Author's note:This is it guys. I figured I'd put my note up at the top this time so that I don't ruin the flow of the story. This one might actually be the most depressing chapter yet. ^^" Sorry about ending the story like this, but fear not. There's a link for the sequel at the end of this chapter.

I'd like to thank all my lovely readers and reviewers and everyone who was every touched by or cried at this story. I never imagined that anyone would enjoy this fic so much, especially since my writing skills in the earlier chapters are a little shaky. Thank you for following this story to the end and I hope to see some of you return to read the sequel as well.

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Germany sat at his desk attempting to get some work done. No such luck. Ever since Italy had run away the German had been very anxious and upset, and he knew why, but there was no way in Hell he'd admit it to himself. Maybe he had thought before that he loved Italy, but after everything he'd gone through he had gone into a state of complete denial.

It was stupid of me to think I loved him. I don't love him. I don't love other men, especially not men like him. In fact, I don't love at all. He clenched his fists as his heart seemed to throb in in chest, I don't love anyone.

Germany had done everything. He'd called the Italian's home time and time again, at least five times every hour the day Italy had run away. He didn't know that Italy wasn't there to answer the phone, and Romano had ignored the calls, knowing who it was, (Germany was the only one who ever called the house.) The next day, after calling at least ten times beforehand, had shown up at the small villa, only to find it empty. He didn't know why, he didn't know it was because the two Italians had left to sign an armistice. He just returned home with an aching heart, pure worry, and no answers.

He asked everyone, every single one of his men that might no the location of the auburn haired nation. Not a single person had any idea. Germany found himself crying in his room that night when he realized he'd have to sleep alone in his bed yet again. Now that Italy had disappeared without a trace Germany realized just how much he loved seeing that small man. How much he loved hearing him laugh, and seeing his smile, and that one strand of hair that always flew out in a defiant curl from his head. The little curl that stuck out, just like Italy.

When Germany awoke in his room, just before his eyelids parted he silently prayed that when he opened his eyes he would see Italy curled up beside him, like usual. He told himself that if there really was a God, he would let Italy be right there with him. He would bring the country back to him. When Germany opened his eyes and he only saw a neatly made half of the bed, he decided that there wasn't a God. There couldn't be a God in a world were Italy had left him. He had also decided that he never loved Italy. He lied to himself over and over again in an attempt to fix his broken heart.

I never loved him. Never. I don't need love. I don't need him. Love is weak, just like Italy. I have no time for weakness.

Finally Germany found himself at his desk, trying to pretend like he wasn't worried, like his heart wasn't broken, like he wasn't wondering why Italy had run off. He remembered the horrible dream he'd had and quickly shook it from his mind, he refused to believe Italy had surrendered. He absolutely wouldn't consider it for even a moment. Until the dream would creep back into his mind and taint his thoughts with the images of Italy's broken body laying in the mud.

He couldn't have surrendered. There's no way. He could still come back, he could always still come back. It's only been a couple days.

Germany quickly gave his head an angry shake, No, it doesn't matter if he comes back or not because I definitely never cared for him. Never at all.

Lies. Everything he thought was just lies in an attempt to heal, but he just couldn't. A nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that Italy had left. He had left for good, gone off and surrendered, leaving Germany to fight this front alone.

As if to make things worse, a sharp knock was heard at his office door. Germany stood and made his way to the door, taking a deep breath before slowly pulling it open. He knew what was coming.

"Sir, we've just gotten news that the country of Italy has signed an armistice with the Allied forces."

If the man ordered to give Germany this information was still talking, the German could no longer hear him. All he heard was the blood roaring in his ears and his own panicked, shallow breathing as he tried to steady himself against the door frame.

"Sir?"

"Go away." his tone was surprisingly threatening for someone about ready to burst out crying. But Germany was stronger than that. He would not cry over this.

"Uh...yes, sir." The man scurried away, obviously terrified. Germany could care less. He slammed the door of his office so hard it hurt his own ears.

I knew it. Oh Gott, I knew it. I am not sad, no this hasn't made me sad. The lies he fed himself continued, I never loved him, so he hasn't broken my heart. He has, however, broken a pact. For that he needs to pay. He is an enemy now, and shall be treated as such.

He took one look at the stack of paperwork on his desk and realized that there was no way he'd ever get any of it done. Needing to hit something to release a torrent of emotion he had pretended was anger, he frustratedly swiped everything from his desk. Papers littered the room and his telephone smashed to the ground, releasing a long droning 'beeeeeeeep' from being left of the hook. An inkwell stained the carpet and pens and pencils lay around like shrapnel from a log house swept away in a tornado. It wasn't satisfying in the least. Neither was the frustrated yell he'd let out in addition to the trashing of his office. He decided that nothing in the room was of any use and left. He found himself sitting in his living room.

