Archive of Our Own

"Ludwig!" 

"Oh. Feliciano."

"Aw, don't act like that! I brought dinner."

Germany's eyebrows furrowed with his confusion. Dinner? It was… he spared a glance at the clock. It was barely nine-hundred-hours, and Germany hadn't ever known Italy to wake up before twelve. But Italy was here, and it wasn't like Germany had any real opposition to his presence, so he let the brunette into his house with only a soft sigh, performative at best. Italy propped the door open and went to his car, bringing in reusable bags bulging with who-knew-what. "Dinner?"

"Si!" Italy beamed. "I thought I'd cook it here. I have a whole menu, so eat a light lunch, okay?"

"Ja, I will." Germany looked away, then pressed his lips together. His Italian friend always managed to surprise him—and, in a more abstract sense, always managed to make Germany surprise himself. Germany had never really been able to stand against Italy's whims. If it meant they had rich food and wine more often than not, well… Germany tried not to complain about the added padding in his belly and hips. 

"I brought you groceries, too," said Italy, his brown eyes glittering in the low light of Germany's kitchen. Germany flipped the light switch on. "Some potatoes, of course, and cabbage. I thought I'd make you some noodles, so I brought eggs, and I know you like the store-bought mayonnaise but I just can't stand it, so I also have eggs for that. And the market had carrots, so I got those, and there was a man making his own sausages, so of course I got some for you." Italy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing down at the floor before looking back up at Germany. "Is that okay?"

Germany nodded, bewildered as ever by Italy's behavior. In all his memory, there hadn't been a time where he wasn't confused by the Italian, so he brushed it off as Italy being strange again and turned away. "I have work to do, so—"

"Make myself at home?"

"Ja." Italy hummed his assent, leaning on the counter. Germany sighed. "Is there… a special occasion?" Italy often celebrated holidays the rest of the world had forgotten about; Germany had nearly lost his mind when Italy suggested they celebrate the festival of Saturnalia or Quinquatria. Then, being Catholic, the number of holy days Italy observed was frankly obscene. Germany figured Italy would respond with some archaic tradition; but, then again, Italy never did what Germany expected.

"The special occasion is I love you, and I want to celebrate!" Italy grinned, setting the last of his bags down. "I got challah at the market and met this lovely lady, Ludwig. She's a hundred and seventy-seven centimeters tall and she has really long hair! She gave me oranges! I don't think she was from around here, she was much too friendly. But it's okay, because I got her number in case I need any more oranges!"

Germany frowned.

It wasn't like Italy to talk about women in his presence, Germany thought, not since that disastrous Valentine's day. But that had been a long time ago, and maybe Italy was just getting his confidence back. Germany nodded, trying not to look as displeased as he felt at the reminder that Italy didn't return his feelings. But… Italy had said he loved Germany. That wasn't something to be taken lightly.

"You love me?" Germany's blue eyes fixed very intently on the wall behind Italy, narrowly missing the way Italy's cheeks flushed. "And I'm taller than your lady." He couldn't help it, after all, the possessiveness that surged through him at the thought of anyone else touching Italy. He knew it had happened. He didn't want to be reminded of it. He blushed, then, his eyes narrowing at Italy.

"W-well, yes, you are." Italy waved a hand, somehow unnaturally still for a talking Italian. "You're my best friend! So… um… I wanted to celebrate our friendship?" 

"Ah." Germany nodded. That was about what he had expected. Italy was Germany's best friend, after all, even after the war. Italy… would never abandon him. Germany figured he could be content with that. And if he had to put up with Italy and his incessant flirting, that would be fine, because Germany didn't really want for more in their friendship.

Italy, he had come to realize, was a shit ally on the battlefield. That had been apparent from day one, when Germany found him hiding in a box of tomatoes. But off the battlefield, though needy, clingy, and all-around annoying, Italy worked hard. He did all of his paperwork on time, and all of his brother's, even though Italy would prefer to spend his afternoons napping. He cooked for Germany when he knew his friend was in a tight spot. He invited Germany out, made sure he didn't work himself to death, and brought him water when Germany was sure there was nothing that could fix his horrible mood at the moment (and, most of the time in those moods, he was just dehydrated). Italy was his friend, and Germany could take the babbling and the flirting in stride. 

