A/N: This story is based on the World War Two era poem "Naming of Parts" by the British poet Henry Reed. My professor read it to us in class and I couldn't help but think of Italy. Once again, just writing a story about the Hetalia characters for fun, so don't take it too seriously.
Germany's Naming of Parts by ACM a.k.a. Annie May
Italy was not listening. This was nothing new, but today it was not his fault. Germany had chosen an absolutely gorgeous day to lecture him on the proper use of the new guns they had recently received. As Germany droned on in his endless technical explanation, Italy was listening to the wind. He loved the way it rustled the leaves. He loved the swirling green wildness of the grass all around them.
He jumped a little as Germany forcefully repositioned the rifle he held in his hand. Germany gestured to a little metal piece. The sky was so blue. Germany's eyes were so blue.
"This part is called..." The flowers did not care what that little metal piece was called. Italy stared past Germany and in his mind the two of them sat among the flowers, eating a lunch Italy had prepared. There would be wine, of course, and the wine would make Germany blush and smile brightly and Italy would think to himself that this was the real Germany. Not darkness and miserable hatred. That was Germany's boss, not Germany. Italy could see Germany's heart and he knew that all of this hurt him. He wanted to see his real smile again, not the greedy, desperate, cruel, fake smile. A real smile filled with love for him. He wanted to dance with Germany in the sunlight. He did not need to know the name of the little metal piece.
Germany kept talking. Operate it with your thumb, not your finger. Italy smiled. He did not want to do this anymore. Italy did not care who won the war. He just wanted to listen to the trees, to smell the flowers, and to look into Germany's eyes. Somehow, that was really mattered. Natural things like love and wine and dancing. The whole world in its endless, unspoiled beauty. Everything but fighting. Everything but stupid little categories, boxes that people built to hold in their feelings. Everything mattered but naming of parts.