France was breathing deeply, stripped down to nothing but his pants. Before him stood a bloody, bruised and completely naked Italian whose facial features were almost invisible due to a large cut above his brows. He was shaking convulsively from all the pain and suffering he was barely enduring. The Frenchman, on the other hand, was panting with pleasure and pulling himself close to the tortured man.
"You look beautiful, mon cher," he whispered into his ear and then licked the Italian's earlobe slowly while the latter cringed away in disgust and grunted with displeasure.
"Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo!" The Italian said coarsely, his throat too dry to yell from all the hollering in pain.
"Ooh, that's not very nice, petit cule."
"Vai all'inferno, you stupid piece of shit. What have I ever – "
The Frenchman interrupted him, "Nothing, disgrâce, I just like watching you suffer." He walked around his victim and stopped behind him, his heavy breath on the Italian's neck. "Now I'm gonna put my – "
Just then, a loud explosion boomed on the surface, much louder than thunder – somebody is here to rescue me, Italy thought. Could it be Germany?
"Putain! That sauerkraut-eating asshole is on his way to save you, after all! Well, he'll have a nice surprise waiting for him…" The Frenchman started laughing loudly and approached his suitcase full of weaponry. He selected a long dagger he had used to stab at Italy's knees and elbows to cause unbelievable suffering.
Well, he thought, the amount of suffering is about to increase, then.
.
.
Two soldiers, hearing what had happened on the surface, were waiting for Ludwig in the first of two underground rooms. He shot one of them immediately, but the other was waiting for him and hit his arm with the butt of his American-made Lee Enfield rifle. Germany winced in pain but retaliated immediately, punching the soldier with a left uppercut and finishing the job by kneeing him in the stomach. He then stomped on the soldier's head as he lay unconscious on the ground, now never to wake up again.
Germany kicked open a few doors only to find an ammunition store, a wine cellar and a lavatory. However, there was one room left that he hadn't checked – a seemingly inconspicuous maintenance room that, upon barging into, turned out to be a make-shift torture chamber and prison cell.
The sight took his breath away – his best friend and more, the one he always protected and practically babysat – was now a battered, naked, bloody, crimson-colored, chained mess. And facing the door stood France, wearing pants only, with his hands behind his back.
"Feli!" Ludwig yelled upon seeing the Italian. He then turned towards the torturer and hollered, "You – you monster!" With shaking hands, he shot his Luger twice, hitting the Frenchman's left shoulder once and missing the other time as Francis ducked to the right.
"Don't shoot," the Frenchman said calmly, although cringing in pain at the bullet in his arm. He outstretched his hidden, dagger-wielding hand, pressing the sharp knife against Feliciano's throat, "don't shoot or I'll kill him."
Ludwig lowered the gun and then Francis added, "Drop it and kick it here." The German reluctantly let go of his custom Luger and then kicked it across the floor. "Now hands above your head."
"You love this guy, don't you?" France smirked, picking up the pistol and weighing it in his hand. "And you love this gun too… 'T would be a shame if you got killed with it." He grinned evilly and pointed the pistol at the German's face.
"Ludi, no!" the Italian roared as he saw, with the corner of his eye, what was happening behind him.
"Brûle en enfer, branleur!" France said, and pulled the trigger.
The Luger P08 merely clicked. Ludwig had shot the last two bullets.
The German used the Frenchman's confusion to charge at him and headbutt him in the stomach. He then punched his face several times, delivering each blow with the crushing power of his rage. But Francis was still holding the dagger with his impaired, shot arm. It may have been limp with pain, but he was still able to swing the blade back and drive it straight into the German's fist, blocking one of his punches. Ludwig caught the dagger with his bare hand and, despite the fact that it drove into his skin mercilessly and erupted with a firework of blood, he intercepted it and, after wresting himself free, stabbed it straight through the Frenchman's heart, ending his miserable existence.
The German's head was spinning but he went straight for the Italian. He chopped the steel chains with the sharp dagger and then discarded the disgusting tool forever. He caught Feliciano as his limp body fell straight for the floor, powerless.
"Ludi," he whispered, "you came for me…"
"Of course, dummkopf. Always."
Germany picked up the smaller one's body, bridal style, and carried it out of the fort. Every move sent waves of pain through his body and he could tell that each step he took also hurt the bruised, cut and bone-crushed Italian he was holding in his weakened arms, as he whimpered at the German's slightest move. They moved slowly through the underground maze, up the narrow concrete staircase and through the now-truly-abandoned brick fortress. The two moved slowly through the rainstorm outside, the Italian's eyes full of blood and tears as the cold rain stung his burning wounds. Ludwig battled the pain and fatigue, trudging through the woods, all odds against him.
They had walked for an hour through the swampy forest before any form of Bolzano's crumbling apartment buildings could be seen. Germany's vision was blurry, and all he could see was black spots. He knew he couldn't carry on for much longer. Finally, he turned around so that he would absorb all of the impact, and collapsed back-first onto the empty paved street.
"Ludi," a barely audible whisper that blended in with the hiss of rainfall, "Ludi?"
"Ja?"
"I'm still naked," the Italian smiled and rolled from atop the German's body onto the stones below. He cried with pain at the contact of his bleeding wounds with the muddy pavement.
Ludwig smiled back, tears streaming down his prominent cheeks, and scooped up the Italian's bruised face with his badly bleeding hand, "Ich liebe dich, Feli." He said and kissed him slowly.
"The feeling is mutual," Feliciano half-whispered and half-mouthed, and then drifted off into unconsciousness beside him.