Germany came to, realizing that Italy was still talking. He closed his eyes; no silent moments for him, it seemed. Italy wrung his hands, looking between Germany and the groceries and oh . Germany's frown deepened. "Italy—"

"Feliciano," insisted Italy, and Germany nodded.

"Feliciano. What day is it?"

Italy looked at the floor. "Monday…?" His voice lilted at the end, likely hoping to get out of this situation. Germany shook his head.

"The date, Feliciano."

"May eighth."

"I see." Germany turned away. "I'm sorry, I have work to do." In the most uncharacteristic show of reading the room, Italy let him go.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

The hours rolled by in a haze. Germany remembered getting some work done—he reviewed foreign policy, made lots of notes, wrote a very strongly worded email that boiled down to no, you can't ban refugees from the country , and, in all of this, he didn't speak a single word. Germany was used to spending hours alone, in silence, with only faint metal playing in the background, but the pressure on his chest felt like torture when he remembered the date. 

The day it had all fallen apart.

Granted, Germany had spent the weeks before that in the capable hands of the secret police, but he remembered the surrender vividly. He could imagine it from every angle; he could imagine that he had been there, at the Battle of Berlin, dizzy out of his mind from the interrogations and the bombs. He had wondered, faintly, whether this was the same agony England had felt with the Blitzkrieg, and then he had wondered whether it would be appropriate to apologize or not for all the pain. 

Germany had, eventually, apologized, though it was after many years. England had smiled and shaken his hand. Germany hadn't felt forgiven. And he never would.

Breaking the tension of his thoughts, Italy poked his head into Germany's office. "Buonasera! You're done working! Come help me cook."

"Eh?"

"Come help me cook," insisted Italy, bouncing over to Germany's desk and taking his hand. "Up! You're too sad to keep working. Come cook with me. I brought wine."

Germany sighed. "Is there any way I can convince you otherwise?"

"Nope!" Italy smiled. "So come help me."

Germany followed Italy downstairs, once again weak to his whims. Seeing Italy so happy made Germany's guilt weigh all the heavier on his chest. Italy didn't mind. Italy had surrendered over half a year before Germany's humiliating defeat. Italy had bounced just as cheerfully over to the Allies, leaving Germany alone.

He still had Japan, but it wasn't the same. Their battles were different. Germany was alone.

By the time Germany had scrubbed in for cooking—and, yes, it was scrubbing in, with how diligently Italy and he cleaned their hands—Italy had popped the cork on a fancy-looking bottle of wine and poured them two glasses. Germany didn't know much about wine, but he looked to Italy, sipping delicately at it, and decided (feeling suddenly spiteful) that he didn't care. Germany tossed the wine back, hoping the pleasant buzz of inebriation would come sooner rather than later. Italy gasped like Germany had just killed his firstborn.

"Ludwig! No! Savor it, Ludwig, it's a special vintage!" Italy's hands clasped together, and God, were those tears in his eyes? Germany's guilt doubled at the evidence that he had upset his Italian friend. "It's a Sauvignon Blanc! I got it especially for our meal, so don't make me regret giving some to you now!" 

"Es tut mir leid," said Germany, setting his wine glass down. "I'm sorry."

"Tutto e perdonato! But seriously, Ludwig, this cost me eighteen hundred euros! Do you know how hard it is to find twenty-nineteen Loire wines? They're all sold out! Because they're delicious! So savor it, okay?"

Germany choked. "You spent eighteen hundred euros on a bottle of wine ?!" Despite how frivolous the purchase was, Germany now felt even worse. Italy had bought something for him to enjoy. Italy knew how Germany much preferred white wines to red ones, how the acidic and dry nature of white wine made him think of his childhood and his sour ales, and Italy had bought an eighteen hundred euro bottle to share with him. It made Germany want to sink to his knees and apologize for every slight against Italy he had ever made. He didn't, of course, but he bowed his head and nodded. 

Germany startled at the feeling of hands on his face. Italy stood in front of him, looking up at him with his golden eyes.

"Of course," said Italy, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I thought you might like it. And I've spent more on things for you before."

Germany nodded. 

"Would you like another glass?" Italy's abnormally serious face morphed into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "There's enough to go around, and it's just us." Germany nodded again, barely daring to meet Italy's gaze. Italy held him fast, though, caressing Germany's cheekbones with his thumbs and hardly minding the blush that spread across Germany's face at the affectionate gesture. "I'll pour you some, then, tesoro."

