Free Talk: Another summer story, this one was written for the Hetalia Sunshine fanwork exchange. You may notice I've signed my name Mochi on some fanfics. That is the name I've been using on LJ lately (due to my abundant love of Mochimerica). This was my first ever Germany/Italy fic. It gave me a chance to be an art history geek. I am too busy to write fic these days, but someday...

Inexpressible
By Mochi

"Don't get discouraged, Germany! It's in your blood!"

Italy's voice rings clear as a bell and is brimming with cheer, but Germany doesn't feel the intended sentiment. With nose scrunched and mouth puckered, he pulls back his brush and scrutinizes the smudgy mess of green and blue oil paint he's just laid down. It doesn't look a bit like the Rhine; it doesn't even look like a river. Or anything for that matter, except a smudgy mess.

"Oh! You've stopped," Italy chirps, peering over from behind the canvas on his own easel. "Have you had a breakthrough? Can I see?"

"Errr…" Germany grunts. Those huge brown eyes, so eager to see his handiwork, render him strangely inarticulate. His cheeks feel hot. "It's not ready yet," he mumbles. He knows, of course, that Italy will not just leave it at that and go back to his own (almost certainly breathtaking) painting, and he feels an immediate urge to cover his work with both arms. But he has enough discipline not to act on the urge.

Italy is already sidling over. "Well can I see what you've done so far?" He asks innocently. He keeps that clueless, optimistic grin plastered on his face until his eyes settle on Germany's muddy disaster. And then his features sag; Italy has never been good at hiding his reactions and though he clearly is trying now, the awkward, secondhand embarrassment shows through. He tries to be delicate. "Oh. That's a little…"

Germany's shoulders rise up stiffly. He feels his face on fire with shame and struggles to keep his expression hard as stone. How ridiculous it is, he thinks, that the flippant little nation has exposed such a weakness in him. Not that Germany thinks Italy will use his complete lack of artistic talents against him. No, that's not like Italy at all. But this role-reversal—Italy being the expert and himself being incompetent—leaves Germany feeling very uncomfortable, vulnerable.

For so long he's wanted make a great painting, desperately. He's even been studying in private, reading up on the great Italian Masters and trying to imitate their style, but to no avail. His hands, which are so talented when applied to engineering, become clumsy and incompetent the moment a paintbrush is placed in them. He knows he can never catch up to Italy.

Why does that bother him so much?

Germany has asked himself this question over and over in his head. At first he assured himself that he simply wanted—needed—to be the very best he could be, a proud nation of superior skills. But that can't explain why the image he holds in his brain each time he picks up a paintbrush is not the glorious work of art he is about to attempt, but Italy's face, smiling in approval.

Now it's finally sinking in for whom Germany is really painting.

But today will not be the day he impresses Italy with his skills. He's still woefully inept, despite countless hours of research and practice, and Italy is struggling for any other words to offer besides the horrible truth.

"I think you're improving," he says, with enough hopefulness to cover all but a thin residue of pity on his voice. He really does want to believe Germany is getting better.

"I'm just finding my, er, groove," Germany responds gruffly. "Soon I will be making some very impressive works that the world will have to take notice of."

Italy's lips purse for a moment as he digests the bluff. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he finally asks. "Maybe I can help you master your brushwork." His hand reaches out and hooks loosely around Germany's wrist and immediately Germany's skin erupts into a sea of goose bumps.

"Ah…" Germany can only manage to get out a short, startled sound, nothing coherent. The gentle touch guiding his brush over the canvas stirs something that is buried deep inside him. It feels nostalgic somehow, as if a memory from his childhood is trying desperately to surface. But Germany never picked up a paintbrush until he met Italy, and he was an adult by then; there is no reason this should be familiar. He shakes his head and dismisses the sensation as a byproduct of Italy's rich artistic tradition, which has always had a way of charming the entire world.

