He thinks I don't notice but I do….

I keep my eyes shut, still pretending to sleep as I feel the small warm body beside me rise. This was something I'd grown accustomed to for the few decades we'd been together. The one day a year Italy rises before either me or the sun. I blink my eyes open to watch as he moves closer to the closet, the moonlight escaping thru the blinds falling parallel to the few long healed battle scars interrupting the soft, sun kissed skin of the mans back, highlighting each one as if he'd received them just yesterday. It pained me to see these marks upon the country's skin, we all had them, this was true; from centuries of wars and depressions but they seemed so misplaced on Italy's flesh. He was always smiling, always happy, always wanting to settle things peacefully, undeserving of the violence everyone knew came with them. Italy deserved the peace he so strived to create. I'd fight to give him that peace one day and then those scars would merely be a faint reminder of the past.

I watch as he digs into the back of the closet, hearing the soft metallic pinging of empty hangers brushing against each other, he looks back at me, I quickly shut my eyes, not that I really needed to it was still so dark out but I didn't want to take the chance. I peek again once I hear Italy back in the closet. I know what he's looking for, its what he gets every time. I listen for the faint rustling of old fabric before I see it. Italy's bright, white Catholic robes. He slips them on effortlessly, smoothing his small hands over the pure white fabric, then he reaches up behind him, unclasping the iron cross necklace I'd given him so long ago and placing it on the dresser. I can't help but feel a twinge of hurt as its laid aside, Italy always wears it and for him to shed it so easily is like he's shedding me.

But this is the only day he ever takes it off…..

And I don't know why….

He only ever does these things on this day, wake before dawn, wear those robes, remove the necklace and he's never told me why. Never told me why its always this day and why he does it. Ive want to ask but Ive always figured if he wanted to tell me he would. I don't know where he goes when he leaves but he's always back before I wake up again, the robes are tucked back into the wardrobe, and his face is buried in my chest, sound asleep; most times with the lingering look of tears still clinging to his eyelashes. The tears are what worry me the most….

Im pulled from my thoughts as Italy moves across the room to slip on his boots, lacing them up with ease before standing, he then retrieves his bible and rosary from the self, placing the small, white, beret like hat upon his head; completing the formal look. Italy looked like a saint standing there in the now dimly lit bedroom, nearly aglow in the white robes hanging loosely from his frame. I cant help but smile to myself.

I close my eyes again. I know what was coming next. I hear the soft shuffle of feet approaching my side of the bed along with the swish of fabric. Next a small hand pushes back the fallen stray strands of blonde hair from my eyes; the touch of his hand is warm and loving and I relax again. The touch is soon followed by a gentle press of lips to my temple that lingers momentarily before he whispers affectionately in my ear, "Ti amo, Germania…" Its in his native language, Italian, and heavy with accent but I know what he says and I cant hide the warmth that rushes over my face.

I love you, Germany….

And I thank God for the dark.