Everything he saw made him angry. Or at least, he called it angry. He would not admit that Italy had filled him with sorrow. His eyes traveled from one thing to another, but no matter where he looked he just saw Italy. Everywhere. It was infuriatingly painful. Even when he shut his eyes, Italy was still there, mocking him. Mocking him with the smile he bore, that god damn smile hiding a traitor beneath it. Lies swimming behind his honey colored eyes. He kept telling himself that that was his enemy. He was training himself to hate everything about that country. He took his broken heart and mentally swept out all the little pieces the same way he'd sweep out his own house, until his chest was empty and all that was left was a dull ache.

I don't need happiness or love, I don't need a heart at all.

And yet that pain that he called anger remained. When he heard the sound of something roll into his driveway his eyes popped open. He peered suspiciously out the window. Who the Hell would be coming over at a time like this?

An answer came in the form of a soaking wet Italian wandering up to his door. Germany whipped the curtains shut and walked to the door briskly, forgetting to breath. Just another symptom of anger, he told himself. Now he was to confront his enemy, like a good soldier, and get him the Hell of his land. He faltered before opening the door, sucking his breath in desperately, trying to remind himself that Italy was now an enemy.

You hate him. This feeling is hate. Open the door and get rid of that traitor.

He turned the knob and swung the door open, suddenly thrown face to face with Italy. He wasn't ready to see him so suddenly. Germany's face stayed hard with hatred, but inside he felt an explosion of emotion happen. He felt all the 'anger' melt away into bitter happiness at seeing the Italian's face again. It quickly fled though, leaving just the feeling of that 'anger' yet again.

"Ciao, Germany?"

You say it like it's a question. Like your asking me if I hate you. "What the Hell are you doing here?" Because if that's true the answer is yes.

"I need to talk to you about something..."

And yet he keeps speaking as if I'd never said a thing. Damn Italian, he needs to know that he is not welcome to come around here and talk. He is not welcome here ever. "I have no interest in talking to traitors.

Italy's face drained of all color and his expression was that of pure distress. Glad to see I've made my point.

"Now get the fuck out of my country." The words were practically laced with venom.

Italy spoke with panicked, pleading speed, "Oh please, just let me talk to you! You weren't supposed to know yet! I was supposed to tell you! Oh God, why can't anything in my life go right?"

Don't listen to him, ignore everything the traitor says. Answer that question by breaking his heart, maybe then he'll leave me alone.

"You want to know why?" He took an intimidating step forward out into the rain, and leaned down and looked into Italy's eyes. He'd never seen them filled with so much fear. That's good. He tried to convince himself, "Because you're a worthless, cowardly, lying excuse for a nation. I'll be damned if I ever let you talk to me again. Do you know what you've done to me?" Maybe he'd said to much by betraying that Italy had hurt him. To late now, real rage gripped him tightly where a heart would be, "DO YOU!"

Italy shrunk away in fear as he continued to cry and plead, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"I can't believe you did this...I can't believe you. You've betrayed me." He voice was quiet and cold, as if he was telling a horrible secret. Anger just bubbled under his skin, spreading over his whole body in waves of disgust and hatred.

"No! No, I never meant to! I was trying to do what was best!"

Utter bullshit. Germany wouldn't have it. He grabbed Italy by the collar and screamed into his face, "WHAT WAS BEST FOR WHO! THE ALLIES?"

Italy met his gaze and the sadness seemed contagious, draining the true anger from Germany, just filling him with the 'anger' he had felt earlier. The anger that was actually pain in disguise. Italy's face was strangely calm, still soaked in rain and sadness, but it was as if he were trying to gently explain something, "No...no, for everyone."

Germany wasn't going to listen. Listening would change the mind he'd made up. If he changed his mind this would only happen again. He reminded himself that that damn Italian was a fucking snake in disguise. Germany had convinced himself of that by now. He let go of Italy and turned away.

Don't look at him. I never want to see him again.

He trembled as he clenched his gloved fists.

"Germany?"

If he makes me look I'll fucking kill him.

"Go away." The German whispered dangerously.

"Germany, it's okay, just because I surrendered it doesn't mean-"

"GO!" He screamed, whipping his head in Italy's direction. The smaller man fell backwards in surprise. I'm going to kill that asshole for everything he's done.

"I was trying to save you!"

Save me? "You can't save me. You can't save anyone. You will always be useless, and I was a fool to think otherwise." Again, his voice was quiet. Calm, almost like the eye of a hurricane. No matter what you do though, eventually the eye will pass and you will be thrown back into the storm.

"P-please...please Germany I-"

Italy never got to finish his sentence, and Germany had convinced himself he didn't care. Italy was knocked terrifyingly fast back into the mud puddle he had attempted climbing out if. Apparently by Germany's own fist. He'd never punched Italy before, and he hadn't expected to do it at that moment, but listening to the Italian had become a painful ordeal. Punching him silenced everything that made Germany hurt. It released all pain and brought it back on the one who had inflicted it upon him. He had no idea that Italy had more pain than he could bear already.