Italy seems oblivious to Germany's reaction and continues his merry instruction. "Okay, now form a picture of what you want to paint in your mind, Germany. Picture the river and the trees growing on its banks, the boats and people and livestock. Close your eyes and let your hand pull the color where it wants to go."

"Close my eyes?" Germany snorts. This sounds like more of Italy's feel-good nonsense. But he has to admit that he's warmed up to that feel-good nonsense lately so he's willing to give it a try, as ridiculous as it sounds. Germany's eyelids fall shut and he surrenders the motion of his wrist to Italy's guidance.

"Feel how the brush traces the image in your mind," says Italy in a soothing tone.

But the only feeling Germany can focus on is the heat where that small hand is wrapped around his. Again, his brain is dredging up hazy bits of nostalgia that he can't place in his memory: another hand, much tinier than Italy's, touches him gently as the smells of grass and earth and oil paints fill his nostrils. The heat spreads up his arm and to every corner of his body, concentrating in the center of his chest and filling him with the most intense longing he's every felt. He can only bear it for a few minutes before he has to stammer, "St-stop! Italy, this isn't going to work!"

Italy lets go of Germany's wrist and steps back slowly. His face has that sad but-I-was-only-trying-to-help look on it, which stings Germany under the ribs to look at. But a moment later it dissolves under the overwhelming power of Italy's natural optimism. "Okay then! We'll just have to try something different!"

Before Germany can even open his mouth to speak, Italy is tugging him by the elbow with both hands. At least this touch doesn't trigger any more strange memories of questionable validity. "Where are you leading me?" Germany asks as he is pulled forward at a fast clip.

"You'll see! You'll see!" Italy chimes. "It's something I think you need."

"An art museum?" Germany's face twists skeptically at the sight of their destination. His first impulse is to tell Italy that he's seen enough fabulous works by Leonardo and Raphael and it hasn't done a thing for his style. But Italy doesn't know about Germany's extra studying. And besides, Germany just can't be rude to the guy when he is trying so hard to help. So with a sigh he allows Italy to drag him into the austere hallways lined with masterpieces.

When they zip right past the Italian wing—an entire wing of the museum is dedicated solely to Italian painting and is always crowded with visitors—Germany blinks in confusion a moment and waits for Italy to turn around. But Italy keeps going with a determined look on his face until they reach a far corner of the museum. There aren't a lot of patrons in this section.

"Here we are," says Italy. "Now I'm sure you come here all the time, but I thought you could use a refresher."

Germany's cheeks flush hotly when he sees the wall plaque at the entrance to the section: German Painting. "Actually, I can't even remember the last time I came here," he admits.

Italy lets his jaw fall in shock. "Well no wonder you're having trouble. This way! This way!"

The first painting that catches Germany's eye is a large brown hare nestled on a cream background. Every hair on that hare is exquisitely rendered. Its muscles ripple beneath its perfectly painted pelt. The artist's name is Albrect Durer.

"It looks so alive," Germany mutters. "Like I could reach out and feel its whiskers brush against my hand. I forgot that Durer did paintings as well as printmaking." The guilt of having forgotten his own art history is a tiny but very sharp pinch in his stomach.

"See? I told you it was in your blood," Italy tells him. Then he pulls Germany deeper into the gallery.

They stop in front of a rustic winter scene, men and dogs trudging over a snowy hill as they return to their little village after a hunt. The painting is by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, according to the plaque beneath it, and is stunning in both its scope and detail.

"I've always admired Bruegel," Italy says. "His grasp of perspective was far more advanced than most Italian painters of his time. And he created scenes of ordinary life when other artists were mostly focusing on religious pieces."

For several minutes, Germany marvels at the painting, trying to regain the feeling he'd gotten the first time he'd ever seen it, which was centuries ago. The artists of his country have long had talent, there is no doubt about it, though there are far fewer known German Masters than there are Italian Masters. So why, Germany wonders, can't he himself make a painting to save his life? How did he become so detached from his own art history?

