you." Despite the neutral tone of his voice, he felt shaky. Sure, he did the same thing, but what he felt for Italy was beyond friendship.

"Well yes," Italy allowed. "But is Japan really the type? You're really affectionate. He's not."

"I'm not affectionate!" Germany protested loudly.

Italy turned off the burner to the pasta and carried it over to the strainer. Germany hadn't even realized he'd forgotten about it. "Sure you are! Everyone's affectionate in their own way. Like when you remind me to grab an umbrella when it rains, or when you taught me how to throw a hand grenade, or how sometimes when I fall asleep on the couch you carry me to bed!"

Germany grunted. "All that is just human decency." He determinedly ignored the other man as he pulled two bowls from the cupboard.

"You are affectionate in your actions. Not in words." Italy continued, carrying the strainer back to the stove and dumping the pasta into the liquid in the pot. He stirred the contents and sniffed, sighing. "So is Japan. But he is less open about it. He is antisocial and often doesn't enjoy going to other people's houses, but he goes to America's more frequently than anyone's. More frequent than yours and ours, even!"

Germany considered this, grabbing two spoons. "Suppose you were somehow right. What about America? How does he feel?"

"What does he always say? His catchphrase, maybe?"

"... 'I'm hungry'?"

Italy laughed. "Other than that."

"Well, he always refers to himself as a hero." Germany answered, carrying the dishes to the table. "What do you want to drink?"

Italy tipped the pot over, pouring the soup into a serving bowl. "Wine, please."

"What kind?" Germany grabbed two wine glasses.

"Hmm... how about the Masseto Toscana? It should go well with the soup."

Germany crouched by the wine rack, his eyebrows furrowed. He started pulling the bottles out one by one, examining the labels. "Why is him calling himself a hero relevant?"

Italy carried the bowl over to the table. "Because he cares a lot about his self image, right?"

Germany growled to himself as he pulled the third bottle of wine off the rack. "So?"

"Why would he call Japan over to watch scary movies constantly if it made him look like a coward?"

Germany prayed for the sweet release of death as he pulled the sixth bottle of wine halfway off the rack before noticing that the label was wrong.

Italy crouched next to him and considered the wine rack for a moment before removing a bottle from the bottom row. "Perhaps because America wants an excuse for Japan to come over."

Straightening along with Italy, Germany grunted an affirmation.

"You think I'm right?" Italy asked, delightedly beaming as he noticed Germany had nothing to say.

"Nein." Germany answered, making his way to the table. "I just can't believe this conversation is actually starting to make logical sense." He took a seat.

Italy shook his head, also sitting. "You just wait, Germany. Watch them spend time together and you'll have to believe me!"

Germany grunted, ladleing soup into his bowl. "Not likely. What is this you've made?"

Italy let the conversation slide. "Pasta e Fagioli!" He proclaimed, popping the cork of the wine and pouring himself half a glass. He offered his hand for Germany's glass.

Germany passed it. He always preferred a cold beer to anything else, but it wasn't like he hated wine. "Sounds good." He accepted his glass and took a bite of the soup, the warmth seeping through his entire being and soothing all the emotional ache of the day.

"It's good?" Italy asked.

Germany realized his eyes had closed as he opened them. "It's wunderbare."

"Great!" Italy's entire being seemed to brighten at his words.

"I was thinking about what we could do tomorrow. It has been so long since I've taken time to tour your country. I was thinking we could walk around Rome."

Italy laughed, taking a sip of wine. "If you want to see what has changed here, Rome isn't the best place to do it, Germany, everything is so old!"

Germany hummed. "Perhaps. I just remember we had a good time there."

"Aww, Germany, that's so sweet!"

"Germany attempted to hide his embarrassment by tilting his wine glass upward and taking a sip.

"How is it?" Italy asked.

Germany tried to think of something intelligent to say. He knew that Italy was something of a wine aficianado. "It... tastes like wine. Good wine. It tastes good."

Italy smiled like he was trying to hold in laughter. "I hope so, I have been saving it for a special occasion!"

"What special occasion?" Germany hoped Italy didn't intend to mention the discoveries of today. That was the last thing he wanted to think about.

Italy raised his wine glass in a toast. "Your first vacation since 1990!"

Germany raised his glass, smiling. The two clinked their glasses.

"This wine was bottled that same year, you know." Italy quipped. "Very convenient! Almost like it was meant to be!"

"We took that vacation in Turkey, yes?" Germany asked, taking another sip of wine. It was starting to grow on him.

Italy nodded. "Yes! Your latest vacation and it is with me almost three decades later... if that isn't a reason to open up a 2,000 euro bottle of wine, I don't know what is!"

Germany choked on his drink. He coughed and hacked, bending forward on the table as the worst of the coughs passed.

"Are you okay?" Italy asked.

"What the hell?!" He cursed in German.

"Gesundheit." Italy offered.

Germany stared at the glass sitting on the table, wondering how much money he had drank in the two sips he had. "This wine was 2,000 euros?!"

Italy shrugged. "Well it was actually around 2,300, but... I'm not really particular about that sort of thing."

"Jesus Christ." Germany gasped.

"Well if you're religious, yes!"

Germany squinted confusedly at the man sitting opposite of him.

"Get it? Wine? Blood of Christ?" Italy tried, stirring his soup. "It's a Catholic joke."

Germany lay his forehead in his palm. "My God, Italy."

"Actually, he's my God unless you're Cath-"

"Italy!"

