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It is a scene from the movies: the sky, an idyllic blue, and the sun, casting a nostalgic golden glow on everything it touches. It’s the sweet atmosphere caramelized in postwar cinema, the silver screen 50’s in 2013. Idly, summer dips a toe into the world. A cherry red sports car—vintage Ferrari, 250 GT California Spyder—zips along the glittering coast of Cinque Terre.
Italy has an elbow outside the car, a hand on the steering wheel. No matter how careless people think he is, he does take care of his cars. He is driving at a perfectly reasonable speed (Italian standards) on the serpentine road that most tourists wouldn’t take. Actually, this is more a stroll on an automobile than anything else. He feels no shame in that; after all, he doesn’t own a villa here for nothing. The view is quite lovely, quite lovely indeed.
He tilts his head in a sideways glance and stifles a grin: Germany’s posture is conflicted, smack in between rigid and relaxed. His seatbelt is firmly fastened, his arms well inside the automobile, but his back is snug against the leather seat. Italy knows the language of Germany’s body better than his own.
Germany looks so cool, with the breeze in his pale gold hair and shades over his blue eyes, and all Italy wants to do is disrupt that.
“I can go faster if you like,” he offers lazily in Italian, stepping on the gas pedal for a brief gust of speed just to see Germany blanche.
“Italien, nein,” Germany releases a chuckle (and his grip on the armrest) as the car resumes its original pace. They always speak in their respective languages, understanding each other perfectly. “I know we’re technically immortal, but let’s not push it.”
“You seemed a bit tense, that’s all,” Italy leans back into his seat, his flippant shrug offset by a playful smile. Waves roll against the stony cliffs, candy-colored houses emerge on the high rocks around the bend. “Worried about September?”
“Perhaps, a little,” his smile is taut with upcoming federal elections. “Not that I think Alternative für Deutschland is really worth being concerned about, but...” The look he gives Italy is bleak, dimmed with history.
Italy sighs then purses his lips thoughtfully. He forgets sometimes, that Germany’s history is quite short in comparison. In the long course of history, however, there's still a sliver of hope that they’re heading in the right direction.
In a voice lighter than he feels, he tells Germany, “Even I pushed through with Movimento 5 Stelle, didn’t I?”
Although he doesn’t think he sounds all that convincing (porca puttana, they are the second most voted for in the Chamber of Deputies), he gives his most assured smile. The verbal, emotional, tactile reassurance, from his understanding, is something Germany needs but seldom asks for. “You’ll be fine,” Italy says firmly, putting a hand over Germany’s.
“We’ll be fine,” Germany corrects after a brief silence, a flicker of something brilliant in his reserved smile. Despite being known for a certain brand of pessimism, there's an odd sense of hopefulness in Germany that Italy cannot quite relate to anymore. “We’ll work together. Us, our bosses, the EU. Yes?”
The sound of the wind seems unbearably loud, somehow. Without Italy noticing, Germany has maneuvered their hands to be interlocked. Italy looks up from their hands to the road, making a turn before nodding slowly, cautiously. “Yeah,” he murmurs quietly.
There’s still a lingering thrum of anxiety, like the steady hum of the engine as they drive. Even though his new Prime Minister is keen on deepening relations with EU partners—and Germany—Italy can also feel the doubts of his people prickling in his blood. He cannot fully mean his reply, but he can try to believe in it.
It isn’t just him. He knows Germany and the rest of the EU can all feel it, the unsettling uncertainty and skepticism lurking beneath the surface. He’ll have to remind Germany of that sometime, maybe when they’re not on a vacation.
His eyes are on the road for once. The silence between Germany and him is not entirely silence. There’s also the wind, the waves, birds rejoicing summer, leaves dancing. Cinque Terre, that multi-colored gem, comes into view once more, glittering in late morning sunlight. His heart unclenches, stretches out like a ill-tempered cat waking from a nap.
He's here, and Germany’s here, and it's really such a lovely day out.
Italy lets out a long breath and squeezes Germany’s hand. He thinks about what they’re going to eat for lunch. Under his breath, he starts humming Nel Blu, Dipinto di Blu (Volare) and feels the blue of the summer sky.
“How are you, really?” Germany asks.
“Fine,” he says. He means it. He glances over and pauses at the adorable crease between Germany’s brows. His heart is light, ready for flight.
Germany stares, a mixture of expectant, concerned, and curious.
“Va bene, tesoro,” Italy’s lips ease into a graceful, unknowable smile, “I’m more than fine actually.”
Life, in spite of everything, is pretty good.