He still is fretting over this when Italy scoots him down to the next painting. Two soft and lovely young women, one blonde and one brunette, sit together, their faces so close they appear to be a moment away from kissing. When Germany reads the title of the painting, Italia and Germania, his face blazes with a fire that won't be suppressed.

"Let's move on to the next one," he says with sudden insistence.

"But don't you like…?" Italy only gets those four words out before Germany ushers him briskly away.

It wasn't a bad painting at all. It was gorgeous, really. But looking at those personifications of Italia and Germany cuddled up like lovers flooded Germany with such self-consciousness that he knows he'd barely be able to speak in their presence. And what might Italy think of it? Germany is too embarrassed to think about what comments the painting might have triggered.

In effort to get as far away from that sensual painting as possible, Germany pushes Italy all the way down the hall, rushing past hundreds of years of his country's artwork. They don't come to a stop until they are in the early twentieth century. It takes a few minutes for Germany's heartbeat to return to something normal.

"What is this?" Germany asks as his eyes widen on the canvas he has, by chance, stopped in front of. It is a beautiful, surreal composition of three horses. Their bodies are rendered into soft, round curves of bright blue and the field they are in is awash with shades of delicate rose and gold and green. The horses don't look like any found in the real world, and yet they are instantly recognizable and breathtakingly beautiful.

Italy is still recovering from being whisked away so quickly, but his eyes soon settle on the blue horses and his brows crease slightly. "You know, I don't think I remember this painting from my last visit. Usually I spend the most time looking at art from the Renaissance, since that's my favorite period. These horses, though, they're different somehow…"

As Italy's voice trails off—he is getting lost in the rich colors of the painting—Germany's brain is contemplating furiously. It conjures up a word, Expressionism, and suddenly he remembers. The painter who gave life to these blue horses, Franz Marc, was one of the leading artists of the Expressionist Movement, which had started in Germany's own home.

He remembers how his artists, and writers and musicians, too, wanted to create works that weren't just beautiful reproductions of life, but distortions as seen through the lens of human emotion. Their masterpieces were far from the great altarpieces of Renaissance Italy, but no less stunning. Germany had gotten so distracted by wars and engineering an empire during the twentieth century that he'd almost forgotten all about Expressionism. It was his great contribution to the art world and he'd forgotten it.

But now he feels it in him once again, the thrill he'd gotten when Franz Marc and August Macke showed their paintings to the rest of the world, the thrill of knowing that the movement spread to other parts of Europe, that he'd been the birthplace of something amazing. "Italy," he says, "I think I'm ready to try painting again."

Italy's face lights up, ecstatic at the announcement. "Really?"

"Yeah," Germany says, with a stern nod to maintain his serious image even though he is brimming with excitement inside. Then he adds, "Thank you, Italy, for bringing me here."

…

Germany stands in front of an enormous canvas on an easel once again, but this time his brush glides over its surface without hesitation. He doesn't have a perfect image in his head that he is trying to recreate with paint; he is letting the feelings he normally keeps buried flow up from the deepest center of his chest, through his hand, and out of his brush. He is painting the emotions he has so much trouble expressing in words. He is painting the vague, dreamlike memories that churned when Italy guided his hand.

Though Germany hasn't stepped back to fully appreciate the image being born on his canvas, he somehow knows it is a little girl in servant clothes, her gentle smile shining through a gauzy swirl of colors.

"Wow! That's beautiful!" Italy coos, having appeared at Germany's side seemingly out of nowhere. For a split second, Germany feels his old instinct to cover up what he'd just done, but when he looks at Italy's face, the smile is absolutely genuine. "See, I told you it was in your blood!" Italy says. "So who is the little girl?"

Hope? Love? Joy? Germany's brain can't decide who she is, so he just says, "I don't know." He doesn't feel he has to have an answer; through art he can express the inexpressible. "Thank you," he tells Italy, not for anything specifically he has done, but for everything. Then Germany's eyes dart from Italy to the girl in his painting and he can't help but notice they have the same smile.

The End