"Tesoro?"

"Ah!" It was Italy's turn to blush, it seemed, because he stepped back and busied himself with the wine. "I… wasn't thinking very clearly. Mi dispiace."

"It's fine." Germany took the offered glass, inhaling deeply and watching as Italy turned back to his… fig salad? Germany didn't move to question it, figuring that anything prepared by Italy's hands would be delicious. "What does that mean?"

"I-It's a term of endearment," Italy admitted, trembling finely. "It means 'treasure.'"

"Oh."

"I didn't mean to imply anything. I'm sorry. It just slipped."

"It's okay."

Italy turned amber eyes to him once more, tilting his head with a curiosity that better fit him than embarrassment. Germany liked it—his open, honest disposition, and the way he never seemed to judge. "What's okay?"

"I know you use terms of endearment with everyone." Germany cleared his throat. "It's…" He paused. The fog in his brain demanded he speak honestly, that he reward Italy's openness with some of his own. "It's strange, how you never seem to use them with me."

Italy must have seen some of the confusion (the hurt) in his face, because he stepped closer, setting his knife down on the counter. "You never seemed comfortable."

"Ja, I know." Germany's brows furrowed with his frustration, directed mainly at himself—but he wanted Italy to see him, too, to know what he wanted without Germany even having to say it. That was stupid. Italy had never read the room properly before, so why would he start now?

"Tesoro is more for intimate partners," said Italy, turning back to his cooking once more. "But we're not like that, are we? So it's not… accurate. We're friends. You could be my fratello, or cervellone, because you're so smart."

"I see."

"O-or you could be my tesoro! That's not the usual meaning, but it's okay!" 

"It's alright."

Italy fell silent, pulling his roasted fish from the oven. Germany's heart sank. Of course Italy only liked him (loved him) as a friend. They had cleared up this misunderstanding decades ago.

So why, why , did Italy keep making Germany's heart race?

Germany had grown up in a time of war, of soldiers, was born and raised in violence. He knew of the intimate bonds between men, and how they were broken, going home, because men and women were meant to be together. Italy was Catholic, so surely he knew better than anyone, back then, the way society treated male homosexuality. But times had changed. The idea of being with a man no longer brought a sick feeling to Germany's stomach, though it definitely once had. Italy had changed that. 

Hell, Italy had admitted his first love was a boy. It just wasn't fair, how Italy could ignore his citizens and their attitudes, and just focus on his own. Germany often found himself paralyzed with fear, with anger, with sadness at the state of affairs, and those feelings were amplified by those of his citizens. Terror. Anguish. Germany was no stranger to them, but Italy seemed to be. Germany sighed.

He was pulled from his thoughts by Italy (his beloved, silly, radiant Italy) shooing him to the table. "I'm done cooking! So you go sit down, and I'll bring out the first course!"

"First course?"

"Si! I made five! So sit."

Germany did as he was told, of course, as the master of following orders. His lips twisted as he sat. That was all he did, right? Follow orders? And people had gotten killed. He glared at his hands, willing them to fall still in his lap. Italy came out, though, breaking the tension as he always did with little platters of cheese and meat. "Antipasti! For you, Signore," said Italy, smiling down at Germany. "Proscuttio, gorgonzola, cream cheese, green olives, toasted bread, and some smoked salmon." Italy took his place across from Germany, refilling their wine glasses as he went, and spread his napkin in his lap. Germany realized he should, as well, and hastened to copy Italy. 

"You made five courses?"

"We're celebrating! Of course I did!"

Germany's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Celebrating what? My surrender?"

"No, tesoro," said Italy, reaching across the table to cover Germany's hand with his own. Despite his earlier speech he did not, in fact, change his endearment. "We're celebrating your life."

Germany fell silent, glaring down at his plate before reaching for a piece of bread. He may as well enjoy the cooking, after all, because Italy made the best dishes, and cured meats somehow always managed to cheer Germany up. They ate quietly, Italy forcing Germany to slow down so as to not seem rude. When Italy stood to collect their plates, Germany made to stand as well. Italy placed a hand on his shoulder. "No, sit. Sit, Ludwig, I can get the next course."

