Author: rupzydaisy PM
Sometimes Time gives back nations in the only way it can. When the ink seeped into the paper and sealed the Pact, it meant that Germany was tied to him, and perhaps this time it meant a country wouldn't die.Rated: Fiction K - English - Hurt/Comfort/Friendship - Germany & N. Italy - Words: 1,909 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 8 - Published: 02-09-12 - Status: Complete - id: 7819666
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: This is...a sort of outtake for a new future-AU series I've nearly finished. Kind of an outtake because it's not from the future, but I got the idea at the same time and then pressed buttons on my keyboard!
Enjoy and review please! : )
Thanks to Reapergal08 for the title! :D
Summary: Sometimes Time gives back nations in the only way it can. When the ink seeped into the paper and sealed the Pact, it meant that Germany was tied to him, and perhaps this time it would mean he wouldn't die.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. This is the extent of my drawing... O-K ...little stick people!
(Sometimes Time gives nations back in the only way it can.)
Italy dreamed, just once, of his Grandpa Rome. His other dreams were filled of pasta, of bright blue skies, and eyes of the very same shade which then grew wide enough to fall into.
[Holy Rome! I made sweets, every day. When are you coming back from war?]
"England." Italy called, tugging on the taller man's trousers to get his attention from the dancers swirling around the ballroom. "When is Holy Rome coming back?"
England looked away from the colourful dresses, the necklines which were studded with brilliant jewels and the smiling faces of people celebrating, down at Italy. "Italy...I-why do you want to know that?"
Large amber eyes looked up and stared. "Tell me." The childish face with hope filled eyes seemed out of place for a moment, but then Italy smiled again and the features rearranged to the young boy's face once more. "Tell me, England. Is Holy Rome coming back?"
It was an order and a question which made England sigh as he turned his glass in his hands, wondering how to explain. But then he realised that there was no easy way. "No, Italy, the Holy Roman Empire is no more."
"Nations go to war, and they fight on either side. Sometimes they come back, battered and bruised, but intact. Other times, we are not so lucky. We lose parts of ourselves. Our borders and fringes. Vital regions. Capital cities. And occasionally, we don't come back at all. We fall apart on the battlefield and what's left of us sinks into the soil and dirt," England stared at the colours churning around, rich red, violent purples, blues like the sea and a green that reminded him of leaves under the summer sun. "Ready for another country, or maybe even a brand new country to take up their place."
He tore his gaze away from the pretty scene and back to a face which consisted of quivering lips and water filled eyes. "Italy, he's not coming back. I'm sorry."
[There are sweets, in the cupboard, waiting for you...
I can't eat them.
They'll taste wrong without you. I made them for you to eat.
I'll have to throw them out...but I don't want to.]
"Italy, you have to sign it too." Italy's boss told him, handing over the pen.
Italy stared down at the words, Pact of Steel, and he smiled. "Si. Sure thing boss!"
The dark ink seeped into the paper, then dried leaving behind a lighter shade of blue.
It wasn't anything like how Germany proposed the pact, "I will send back up if you run into trouble so stop being distressed about it. But if I'm in danger you'll have to do the same! Not that I'm expecting much..." A pinky swear as a promise and a picnic of wurst to celebrate.
No, this used words, bound two countries together in a formal, political pact. Written words and spoken words, all the more stronger.
This way when you go to battle, to fight, to war...
I– (know) you won't be able to fall apart, (you'll) be there, and so will I, we'll (fight), but maybe this time we'll win.
(and you won't die.) ]
Germany stumbled a little and then carried on running to the centre of the burning city, dismissing all the young soldiers who stood on street corners trying their best to keep the invading allies away. Too young hands clamped around the stocks of guns made for men. "You should go, they're pulling down all the buildings they can."
"No. I'm not going to leave you. Not again. I promised, remember." Italy pulled out the Roman cross from under his dusty blue military uniform and showed the silver metal to Germany, the reason behind him returning to the city which was about to be pulled apart.
"You already did, Italy." Germany sighed as he reminded the man who was trying to prop him up. He was tired, tired of fighting and running and shooting. Everyone was. Only now he had to wait for it to end. "I'll be divided by your allies."
Italy's head shook violently, or perhaps he was shaking because the sounds of fighting were being carried closer along with the smoke from fires that were gutting out buildings, leaving them hollow and charred. "They won't- you'll rebuild." He stumbled over a piece of rubble and Germany's hand reached out to steady him. "You'll be rebuilt Germany, I know you will. You have to be." And there was a quiet determination hiding behind his eyes.
