Chapter Text
Berlin, March 1940
The train shrieked into the station, brakes wailing against steel. Smoke drifted over the platform, mingling with the rain. Gilbert stood with the others, back straight, hands clasped behind him, the practiced stillness of military ceremony. He knew who was supposed to step off. Italy. He’s so not looking forward to this. He could already feel the weight of forced politeness settling into his shoulders, the rehearsed smiles, the lines he’d have to say. This was going to be miserable.
The doors opened. Someone stepped down. Polished shoes, gold-brown hair catching the smoke, that easy smile, standing in the middle of this grey place as if color itself had wandered in.
That’s not Italy.
For a heartbeat, Gilbert’s mind refused it, then the truth landed, bright and impossible. Feli. What the hell are you doing here?
The officers stiffened around him. The handler called for attention. Gilbert couldn’t move. He just stared, pulse thudding once, hard, in his throat. This was wrong. This was risky. This was going to cause problems.
And still, against every sensible instinct, relief spread through him, warm and unmistakable. Feli was here. Somehow, impossibly, here.
“Signore Varo,” the handler announced. “representative of Italy.”
And Feli smiled that same easy, deliberate smile. “Hi. It’s so nice to meet you all. I am Italy.”
Gilbert almost laughed, he caught it in his chest before it escaped. Of course. Of course it would be him. Somehow, through some madness of bureaucracy or fate, Feli had ended up here, wearing the name of a country that wasn’t his. He had to play along.
“Ita,” he said lightly, the nickname shaping itself before he’d thought of it. Safe. Believable. The real Italy would punch him if he called him that.
Feli’s eyes found his, a glint of warmth and playfulness. For a moment, the station didn’t feel so cold.
“It’s been too long,” Gilbert said, giving the practiced grin everyone expected from him, the kind that kept questions away. But his shoulders eased, and for the first time in months, he let himself breathe.
Formalities followed. Ludwig shook Feli’s hand, monotone greetings, the clatter of boots. It all blurred around the edges. Feli was here. Somehow, impossibly, here.
Gilbert almost missed the Führer’s voice behind him, low, cutting through the noise. “Keep an eye on that one,” he told an officer. “Away from the others.”
The words barely reached him. Gilbert only half-heard. He was still watching Feli, still holding on to the fragile, impossible relief of seeing him again.