Germany sat. Italy's hand on his shoulder burned into his skin long after Italy had disappeared. And when Italy came back, he presented the food just as proudly as he had the antipasto. "Truffle garlic pappardelle with pangrattato!" After the antipasto, of course, came the pasta—Germany had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity of the idea. 

"This smells delicious."

"Then eat it! Buon appetito!" 

Germany made quick work of the relatively small portion, glancing up at Italy. He shivered when he locked eyes with the older nation, furrowing his brows. "Why are you staring?"

"I love when you eat my food," said Italy, somehow breezing right back into his shameless persona. Germany didn't understand it. Italy smiled. "You eat it quickly, because you're scared it will go away, but you always look lighter when you do. You should slow down. I made plenty, and there's nobody here but us."

Germany hung his head.

"Hey, don't look like that." Italy pouted. "It's wonderful, how you like it so much that you eat it quickly. You're a soldier through and through. We're not on the battlefield, though, so you can take your time."

"Is it really so endearing?" Germany grumbled, looking back up at Italy. "You spent a lot of time on it. I didn't realize how quickly…" He trailed off at the smile lighting up Italy's face, then frowned at the laughter that began spilling from Italy's lips.

Italy took a moment to compose himself, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "No, no, I'm sorry, mi dispiace, I wasn't laughing at you. I guess you just don't realize how endearing you are. I like you, Germany, and I like the way you eat my food."

"Ja."

"I'm sorry I said anything, really." Italy rested his cheek on his hand, blowing his curl from his face. "I didn't mean to make you feel insecure."

"I don't," Germany retorted, ducking his head as blood rushed to his cheeks.

"Oh, okay!" Italy beamed. "Can I get us the next course?"

"Ja." 

"Magnifico! It'll be out shortly."

Germany bit his lip as Italy left, his eyes shifting around his dining room. It was rather plain, wasn't it? The grey walls blended with the dark floor, and his light fixture really needed an upgrade from the bare disc in the ceiling. His table, metal with glass, showed the old (plain) rug on the floor. His chairs had the minimalistic design that Germany usually favored, with just four panels on the back and no cushion.

Now, however, Germany wondered how Italy could feel so at home in Germany's house.

Italy's home in Venice was magnificent . The villa had eight bedrooms, each one decorated to the nines. Every common area was meticulously dusted (and, when Germany heard Italy himself cleaned the villa, his eyes had bugged out of his head), the floors shiny and the kitchen always gleaming. Italy's dining room had an herb garden on the wall and a chandelier in the center of the ceiling, directly over the table made of mahogany and polished until it shined. The painting on the wall—Italy had told him the name once, but he didn't remember—displayed a whole elaborate scene with statues and Venus and what appeared to be a murder, and every inch was oiled and preserved with great care. 

It was a replica of a Botticelli painting. Italy had painted it himself.

Italy returned with their third course, the fish Germany had seen earlier, and refreshed their glasses. Germany fought the urge to toss the wine back again; he was going to drive himself insane if he kept thinking, but he didn't want to insult his friend and his eighteen-hundred euro bottle of wine. "Sicilian roast fish with pesto and couscous," said Italy, dramatic as ever as he set their plates down with a flourish. "Lovi—Romano, he taught me how to make this, and Seborga tested it for us. Romano's quite the chef, you know? I asked him to help me cook for you once, but he just laughed and went to big brother Spain's house." Italy frowned. Germany blinked. Italy was still frowning. "He's mean to you. I really don't like it, but there's nothing I can do about it except apologize for him, so that's what I'm going to keep doing, okay?"

"It's alright, Feliciano." Germany huffed a laugh. "I learned how to deal with Romano when you two were my allies."

"I guess you did, yes," said Italy, his lips turning back up into a grin. Germany almost sighed in relief. "Now I'm your friend, and Romano barely tolerates you. But that's okay, because I can tolerate you enough for the both of us!" Italy sat down in his seat, stabbing his fish with a ferocity that startled Germany. His grip on his fork was tight, and it didn't look very comfortable, so Germany reached across the table and took Italy's hand in his own to correct it. Italy's lips parted; he let out a soft "oh" as Germany adjusted his fingers. 

"Be more careful, schatzi," said Germany. "My silverware is cheap."

Italy smiled, but it looked weak, and Germany retracted his hand to silence. He took a bite of his own fish, a low rumble building in his throat at the spices he could taste. It wasn't pepper-spicy, but saffron-spicy, and though Germany knew Italy's food had always been more aromatic than his, he was still surprised by the sheer force of the aromatics. He almost couldn't taste the fish.