Sobs erupted from the small, broken country laying in mud. Germany couldn't find himself able to care anymore. For a second he wondered how they'd gotten here? How they'd gone from being closer than anyone to hating to the extent of brutality? Germany decided to spare himself by no longer questioning it. He decided that now he was going to live in the moment and do what felt right. At this moment the only thing that felt right was making him pay. Germany pulled his leg back like a spring and released it in to Italy's rib cage with all the strength he could manage. He heard Italy gasp for air like a fish out of water and then scream wildly.

"I'M SO SORRY!" The Italian yelled, hiding his face and taking the punishment without resistance.

The words only angered Germany more. He kicked Italy in the back of the head to stop him from speaking. The German didn't know why at that exact moment, but later he'd come to realize he didn't want to hear Italy speak because of the guilt it instilled in him.

"SHUT UP YOU LITTLE SHIT!" He screamed, pulling Italy up by the collar with on hand.

"Please, please Germany, just kill me! PLEASE! I can't live with you hating me like this, and everything hurts, I'd rather be dead! I'm so sorry! Please, please just kill me!"

Germany glared at him in an attempt to hide how much that statement killed him inside. He had hurt Italy so much he made him want to die. He deserves to feel like that. Germany tried convincing himself. He didn't really believe it, though. He glanced downward and a flash of lightning glinted off something on Italy's chest. Germany's heart stopped under further inspection. A shard of sadness stabbed him in the chest.

The iron cross he'd given Italy. It was painful to look at around the Italian's neck. It was a proud symbol of his country, but when Italy wore it is was a proud symbol of his loyalty. Germany was instantly reminded of who he was hurting, who this really was. Italy with the big, amber eyes that scrunched shut when he smiled or laughed. Italy who was made happy as easily as he was made sad. Italy who snuck into his bed every night, despite Germany's fake dislike. Italy who could paint and sing and cook. Italy who was built for happiness and love, not war. Mein Gott, what have I done? Germany quickly yanked the pendant off from around the Italian's neck and stuffed it in his pocket, discarding Italy by simply throwing him down like a selfish child throws away a broken toy.

I could never kill you, even if I wanted to. "Like I would waste my time killing you. Someone as pathetic as you doesn't even deserve death."

The statement wasn't meant to harm like his previous ones. Now when he spoke it was intended to scare Italy away so that he'd never come back to Germany. He had realized something when he saw that pendant. He didn't deserve Italy. He never would deserve him. Someone that kind and selfless would be better off alone for the rest of his life rather than with Germany. All he would do is cause heartbreak and pain to that delicate little Italian. He'd already caused heartbreak and pain to that Italian, not to mention physical abuse. He spat to get the taste of guilt out of his mouth. He really hadn't meant for it to land on Italy. Just another thing to feel guilty about.

"Now get the fuck out of my country." Please just leave, it's for your own good.

He walked into his home and slammed the door behind him, sinking down slowly against the cold oak and succumbing to raging, torturous guilt and pain. No, he'd never hated Italy. He could never let himself hate Italy. He could lie to himself all he wanted, but he was as weak to that Italian as that Italian was weak to anything else. He threw his face in his hands and let regretful tears fall from his eyes. He heard Italy whimper loudly on the other side of the door as he probably struggled to stand. He just kept praying silently that he'd manage to get up and leave on his own. I can't help you, please, I can't have anything more to do with you. Just leave and forget about me and I'll try and do the same. One, painfully loud scream tore through the storm. It made Germany's ears burn and his whole heart break.

Please, oh please Italy you can do it! Just go! I can't do anything for you anymore. I'm no help! You can do it, I know you can! Push through everything I've done to you, please just push through it!

His whole body ached with sadness, distress, guilt, regret, loss, heartbreak.

That fucking dream came true, it happened and I knew it all along!

"WHY!" He heard Italy scream outside. Oh Gott, I'm so sorry. I've never hated a person as much as I hate myself right now.

"OH GOD, WHY CAN'T I JUST DO SOMETHING RIGHT!" That statement tore whatever was left of Germany's heart into so many pieces it might as well have been grains of sand on a beach, Please, understand that you've done nothing wrong. Mein Gott, I'm so sorry, I love you! I'm sorry! Leave me! Leave me forever and go find happiness somewhere else! It was never your fault! Never!

He continued crying wildly into his cupped hands until he noticed that it had grown quiet outside his door after a while. Not a single noise, not a cry from an Italian, not a rumble of thunder, not even a drop of rain was heard. He pushed himself up off the floor, in panic, suddenly afraid Italy might have passed out or even died. He rushed to the window and pulled the curtains apart so that one eye peered out. The first thing he noticed was that the storm had died. He then locked eyes with a broken, black eyed, bleeding man from the inside of an automobile. He quickly retracted from the curtains and collapsed to the floor, sighing in relief. If there is a God, please watch over Feliciano. I'm not worth the task, anymore. I don't think I ever was.

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Sequel: Sixty Nine Years: http:/ www. (fanfiction) .net /s/7766009/1/Sixty_Nine_Years