Germany shook his head in reply, not bothering to use words. It would've been a waste of time to argue.
They reached the Unter de Linden Boulevard and Germany swayed before slumping down onto the ground under the lime trees. He was too tired and in too much pain to walk. "Go Italy, you can run fast. Go."
Italy shook his head again, knowing that if he tried to speak his words would fail him. Instead he sat down under the half broken branches of lime trees next to Germany and clutched onto the Roman cross around his neck with one hand. With his other, he reached for Germany's littlest finger on his left hand, clamped his right little finger around it, and looked up to the last remaining slivers of blue sky.
[Germany, look. Remember? Blue skies and paintings. Blue skies, pacts and promises. Blue skies for tomorrow too...]
Italy sat a few seats down the table in the conference room, sandwiched in between France and Switzerland, who tried his best to ignore the nation who was so fond of trespassing on his property at ungodly hours. But Italy was not paying any attention to anyone, ever since he had been shown to his seat three hours ago.
When Germany had his slot at the podium to speak about trade, he had taken a moment to indulge in his curiosity about what the Italian was doing. As he took his place behind the microphone, his eyes slid to the left and found that Italy was drawing, hunched over his paper and scribbling furiously. Whatever it was, he was concentrating a lot since he was not muttering under his breath nor was his tongue poking out.
Germany gave his talk, keeping to his designated time limit, and then was replaced by America who was desperately enthusiastic about lecturing them all on a 'Convenient solution to An Inconvenient Truth'. He paid attention, made meticulous notes which he could pass onto his boss and while wondering briefly on how long it would be until lunch.
Italy continued to scribble as the room emptied quickly on a promise of fine food and conversation on anything but national matters for a precious hour. Germany sighed as he picked up his coat and then walked around the table to stand behind Italy.
"Italy, it's lunchtime," he prompted.
Italy froze mid pencil stroke, and then threw his hands over his drawings, covering them up behind his slim smudged fingers. "Ahh! Germany!" He turned around with a smile on his face, "Lunchtime, already?"
"Yes. Shall we leave?"
"Si, si. Let me just, tidy up." He began to push his papers together into a pile hastily.
"Did you take any notes?" Germany asked exasperatedly, looking down at the pictures of famous landscapes of the other man's country. The countryside of Tuscany was drawn beautifully across a piece of lined paper, something which any talented artist couldn't compare to.
"I started to, but then I remembered this one time when me and Romano went on a picnic, and we sat outside all day in the sunshine and I started drawing-"
"Never mind, I'll let you borrow my notes at the end of today so long as you give them back by the evening."
"Oh, thank you!" Italy beamed back. "I'm all finished now." His papers were all in order and neatly stacked into his briefcase. "We can go now!"
Italy stood up, but Germany stopped him. "Wait Italy, you've dropped a paper here." He picked it up and passed it over. "Ah, your notes." Germany commented as he read the few sentences on the side of the paper he could see.
Italy, on the other hand, had a sad smile on his face as he stared at the side of the paper he could see. On it was the drawing which had actually distracted him from the meeting. He couldn't help but succumb to the nostalgia of the past, and so had given up note-taking and started to draw.
It turned out to be a faint pencil portrait with light shading of a nation which had meant so much to him from so long ago. Small rounded cheeks, a high brow and softly shaded hair under a regal dark hat. Italy remembered him well. Especially those kind, but sometimes scary eyes which had pinned him down with fear. 'Join me, Italy, and become the Roman Empire again. I'll make you happy. I promise!'
Sometimes when he thought back, Italy wondered what might have happened. He wondered how true that promise could have been, and knew deep down that they could have been happy, and maybe the war would have turned out differently. But day dreams were for free times, and he could waste all day gazing at the paper and thinking on possibilities.
Germany lowered the piece of paper, handing it to Italy to put away, which he did carefully. "Come along." He frowned at the sad smile on Italy's face as the other nation looked up to him and saw the same clear blue eyes which he had drawn. "Italy, what's wrong? It's lunchtime, and I said you may borrow my notes so long as you aren't late in returning them."
"Oh, yes. Lunch!" Italy smiled as he folded the piece of paper, placing it inside his jacket pocket. "Do you think they'll have-"
"-Pasta?" Germany finished off. "Maybe, if we hurry."
[England was almost right. Holy Roman Empire had long since gone, but another country hadn't quite replaced him. Italy found he was happy anyway, possibilities could keep their probabilities, and he would keep sight of those blue eyes. ]
They stepped out into the sunshine under the clear blue sky.
I really do wonder when Italy realised the similarities! Because it can't have been an 'if'. :D