After his senses were done being overwhelmed, however, he could taste the fish, and he hummed at the soft, flavorful meat and the way it fell apart in his mouth. He ate this course with gusto, though slowly, and found himself smiling at the way Italy's shoulders relaxed.

Their fourth course passed in a similar silence, both countries focused more on the taste of the fig salad and the vinaigrette than on each other. When Italy stood to take their dishes and bring dessert and coffee, Germany froze.

Schatzi?

The endearment had slipped as easily from his lips as tesoro had from Italy's; his barely-suppressed feelings for Italy rose to the surface, turning his face red. He almost didn't notice as the tiramisu was set in front of him, with his face buried in his hands as it was. The strong, bitter smell of black coffee, however, made him look up. Italy was smiling again, in that way that made him look like the cat who caught the canary. He smiled like that sometimes, when he convinced Germany to get gelato or he threw a ball that landed directly in the dogs' mouths. "The coffee is from Ethiopia," said Italy, sitting down in his place across from Germany. "I got her to help me pick it out. And then I double-checked it, because I don't know if she's still holding a grudge but it's better to be safe than sorry, si?"

Germany chuckled. Italy's face lit up at the sound. "Yes, that's definitely better. Why can't you be this prepared with anything other than food?"

"Food is my specialty! Well, that and fashion, and fast cars, and pretty women… but mostly food."

"Ja, it is." Germany paused. "What do you think my specialty is?"

"Hm." Italy's head cocked to the side as he examined Germany, his eyes dragging slowly down Germany's chest and then back up to his eyes. Germany suppressed another blush. Seriously, hadn't he done enough of that at this point? "I think the obvious answer is machines. You're very good with your hands," said Italy, smirking and then wiping it away so quickly Germany almost convinced himself it was a trick of the light. But, no, the way Italy's voice curled around the words snapped him out of that delusion. "But I also think you're known for handsome men. I went to meet you in Munich and got sidetracked, after all! But German is scary, and he only spoke a little English, so I got bored and went to find you."

Germany cleared his throat, the repressed blush quickly making itself known. "I'm glad you did come and find me. I wouldn't want you wandering off with some strange man, after all."

"Ve, he was very nice." Italy looked up at Germany through his lashes. "He was like you."

Germany choked, his fork catching on the corner of his lip and spreading mascarpone cream by his mouth. He looked away, eating his bite of tiramisu properly, and washing it down with the coffee. "Ja, well, I am Germany," he said, floundering to try and come up with a suitable response. His brain short-circuited as Italy reached over to brush the cream from his face.

Italy put his thumb in his mouth, licking the mascarpone away, and smiled with that blinding innocence again, as if he didn't know perfectly well what he was doing. Germany felt familiar anger bubbling up in his chest, but pushed it down. Maybe Italy didn't know. Italy, for all his years, had the demeanor of a child. Somehow he managed to secure sexual partners in spite of that, but Germany wouldn't delude himself into thinking Italy was actually flirting with him. 

Italy took their dishes into the kitchen, and this time he didn't come back.

After a few moments of wondering whether this was it , Germany calmed his traitorous heart and followed Italy. And there he was, the surprising bastard, actually washing the dishes. He stacked them up on the dish rack, seemingly ignoring the dishwasher. Germany raised an eyebrow.

"You normally leave the dishes for tomorrow," said Germany, leaning against the counter and folding his arms over his chest.

"Well, we normally eat at my house," Italy chirped. "I didn't think you'd want to do all of our dishes tomorrow. And it's a lot of dishes, so I'll set the difficult stuff to soak for a while, wash all the easy stuff, and then come back in a few hours to scrub the pans! Not that there are a lot of pans, of course, because I like to clean as I go, but I'm not as messy as everyone seems to think I am. I spent a lot of time at Mr. Austria's house, you know! And I didn't just spend it singing and painting."

"Ja, I see." Germany nodded. "It was just surprising."

Italy hummed his assent, not bothering to protest when Germany stepped up beside him and began drying plates. Germany would only allow himself to be useless to a point, after all, and he hadn't been very helpful in cooking or serving dinner. He had to at least help with the dishes.

