Germany’s house was chillingly quiet when Italy awoke, the darkness all around him. He had hopped into his friend’s bed again, because it had been a long, and very… difficult day. They’d lost the war. And had only begun to understand what else had been lost to ignorance and cruelty. The bed was cold, and Italy shivered, reaching out to lay his hand against his friend, to feel the familiar warmth, the assurance that everything would be okay—but there was no one there. Worried, he sat up and scanned the room. No Germany. And so he pulled the blankets off and slipped out onto the wooden floor, the pads of his feet barely making a sound as he stole across the room and out into the hallway.
The silence had an eerie quality to it. The kind of silence that you don’t want to break, don’t want to disturb—because you don’t know what might find you if you do. He didn’t know where Germany was, or what he might be doing, but for some reason, his tongue caught in his throat when he tried to call out. Like something was trying to keep him trapped inside the stillness. He strained his ears, listening, longing for some sign that he wasn’t alone.
It was the sound of crying that told him where his friend had gone.
“G-germany?” he asked tentatively, shocked as he turned the corner to see the other nation slumped against the wall in only his nightclothes, his head in his hands, and shoulders shaking as he sobbed. It was heavy, wet, desperate—and Italy almost felt sick to hear such a pitiful, terrible sound coming from a nation like Germany.
“I did not know… Mein Gott… I did not know…” Germany cried in between each ragged, shuddering breath. There were tears dripping from between his fingers, staining his pristine white shirt. Italy could hear him coughing on them as he wept.
“Oh, Germany…” he whispered, tears beginning to form in the corners of his own eyes at seeing his friend like this. He reached out a hand to comfort the other, and Germany’s head snapped up, eyes wide and frightening. Italy shrank back in fear.
“Do not touch me, Italy!” he said, and though his voice was deep, it shook and quavered as he forced the words out of his constricting throat. “Do not touch me…”
“It’s not your fault.” Italy tried to reassure his friend, but Germany just shook his head, fingers twisting up in his short blond hair in a way that made the Italian wince.
“Nein… Nein… It is my fault. I should have known, I should have known!!!” he cried. Now Italy was quaking as well, partially in fear for himself, because the look in Germany’s eyes was truly beginning to frighten him, and partially because he was afraid of what Germany might do to himself in such a state.
“B-but it isn’t— You could not—” he started, trying to say something to reassure the other, calm him somehow. But Italy could not even find his own voice.
“I could feel them dying, Italy! Every day. More and more of them. Just… just dying! And I wondered, I really did. But when I asked, he told me—told me not to worry about it. That he was working on it. That I just—just needed to focus on the war, on victory. And Italy, I—” he looked up at his friend, expression filled with nothing short of agonized horror.
“I listened to him!!! I believed him! And I didn’t—didn’t question it! Even though I could hear them in my mind—screaming, crying, begging for mercy!!” He was crying again, running a hand through his hair, dragging it down the side of his face, smearing the tears across his skin.
“I hope— I hope…” he began, squeezing his eyes shut, “I hope they punish me for this! Whatever it is, however long it lasts, I’ll take it, because—because, Italy, I deserve it! Anything and everything they can throw at me! It can never be enough…”
It was breaking Italy, to see him like this. He was supposed to be the strong one. The one who would comfort Italy when he cried, rescue him when he was in trouble. He was Italy’s friend. His hero. And even now, with his eyes red and swollen, wet with tears of horror and self-loathing, Italy didn’t think that they had ever looked so blue—or so beautiful.
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Fragile Hearts (1/2)
(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 11:55 pm (UTC)(link)The silence had an eerie quality to it. The kind of silence that you don’t want to break, don’t want to disturb—because you don’t know what might find you if you do. He didn’t know where Germany was, or what he might be doing, but for some reason, his tongue caught in his throat when he tried to call out. Like something was trying to keep him trapped inside the stillness. He strained his ears, listening, longing for some sign that he wasn’t alone.
It was the sound of crying that told him where his friend had gone.
“G-germany?” he asked tentatively, shocked as he turned the corner to see the other nation slumped against the wall in only his nightclothes, his head in his hands, and shoulders shaking as he sobbed. It was heavy, wet, desperate—and Italy almost felt sick to hear such a pitiful, terrible sound coming from a nation like Germany.
“I did not know… Mein Gott… I did not know…” Germany cried in between each ragged, shuddering breath. There were tears dripping from between his fingers, staining his pristine white shirt. Italy could hear him coughing on them as he wept.
“Oh, Germany…” he whispered, tears beginning to form in the corners of his own eyes at seeing his friend like this. He reached out a hand to comfort the other, and Germany’s head snapped up, eyes wide and frightening. Italy shrank back in fear.
“Do not touch me, Italy!” he said, and though his voice was deep, it shook and quavered as he forced the words out of his constricting throat. “Do not touch me…”
“It’s not your fault.” Italy tried to reassure his friend, but Germany just shook his head, fingers twisting up in his short blond hair in a way that made the Italian wince.
“Nein… Nein… It is my fault. I should have known, I should have known!!!” he cried. Now Italy was quaking as well, partially in fear for himself, because the look in Germany’s eyes was truly beginning to frighten him, and partially because he was afraid of what Germany might do to himself in such a state.
“B-but it isn’t— You could not—” he started, trying to say something to reassure the other, calm him somehow. But Italy could not even find his own voice.
“I could feel them dying, Italy! Every day. More and more of them. Just… just dying! And I wondered, I really did. But when I asked, he told me—told me not to worry about it. That he was working on it. That I just—just needed to focus on the war, on victory. And Italy, I—” he looked up at his friend, expression filled with nothing short of agonized horror.
“I listened to him!!! I believed him! And I didn’t—didn’t question it! Even though I could hear them in my mind—screaming, crying, begging for mercy!!” He was crying again, running a hand through his hair, dragging it down the side of his face, smearing the tears across his skin.
“I hope— I hope…” he began, squeezing his eyes shut, “I hope they punish me for this! Whatever it is, however long it lasts, I’ll take it, because—because, Italy, I deserve it! Anything and everything they can throw at me! It can never be enough…”
It was breaking Italy, to see him like this. He was supposed to be the strong one. The one who would comfort Italy when he cried, rescue him when he was in trouble. He was Italy’s friend. His hero. And even now, with his eyes red and swollen, wet with tears of horror and self-loathing, Italy didn’t think that they had ever looked so blue—or so beautiful.