Germany lay in bed a few hours later, his hair still slightly damp from his shower. He allowed it to hang over his forehead and brush his eyebrows as he stared at the wall. Italy's guest room had always been beautiful, what with the four poster bed and the glass double doors that lead to a balcony. The moon was half full tonight, allowing a soft blue light to spill into the room. What exactly had happened today? Well, he knew what happened. But it was just so much to process. How do you process learning that the past you thought you had wasn't even half of your life? That you had an entire past that you didn't even remember? That you died and somehow miraculously came back to life? It was all so much. There was really nothing he could do for that except give himself time to acclimate himself to this feeling. To this desire to learn about himself.

He realized that he was so busy worrying about all that that he had barely taken the time to consider what this meant for Italy. For him. For the both of them, maybe. They used to be... together? Maybe? Did that even count? Here Germany thought he had never even had his first kiss when he had it with Italy of all people. And Italy... he'd loved him too, once. That was the worst part. That in the past he had what was perhaps his greatest desire and he couldn't even remember it. And beside that was the question of if Italy was even his friend because he was Germany. Did Italy stick around for who he was now, or for a ghost of someone Germany didn't even know? Of someone he didn't even remember? The question had been gnawing at his thoughts all day. A dull ache in the back of his mind as he joked around with Italy and spent the rest of the day in what could have been considered a domestic atmosphere. He sighed aloud and turned onto his back. It was then that he saw a shadow in the doorway.

"Germany?" It said.

Germany sat up in his bed, allowing the covers to fall off his shoulders and into his lap. "Italy." He rubbed his eyes. "Couldn't sleep?"

Italy stepped forward into the moonlight, his tan skin unusually pale in the blue light. He wore a T-shirt that was slightly too large for him over a pair of boxers. His hair was tousled, but Germany figured that was from tossing and turning more than anything else. "No."

Germany nodded. "Me neither."

Italy's right hand crossed over his body and gripped his left wrist sheepishly. "... Would you mind if I shared your bed with you tonight?"

Uh-oh. "At least you actually asked this time." Germany sighed, scooching over and pulling the covers back for him. "It beats you sneaking in while I'm sleeping."

Italy smiled, his shy air disappearing entirely. "Yes! Thank you, Germany!"

Germany lay back down, glad for the darkness as it shielded Italy from the glowing blush on his cheeks. "Ja ja, just try not to take all the covers this time."

"I will. Thank you, Germany."

Silence reigned as Germany turned on his side, his back facing Italy. He shut his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep. Minutes passed and he didn't get any more tired.

"Something is wrong." It wasn't a question.

Germany didn't even turn his head. "No."

The weight on the bed shifted as Italy turned to face Germany, propping himself up on his elbow. "You're lying. I said earlier I would answer all your questions, remember?"

"I said there was nothing wrong, and there is nothing wrong." Germany snapped. "Why can't you just listen?"

"Do you remember when we became friends?"

Germany furrowed his brows. He wondered if Italy had figured out what was bothering him. "Unfortunately."

"I say a lot of things, Germany. I love to talk! But I remember something I said that day. I said that we could protect each other, and I would disappoint you! It was a promise I made when we formed our alliance!"

"You realize that was not in the formal agree-"

"-Point being," Italy interrupted. "It was a promise I made when we formed our alliance. Our friendship! So when I don't listen to what you say, I am only making good on my promise."

Germany turned over at this, fixating his beady glare on Italy.

He was smiling uncaringly, like Germany had just offered to tell him a joke. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

Germany contemplated what he said, wondering if he should even bother. How would it look if he asked Italy that question? Would that make things weird? Worst of all, what if Italy had befriended Germany because he was Holy Rome before? What then? "It really isn't a big deal."

"It is to me." Italy said. He delivered it like his words had no weight. Like it wasn't the very thing Germany needed to hear most.

Germany sighed and faced the ceiling again. He tried to speak as though he weren't contemplating this all day. "When you found me, did you just want to become my friend to see if I was Holy Rome?"

There was only the briefest pause.

"Germany, do you really think that?" Italy asked, his voice heavy.

Germany frowned, not tearing his gaze away from the ceiling. "I don't know. I was just wondering."

"No!" Italy protested, shaking his head furiously. "Not at all! I only started suspecting it after World War Two!"

Germany finally looked at Italy. "Really?"

"Of course! I thought you just looked like him! The same way that Canada looks like America, or like Sealand looks like a gremlin! Before I was an investigator, Germany, I was your friend. First and foremost, always and forever!"

Germany felt a massive weight lift off his shoulders. "Oh. That's good." He said.

Italy lay down and faced him, his brown eyes gazing cautiously into his blue. His mouth split into a smile. "What do you want to do in Rome tomorrow?"

"Mm... we have to see the colosseum for sure." Germany answered, fully aware that Italy was trying to distract him.

"It's been so long since I've been seen it." Italy reminisced.

"How long?"

Italy frowned, thinking.

Germany noticed Italy's eyes were half closed, weighed down by exhaustion.

"Probably... actually, I don't think I've been there since it was still an actual arena..."

"How long ago was that?" Germany asked, slightly shocked.

"Mm..." Italy yawned. "I don't know. It's too late to think."

The corners of Germany's mouth lifted as Italy's eyes fluttered closed.

"Good night, Germany."

"Good night, Italy." Germany let his eyes close as well, immediately sinking into a heavy and merciful sleep.