He was only useless to a point. He had to be helpful, or else he didn't feel wanted.

Italy looked up at him after a few quiet minutes, seemingly sensing Germany's changed mood. Once the distraction of dinner was over, and Italy's infuriating not-quite-flirting had passed from his system, Germany's faint smile crumbled and was replaced with the guilt from earlier. "You know, Ludwig."

"Hm." Germany frowned, pulled from his reverie by Italy's call. "What?"

"The guilt doesn't go away. You want it to, but it doesn't."

Germany sighed. "I know that."

"But it helps. If you talk about it, see. It helps."

"Mhm." Germany set the last of their dishes aside, turning away. "I'm sure."

"Hey!" Italy wrapped his arm around Germany's, his hand settling on Germany's bicep. "It's okay. It really is. Please talk to me. I see you're struggling."

Germany growled, pushing Italy away. "No. I don't—Italy!" He shuddered as he watched Italy's hip bump against the counter, shivering in anticipation of the breakdown that was soon to come (and that Germany would deserve, for being so careless). "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," said Italy, wiping tears from his eyes—this time from his pain and surprise rather than from his laughter. Germany's heart clenched. "Mi dispiace, Ludwig, I shouldn't have touched you so suddenly."

Italy never apologized for touching people.

"Feliciano," Germany began, taking in a breath and dropping his voice into a carefully soothing register. "Do you want to talk about anything?" Why hadn't he noticed? He closed his eyes, berating himself for just a moment before opening them again. "What kind of guilt… are you feeling?"

Germany didn't usually ask after others' feelings—he preferred silence to speech, especially on the matter of emotions—but Italy, as ever, was the exception. Italy huffed. "I just… know you're feeling bad. You always do," Italy added, quick to cut Germany off. "And you can't hide it from me, even though I know you want to, because I know you too well."

"Better than anyone," Germany mumbled.

"Yes, because we're best friends." Italy smiled. "But it's scary, knowing you have to deal with all of that alone. I don't really feel guilty, not about the war, because it wasn't my war, it was a war between the people who controlled me, and besides they're all dead now, and it was a while ago. And I try not to feel guilt about the things that happened over ten years ago. But… you do. You feel guilty. And I feel guilty knowing that I can't help you. You don't have to tell me… but I just want to comfort you, Ludwig."

"You're a lover, not a fighter," whispered Germany, recalling the words from when Italy left him so long ago. Italy reached out, slowly, setting a hand on Germany's forearm and stepping closer when Germany did not back away. 

"Yes." Italy nodded. "I am. Do you want to sit down with me?"

Germany let himself be led to his living room, stifling his protest about putting the dishes up. The pans were still wet, after all, and the plates could be dealt with later. He had let Italy down, just like he let everyone else down. He sighed. 

Italy arranged them on the sofa, letting Germany take one side as he took the other, and Germany watched as Italy curled his legs underneath him. Italy's gaze fell on him, shrewd when it should be cloudy. 

"I want to talk to you, Felichen," said Germany. He looked down as the second endearment slipped from his mouth; it shouldn't be as embarrassing as it was, he thought, to call his friend by a nickname. He pressed his lips together, then decided to breeze over it; Italy would only get worked up if he did, after all. "I do."

"But you feel shame."

Germany bit his lip, then nodded. 

"Is it shame for your past, or shame for your guilt?"

"My guilt," Germany said, his knuckles turning white in his lap. "I'm all but forgiven for it. I shouldn't… I shouldn't make it about me. It wasn't me who suffered. It was everyone. I just." He laughed, then, bitter. "I just followed orders."

"No, you didn't." Italy reached over, taking Germany's hand; then, before Germany could process what was happening, Italy maneuvered Germany so he laid on the couch with his head in Italy's lap. Germany bucked against the pressure, but Italy's hand carded through his hair and Germany let out a strangled groan of surprise (and pleasure, at the affection, and guilt, and about a thousand other emotions he couldn't quite name). Italy's thighs were plush and his pants were soft. Germany, almost against his will, relaxed into the hold. 

"Mmh?"

"You didn't follow orders." Italy's voice took on a note of pride that Germany struggled to understand. He was a soldier. Following orders was his duty . "It's okay, tesoro. It's okay to feel that grief, and that pain. But you did your best. Do you remember?"

"I did follow orders," Germany insisted. "Right up until the end." Italy couldn't know. He couldn't possibly know how Germany disobeyed his superiors, how he snuck out and fought against them right up until the end —he couldn't. 

"How did you end up with the Gestapo, then, Ludwig?"

Germany stiffened.

"You were there because of your partisan groups. Your newsletter, Ludwig. I read it."

"How could you—" Germany moved to sit up. He was stopped by the forceful hand in his hair. He turned his head, burying it as best as he could in Italy's lap with no mind for how it might look. He needed to hide. "You shouldn't know about that."

"I asked Romano. He looked through his resistenza contacts, the ones in Germany and Switzerland and France, until he found a man going by Herr Germany. "

"It was a pretentious name," whispered Germany, fighting back tears at being so suddenly flayed open. Italy shouldn't know. The less he knew, the less he could tell. Germany didn't want to get hurt. He didn't want Italy to get hurt. God, the Gestapo were going to come after them both, and Germany would deserve it because he stopped following orders —

"Breathe, tesoro." Italy's fingers brushed gently through his hair. "It's alright. I have you. There's no enemy here, Ludwig, just me, and I'm your friend, si?"

"Si…" Germany fought to breathe, subconsciously matching Italy's rhythm. When he had calmed down, he wilted, moving to pull away. Once again, Italy stopped him.

"You were scared," said Italy softly, "and so was I. But you… Ludwig, I could see the fear. In you, the person, and in Germany, the country. The Nazis didn't feel fear. You did. Because everyone was scared they were being watched, that they were next… that their government would turn on them just like they did to the Jewish people."

Germany sucked in a breath.

"And you couldn't think. You made us run laps because it cleared your head for long enough to think. You rushed to the African front because of your fear, this time for me. You couldn't control anything, and that made you scared. Si?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't know anything, which made it scarier."

"Yes," said Germany, pausing to catch his breath. Italy put a hand on Germany's chest, breathing in deeply to force Germany to mimic him. It worked. "I… I could feel my lungs. Burning." Germany covered Italy's hand with his own. "And I didn't know why."

"No, you didn't." Italy smiled down at him, ruffling his hair and pulling it even further from the neat style the gel had hardened it in. "You didn't know why. And when you found out, what did you do?"

"I…" Germany pressed his face back into Italy's legs. "I joined the resistance."

"Say it louder."

"I joined the resistance," Germany said, more forcefully, with more conviction than anything he had ever felt. "I joined them. I wanted it to stop. I wanted the Nazis to go away. I wanted Hitler to die, so the war could be over. So I joined them."

"Yes. You did." Italy swiped his thumb across Germany's cheek. "And I am so, so proud of you for doing it."

"I didn't…" Germany sighed. "I didn't do much. Surely you did more—I know you and Romano worked together, without me. I didn't know it at the time, but it seems obvious now, right?"

Italy fell silent. Minutes dragged on without an answer. Germany felt his stomach sinking.

Just as Germany was about to press the question, Italy spoke again. "When I was younger, my bosses were in wars all the time.

"It wasn't pleasant," murmured Italy, "and it wasn't kind. I spent time with every country in Europe, it felt like. So I stopped caring. They weren't my wars. They were my boss's wars. And I didn't want to worry about them, just whether or not the next person I was with would be nice to me or not. Spain was. Austria was, too, sometimes. France made me pasta. Turkey was mean, but not because of a grudge. He was just like that."

Germany looked up at him, then, noting how old Italy seemed. Germany was barely two hundred. Italy had been around for a lot longer than him. If Italy was originally Venice, then Italy had been around since the four-hundreds, and he looked every single one of his years with only his eyes.

"Once I knew… it was too late. I hadn't been involved. But I knew my people were starving. I could feel it, after all. So I made things grow. I knew something was wrong, it had to be, but I didn't bother to find out what it was."

"So did I," said Germany, but his mouth was quickly covered by Italy's hand.

"No, you didn't." Italy hummed. "You worked with the government every single day. You travelled to every front. You only knew what your boss told you. You couldn't have known, even if you looked. I did. I could have. I just didn't want to look."

"You're a lover." Germany pulled Italy's hand away from his mouth and then, with no small amount of embarrassment, returned it to its rightful place in his hair. "You didn't want to fight."

"I didn't. So I made things grow and hoped that would help the starving. It didn't. And then Mussolini died, and the Nazis occupied Italy, and I was made very startlingly aware of what was going on. I saw it all around me. They destroyed my cities. They nearly burnt my Venice to the ground," said Italy sadly.

"Is that why you abandoned me?"

"Yes."

Germany bit his lip.

"I had to do something. You were hurting. I was hurting. Japan… his bosses and their imperialism was rubbing off on him. One of us had to break first. And I'm very good at surrendering." Italy sighed. "Sometimes I wish I had your tenacity."

"Don't." Germany chuckled. "It's gotten us into trouble."

"And out of it. And I'm sorry, Ludwig. I'm sorry I betrayed you. I had to do something. But I'm not sorry," Italy said, "about the future we have. And I'm still here, aren't I?" His voice grew in volume, and Germany realized suddenly how quietly Italy had been speaking, and how still his hands were in his hair. "I still love you."

"You did the right thing." Germany leaned back, his hand coming to rest on Italy's knee. 

"It broke my heart."

"Mine, too."

With the ensuing silence, Germany had all too much time to think. And his thoughts quickly slipped from guilt to oh, I'm in his lap. He turned red, looking up to voice his complaint, but paused when he found Italy staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"You're not… a hero, Ludwig. Not in the traditional sense. But you're most certainly not a villain. You—you, Germany, the person in front of me, not your country, but you —are a good man. And you were just a good man caught in a bad place. But it's okay. None of us are heroes. Our countries have all done horrible things. We just have to be good to each other despite that."

"I never thought I'd hear that coming from you," said Germany, sitting up. Italy let him go with a wistful sigh, his fingers slipping from Germany's hair. But at this angle, Germany could speak with Italy as equals. Germany reached out, carefully, letting Italy back away if he so chose. Italy did not choose, and so Germany took Italy's face into his hands. "You really are wiser than you look."

"I've been around for a while." Italy covered one of Germany's hands with his own, leaning into the hold. "Italy was the birthplace of the Renaissance. I know I look stupid, but I'm really not. I'm just…"

"A lover."

"And not a fighter." Italy giggled. "I'd rather be at home, cooking up a meal for a handsome soldier, than on the front lines."

"You cook so many meals for me that I've put on weight," Germany grumbled, but there was no real bite to it.

"Are you my handsome soldier, then?" Italy smiled, batting his eyelashes. Germany rolled his eyes, then blinked. "Do you want to be?"

"Huh?"

"Do you want to be my handsome soldier?" Italy repeated his words, turning his face into Germany's hand and laying a kiss on his palm. "I'd love to cook for you more."

"You cook so much for me," said Germany, his mouth going dry. "I'm not sure I'd survive much more."

"Nonsense, tesoro."

"Italy, are you flirting with me?"

"No. I'm serious." Italy's smile faded. "Flirting is playful. I'm serious."

"I… what?"

"Germany, you have to know how I feel about you. I will not believe anything else."

"You… you rejected me."

"We were in the middle of a war, if you recall."

"Feliciano…" Germany dropped his hands, using them to instead cover his face. "Gott, I'm stupid."

"No," said Italy, "you're not. You're awkward and emotionally stunted, not stupid."

Germany's cheeks flushed deeper, if ever that were possible. Apparently it was, because Italy smiled. "It was something I always admired, you know." Italy sighed. "Your stoicism. And you're not even related to Greece! It was so cool to me."

"Stoicism?" Germany had heard the word, but never to refer to him. "I didn't know it was Greek."

"Yes! It's where you don't let anything bother you."

"You bothered me."

"Not anymore?" Italy put a playful hand on his chest, batting his eyelashes once again. "I'm honored."

"No," said Germany, gulping to try and clear his throat of the dryness there. "Not anymore."

They fell silent. Italy stood to let the dogs in; they immediately swarmed around Germany, and he honored each of them with a scratch behind the ears. Italy sat back down, closer than before, and looked up at Germany with his shining golden eyes.

"Does this mean you accept my feelings?"

"Yes," whispered Germany, "as long as you accept mine."

Italy beamed, then, his face bright with his joy. He held out his hand. "Pinky swear?"

"Did you pick that up from America?"

"Yeah! Pinky swear. And then maybe I'll kiss you, if you want."

Germany locked Italy's pinky with his own, leaning down to capture his lips in a kiss. "I swear."